Before I begin grading, I arrange the papers from (anticipated) worst to best—so I generally feel pretty good by the time I finish grading the class. I realize that this is both horrible and what education classes taught us not to do—in fact, they say to arrange them from best to worst. But as a striving optimist, I do the opposite. (As my husband says, "I feel bad for the poor kids who are on the top of that stack.")
I spent my day (and evening) yesterday grading a section of 101 proposal papers. One student, who has managed to climb from the beginning to the middle of the stack, wrote a fantastic paper. I was truly proud of the fact that Andrea had put so much effort into the paper—dozens of questions in class, emails, and even IMs—for she had created an exemplary product. Except there were no citations.
Technically, I should have failed this student—internal citations are detrimental to her ethos as a writer and, really, her integrity as a student. But I consider myself a generous person, so I wrote her a paragraph explaining that hers was an A paper, but she can't get an A without internal citations. It breaks my heart! I wrote. I know you'll crush the next one! Then I penned a B+ and circled it.
Today after class Andrea was a wreck. She tried pleading with me, asking to put in the citations so that I could give her the A. I explained a (true) story I had heard from another professor: he had a student who submitted a research paper without internal citations for the portfolio review, so he failed. He didn't just fail the portfolio review—he failed the course. So really, I said, the B+ is generous, because technically she should have failed. I then said that I hoped that she would learn from the situation so she wouldn't be the unfortunate student who has to repeat a course—or worse—because of something so silly.
Andrea was far from satisfied, but she eventually exited the classroom. I then went to my last class, a 102, and later stayed after to speak to a handful of students who had questions on their upcoming draft.
One girl, Lily, relayed an anecdote about a girl she met in the stairwell who started talking about being caught for accidental plagiarism; she had forgotten to use internal citations in her paper. The stairwell girl had told this perfect stranger, "This is bad karma for all the times I plagiarized. This time it was entirely by accident—and I got caught! I can't believe it."
I hope Andrea learned not to plagiarize—accidentally or purposefully—at least in my class. If nothing else, I hope the irony isn't lost on her.
11.21.2008
11.20.2008
Catholic Guilt as a Teaching Strategy
A concept I emphasize to my freshmen is knowing your audience. This is especially true with knowing my students.
I just—as in minutes ago—read a paper by a particularly competent writer. In fact, I saved his paper for the bottom of my stack so that I won't feel depressed when I go to bed tonight. This student wants to please me and wants to do well in our class, but he's definitely a freshman—he runs to our 12:50 class with his contact case in his hand because he woke up minutes before we're scheduled to meet. It's been apparent that his social life is infringing on his academic priorities, and it has become more apparent now that I've read his third paper.
This is the note I wrote for him at the bottom of his last page:
This paper is not double spaced. I'd rather your paper run short than have you think I'm too dumb to notice.
Frankly, I'm disappointed. It's clear you know how to conduct research and incorporate it into your own ideas, but your paper lacks development and seems thrown together. I sincerely hope you put more effort into your next paper because you're a talented writer who just isn't meeting his potential.
I'm curious to see how he does on the next one.
I just—as in minutes ago—read a paper by a particularly competent writer. In fact, I saved his paper for the bottom of my stack so that I won't feel depressed when I go to bed tonight. This student wants to please me and wants to do well in our class, but he's definitely a freshman—he runs to our 12:50 class with his contact case in his hand because he woke up minutes before we're scheduled to meet. It's been apparent that his social life is infringing on his academic priorities, and it has become more apparent now that I've read his third paper.
This is the note I wrote for him at the bottom of his last page:
This paper is not double spaced. I'd rather your paper run short than have you think I'm too dumb to notice.
Frankly, I'm disappointed. It's clear you know how to conduct research and incorporate it into your own ideas, but your paper lacks development and seems thrown together. I sincerely hope you put more effort into your next paper because you're a talented writer who just isn't meeting his potential.
I'm curious to see how he does on the next one.
11.19.2008
Out of the Mouths of Babes
On the wall of our department's reading room (faculty lounge) is the photocopy of a professor's letter written to an advice columnist. In short, course evaluations left the professor questioning her career path; the columnist reassures her by saying that "to allow students to say what they like anonymously about their teachers strikes me as democracy gone mad."
The columnist has a point about professors being the ones responsible for passing judgment, and that the distressed professor should be less concerned about being liked and more concerned about being an effective teacher. However. Just like students, professors should also be held accountable—perhaps even more so. These students are, after all, paying a hefty sum for the privilege of higher education; it is therefore our responsibility to provide that education.
This college professor should know her classes—and herself—well enough to discern immature ranting from constructive criticism; if she cannot, then perhaps she should consider a change of vocation.
The columnist has a point about professors being the ones responsible for passing judgment, and that the distressed professor should be less concerned about being liked and more concerned about being an effective teacher. However. Just like students, professors should also be held accountable—perhaps even more so. These students are, after all, paying a hefty sum for the privilege of higher education; it is therefore our responsibility to provide that education.
