That'll Learn Ya

Today I taught literature on the university level for the first time. Although I'm technically a writing professor, I believe—as most of us do—that reading and writing are, by nature, intertwined. Besides, I miss teaching literature and crave it almost as much as I crave chocolate chip cookies. (Although I cannot tell you the date that I last taught literature, I can tell you the last time I ate a real cookie was on December 17, 2007.)

Anyway, I built a literary analysis unit into my Writing 102 class. It consists of five stories covered in two class periods, culminating in the students composing a paper discussing a literary element of their choosing. I was very interested to see how these students would fare in such a unit.

My first 102 class begins at 8:30. These students are more chipper than you'd expect—several of them are commuters, which means two things: they're generally more motivated, and they've generally had more time to awaken on the ride over.

In fact, these were the only students who were awake enough to discuss Hemingway's brilliant story, "Hills Like White Elephants." A pocket of the room was very excited about the symbols in the piece and discussed it with fervor. The others, however, did little more than sleep with their eyes open. My prompting and tooth pulling did little to draw them into the conversation. As the class ended, I thought, well, at least the next class is usually livelier.

My 9:35 class was worse! Whereas the few enthusiastic students in the 8:30 section wanted to satisfy their curiosity about this elusive piece and thus asked questions and worked out ideas aloud, this class was content with it being a story about a guy and a girl drinking cervesas in a train station. (Abortion? Where'd you get that from?!)

Just as I had believed my literary discussions to be a total flop, I entered my 2:20 class. (Don't let the time fool you; these students often drag themselves to class post-siesta and are just as groggy as the warm bodies I teach in the morning.) I had admonished them on Monday for their poor attendance and punctuality; when I walked in the door at 2:19, they were all there. That's right: I said something, and students TOOK HEED. It was a strange sensation.

Not only were they there, but they seem to have (as instructed) pumped themselves full of caffeine because they were ready to roll. From the get-go students began asking questions, drawing conclusions, and engaging in discourse that usually is only featured in my sweetest of dreams.

What happened next was more than I would even hope to dream. Two of my students are taking a Sex Lit course (Sexuality in Literature?), and one of them pointed out the them of Ave (Maria)/Eva (Eve) in the story. The student asserted that Jig's role had changed from the sin-loving Eva to a maternal Ave with the conception of her unwanted child, thus changing the man's view of her.

Wow.

I learned something new today. (Oh, boy.)

I Believe in Yesterday

This afternoon on my way home from work I heard a block of the Beatles; I tuned in mid-"Help!" My mind wondered to one of the thoughts I find most comforting: four kids from Liverpool changed the world. At the time of the British Invasion, the Beatles ranged from 21-24 years of age, and they could not have had an inkling of how their music would influence the world. (This is a comforting thought because if this foursome could do it, I have faith that it could happen again.)

My thoughts then turned to an article I read on Paul McCartney in The New Yorker last summer: he had celebrated his 65th birthday. It's unnatural to think that Paul should have an age; he has somehow become immortalized with his departed brethren. (Ringo counts for squat.) We don't think of greats as growing old: either they are forever young or long since dead.

...Did you get the memo?

My husband and I recently drove into the city. When we exited the FDR onto 96th Street, we were diverted onto 97th because there was some type of obstruction. While we were trying to merge, there was an old man in an electric wheelchair navigating 97th. My husband expressed his frustration at the old man, and we drove on.

It took us several minutes to arrive to our destination on 95th, and when we did, we saw the SAME MAN in a wheelchair zipping down the street. Apparently the most efficient mode of transportation in Manhattan is not the automobile, but the wheelchair.

Office Space, anyone?

Academic Food Chain

It's always been apparent that there was a hierarchy within schools: not only are students ranked according to ability in their class placements, but the perception of departments and their members also feed into this system. (Get it? Feed!)

At my alma mater, the English building was tucked at the edge of campus—about a ten-minute walk from the academic quad—and was in disrepair. It's been a "temporary" building for over two decades; it will eventually move into another old (but nicer) building at some point. Maybe. Let's face it: English wasn't the bread-and-butter of the institution; there were several departments far more sought after and therefore far more glamorized.

Even so, there was a hierarchy within the English major. Although I generally didn't spend time with English majors outside of class (too much granola), I did get the distinct impression that the Creative Writing concentration was more prestigious. I may have taken the program for granted, but others didn't: it required a submission of a portfolio, which was judged by an admissions board. The other concentrations within the English major (rhetoric, various types of lit) did not have such stringent requirements.

This social assembly had been pushed to the back of my mind while I taught in a public high school. There I wouldn't say English teachers reigned on high, but we did have a reputation for assigning the most work and for being the most hard-nosed. (This was certainly true of the high school I attended, and I am inclined to think this is a general rule.) What took me by surprise, however, is that this happens to also be true at the university level as well. At a faculty meeting today, the Program Director said that full time lecturers would be pairing up with members of other departments to help them incorporate more writing lessons into their teaching. Apparently there have been members of other departments coming to us because they are uncertain of their own writing ability, and thus lack the confidence to teach writing or grade the writing of their students.

My first thought was glee: Others realize that writing matters! This is an excellent opportunity to make cross-curricular ties and (as the director pointed out) boost the reputation of the lowly writing department.

My second thought went back to the concept of a hierarchy: Others have a respect for writing teachers. I found this surprising. In our heart of hearts, we English teachers hold a secret contempt for those people who contribute to the world in some tangible way. No, I don't devise innovative products for consumers, but I teach students how to read, write, and think more critically. I don't do people's taxes, but I teach students to appreciate Shakespeare. I don't cure diseases, but I teach students to become better citizens. This is my job, and most days I'm proud of it, despite what American values have influenced me to think.

And for this job I don't get much compensation, nor do I truly need it (though it would be nice). My motivation for becoming an English teacher is purely selfish: I don't want to live in a society with illiterate degenerates who can't string a sentence together. Somewhere along the line, however, I became emotionally invested in the students of English, and it is for them that I go to work every day.

Whether it is in the forefront of my mind or forgotten amidst the frenzy of everyday life, I am confident that English does matter. In fact, we English teachers have been acknowledged as the teachers of teachers, a significant accomplishment for those of us who spend our lives in a field that everyone else dreads. Although we may not be at the top of the food chain, at least we don't get devoured too often.