This college professor should know her classes—and herself—well enough to discern immature ranting from constructive criticism; if she cannot, then perhaps she should consider a change of vocation.
11.17.2008
Rhetorical Trainwreck
This is one of the best pieces of terrible rhetoric I have ever seen. I don't know whether to laugh or shake my fist in the air.
11.12.2008
I'll punctuate you in the face
Today I taught punctuation to my 101 kids. As always, I began the lesson by writing the following on the board and asking the students to punctuate it:
A woman without her man is nothing
After they couldn't do anything more than add a period, I changed it to the following:
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
I then asked, "What happened when I added these two pieces of punctuation?"
One of my students said, "It made the sentence false."
For more on why punctuation is important, see this YouTube video. (Thanks, Rob.)
A woman without her man is nothing
After they couldn't do anything more than add a period, I changed it to the following:
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
I then asked, "What happened when I added these two pieces of punctuation?"
One of my students said, "It made the sentence false."
For more on why punctuation is important, see this YouTube video. (Thanks, Rob.)
11.11.2008
Out of Step
I heard it before I saw it.
I was standing just inside the Central Reading Room in our university's main library waiting for my 101 students to attend our library orientation. Then I heard it—that erratic, yet oddly rhythmic fall of footsteps that echoed in the open stone lobby.
I lifted my head, irrationally expecting to see Bobby, my former student, when I of course glimpsed another young man with cerebral palsy and a similar gait.
Bobby was in my most troublesome class to date: a standard ninth grade English class at the end of the school day my first year teaching. The roster comprised not only Bobby, but a student with an IQ of about 50; a student with an emotional disturbance; a half dozen overstimulated, undermedicated ADHD teenagers; and about as many repeaters. I would like to attribute my difficulty with this group to my inexperience as a teacher, but I'm confident I would flounder about as much now as I did then. While combating apathety and misbehavior, I also had to contend with Bobby, who, when I asked why he wasn't doing his work, replied, "leave me alone—I'm a cripple."
This was obviously unacceptable. What followed was a long private conversation with Bobby: his physical disability had nothing to do with his mental ability.
Bobby was one of those students—and help me, there are many—who made my life difficult from August until June, but the following fall became my best friend. (This may have been influenced by my teaching his doll of a sister Jackie in my English 12 class the following year.) Every time Bobby saw me in the halls—or even as he passed by my door while I was teaching—he'd say hello. He showed a chordiality in those who years I would never have guessed he possessed.
About two years ago Bobby began a series of surgeries to correct his walk. The surgeries would cut and then fuse the muscles in his legs, relieving the tension and allowing him to walk more normally. The last time saw Bobby was this past spring. His legs had healed enough that he had graduated from a wheelchair to a walker. He was substantially taller—not only the result of puberty, but also because leg muscles no longer wrenching his body together, creating a labored, staggered walk.
I won't say that Bobby's attitude toward me has anything to do with his corrective surgeries; I think it's mostly owing to his emotional maturation. In any event, when I heard the troubled walk of a college student—a walk no longer characteristic of my Bobby—I couldn't help but think of him and smile.
I was standing just inside the Central Reading Room in our university's main library waiting for my 101 students to attend our library orientation. Then I heard it—that erratic, yet oddly rhythmic fall of footsteps that echoed in the open stone lobby.
I lifted my head, irrationally expecting to see Bobby, my former student, when I of course glimpsed another young man with cerebral palsy and a similar gait.
Bobby was in my most troublesome class to date: a standard ninth grade English class at the end of the school day my first year teaching. The roster comprised not only Bobby, but a student with an IQ of about 50; a student with an emotional disturbance; a half dozen overstimulated, undermedicated ADHD teenagers; and about as many repeaters. I would like to attribute my difficulty with this group to my inexperience as a teacher, but I'm confident I would flounder about as much now as I did then. While combating apathety and misbehavior, I also had to contend with Bobby, who, when I asked why he wasn't doing his work, replied, "leave me alone—I'm a cripple."
This was obviously unacceptable. What followed was a long private conversation with Bobby: his physical disability had nothing to do with his mental ability.
Bobby was one of those students—and help me, there are many—who made my life difficult from August until June, but the following fall became my best friend. (This may have been influenced by my teaching his doll of a sister Jackie in my English 12 class the following year.) Every time Bobby saw me in the halls—or even as he passed by my door while I was teaching—he'd say hello. He showed a chordiality in those who years I would never have guessed he possessed.
About two years ago Bobby began a series of surgeries to correct his walk. The surgeries would cut and then fuse the muscles in his legs, relieving the tension and allowing him to walk more normally. The last time saw Bobby was this past spring. His legs had healed enough that he had graduated from a wheelchair to a walker. He was substantially taller—not only the result of puberty, but also because leg muscles no longer wrenching his body together, creating a labored, staggered walk.
I won't say that Bobby's attitude toward me has anything to do with his corrective surgeries; I think it's mostly owing to his emotional maturation. In any event, when I heard the troubled walk of a college student—a walk no longer characteristic of my Bobby—I couldn't help but think of him and smile.
From Girlhood to Motherhood
So I've recently been thinking about babies. (This has probably been influenced more by the fact that I'm reading Midwives than the ticking of my biological clock.) It has occurred to me that my former students who were pregnant when I taught them last year have recently become mothers. Just as they probably did not equate sex with pregnancy, I had difficulty equating their pregnancy with motherhood.
I can't help but wonder how these girls—now women, I suppose—are faring. I know that most of them have the support of family members, even if the father of the child is no longer in the picture. (This is the case, I know, of three out of five of these girls.) What are they doing for income? What are they doing for higher education? I realize, of course, that most of these girls weren't planning on going to college.
But one of them was. Jenn, one of my darlings that I taught in tenth then twelfth grade, spent her years in high school getting experience in child development and early child development so that she could go to college to become an elementary school teacher (no small feat, as she was the first in her family to graduate from high school). Instead, Jenn got pregnant her senior year—which prompted her boyfriend to leave her—and in August entered motherhood instead of entering college. Her sister, two years her senior, was also pregnant and due in late summer; they will be raising their children together.
What life is this for Jenn? I by no means deem motherhood an inferior fate, but Jenn's teenage pregnancy has relegated her to the same life as her sister, who had not enough aspiration or motivation to graduate from high school. All I can do is shake my head; the thought of this young girl postponing—and probably never fulfilling—her dream saddens me.
I can't help but wonder how these girls—now women, I suppose—are faring. I know that most of them have the support of family members, even if the father of the child is no longer in the picture. (This is the case, I know, of three out of five of these girls.) What are they doing for income? What are they doing for higher education? I realize, of course, that most of these girls weren't planning on going to college.
But one of them was. Jenn, one of my darlings that I taught in tenth then twelfth grade, spent her years in high school getting experience in child development and early child development so that she could go to college to become an elementary school teacher (no small feat, as she was the first in her family to graduate from high school). Instead, Jenn got pregnant her senior year—which prompted her boyfriend to leave her—and in August entered motherhood instead of entering college. Her sister, two years her senior, was also pregnant and due in late summer; they will be raising their children together.
What life is this for Jenn? I by no means deem motherhood an inferior fate, but Jenn's teenage pregnancy has relegated her to the same life as her sister, who had not enough aspiration or motivation to graduate from high school. All I can do is shake my head; the thought of this young girl postponing—and probably never fulfilling—her dream saddens me.
11.04.2008
Silencing my inner fascist
It's no secret that I'm a workaholic. Doing the bare minimum for anything just isn't my style. In fact, I take pride in the fact that I'm such an overachiever; it's part of my identity. For example, when I grade a paper, I spend several minutes reading and commenting on it; then I write a paragraph or two assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the paper before I assign a grade. My students seem to appreciate this, and I like to think it helps them become better writers.
Recently one of my more gifted (and more lazy) students came to see me during office hours regarding his literary analysis paper. He was telling me about his recent English teachers—an AP Language and Comp teacher who commented copiously and an AP Literature teacher who only marked a letter grade at the end. I expressed similar displeasure with a college professor who had similar practices. The student said that this teacher made him not want to work as hard because he didn't think the teacher bothered to read his work. My thought was the opposite: I still worked as hard but was frustrated because I didn't have feedback on my work.
I then was about to say that I believe hard work sets you free—when I suddenly had a flashback to my days of teaching Night: the gates of Auschwitz say arbeit macht frei—work will set you free.
This is kind of scary.
Maybe I'll take a day off.
Recently one of my more gifted (and more lazy) students came to see me during office hours regarding his literary analysis paper. He was telling me about his recent English teachers—an AP Language and Comp teacher who commented copiously and an AP Literature teacher who only marked a letter grade at the end. I expressed similar displeasure with a college professor who had similar practices. The student said that this teacher made him not want to work as hard because he didn't think the teacher bothered to read his work. My thought was the opposite: I still worked as hard but was frustrated because I didn't have feedback on my work.
I then was about to say that I believe hard work sets you free—when I suddenly had a flashback to my days of teaching Night: the gates of Auschwitz say arbeit macht frei—work will set you free.
This is kind of scary.
Maybe I'll take a day off.
Celebrate your freedom with a free coffee
Only 54% of eligible voters went to the polls in 2004.
In order to give Americans incentive to vote, Starbucks has offered a free coffee today to anyone who says he voted.
Yes, you read that correctly: Americans need incentive to vote. Colonists who came to this land seeking religious and political refuge. African-Americans who were persecuted for wanting to participate in the election process. Women who believed they too should have a say. Immigrants who come to this country so that one day they and their children can participate in free elections.
Americans need incentive to vote, so let's give them a free coffee.
In order to give Americans incentive to vote, Starbucks has offered a free coffee today to anyone who says he voted.
Yes, you read that correctly: Americans need incentive to vote. Colonists who came to this land seeking religious and political refuge. African-Americans who were persecuted for wanting to participate in the election process. Women who believed they too should have a say. Immigrants who come to this country so that one day they and their children can participate in free elections.
Americans need incentive to vote, so let's give them a free coffee.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)