This semester I taught Grammar 200 for the second time. Unsurprisingly, the students this semester were weaker than I had taught during the summer session. We had to spend more time reinforcing new concepts, most students were loath to participate in class discussion, and the response papers lacked the attention to detail the earlier section so eagerly provided.
I couldn't help but think the course was three credits of torture for the poor bastards who enrolled.
On the last day of class, we answered last-minute questions for the final exam. When I exhausted their questions, I delivered closing remarks: It's been a pleasure working with all of you, I wish you luck as writers, keep in touch. Then something strange happened.
They clapped.
12.11.2009
12.03.2009
Full Moon, No Moon; New Moon
For as long as I can remember, I've heard people reference the moon phase in relation to human behavior. "It must be a full moon!" my mother would say at the end of a day filled with peculiar interactions. As a child, my acute imagination depicted her coworkers morphing into werewolves; as I grew older, I took the expression to be something used to describe an "off" day.
When I began teaching high school, I heard the expression again, often. Once a month, actually. What's more, I started using it myself. There were days when my students would be particularly trying or overly juvenile. When my husband would ask me how my day was, I would preface my answer with, "It must be a full moon because..."
And one such day he looked up the moon phase. It was full.
So I began—albeit reluctantly—giving credence to the moon's effect on human behavior. "Easy" days seemed to occur in the new moon phase. I found myself hoping that full moon phases would coincide with weekends and mid-week holidays, and I witnessed teenagers become were-students when the lunar and school calendars didn't cooperate.
Since leaving my post as a high school English teacher, I hadn't given this superstition another thought. But as I drove home from work earlier this week, I noticed the full moon piercing the clear, starless sky. I half-smiled as I thought of my day: not uneventful, but not trying, either. Gone are the days that are as volatile as the tides. My only calendar is the one on the wall—and I'm obtuse to the day marked with an open circle.
When I began teaching high school, I heard the expression again, often. Once a month, actually. What's more, I started using it myself. There were days when my students would be particularly trying or overly juvenile. When my husband would ask me how my day was, I would preface my answer with, "It must be a full moon because..."
And one such day he looked up the moon phase. It was full.
So I began—albeit reluctantly—giving credence to the moon's effect on human behavior. "Easy" days seemed to occur in the new moon phase. I found myself hoping that full moon phases would coincide with weekends and mid-week holidays, and I witnessed teenagers become were-students when the lunar and school calendars didn't cooperate.
Since leaving my post as a high school English teacher, I hadn't given this superstition another thought. But as I drove home from work earlier this week, I noticed the full moon piercing the clear, starless sky. I half-smiled as I thought of my day: not uneventful, but not trying, either. Gone are the days that are as volatile as the tides. My only calendar is the one on the wall—and I'm obtuse to the day marked with an open circle.
11.13.2009
Turning my back on my training
Teaching sentence diagramming involves writing on the chalkboard, usually in multiple colors. As I was diagramming a sentence recently, I stopped writing mid-motion. It had occurred to me that I had fully turned my back to the class.
This may seem like a non-event, unless you've taught K-12. One of the lessons teachers learn in their education classes—and really learn on the first day of school—is to never turn their backs to the audience. It's a way to compensate for the anatomical impossibility of having eyes in the back of one's head.
It took over a year, but my training had been undone. I turned my back to the class, and something illicit may have happened in those few moments. But that no longer matters.
This may seem like a non-event, unless you've taught K-12. One of the lessons teachers learn in their education classes—and really learn on the first day of school—is to never turn their backs to the audience. It's a way to compensate for the anatomical impossibility of having eyes in the back of one's head.
It took over a year, but my training had been undone. I turned my back to the class, and something illicit may have happened in those few moments. But that no longer matters.
On Easy Street: Saying Goodbye to Gourmet
A few days ago, the last issue of Gourmet arrived at my door. "The last issue" meaning it's the last issue ever. In our uncertain economy, Condé Nast decided to eliminate some of its brands, especially in the cases where it owned a number of magazines with the same target audience. In the case of cooking magazines, Condé Nast decided, based on the number of subscriptions, that Gourmet was more expendable than Bon Appétit and Cookie Magazine. As a consolation, Condé Nast will send me Bon Appétit in lieu of Gourmet for the remainder of my subscription.
And then I will cancel my four-year subscription.
I understand business; I understand economics. In an age when readers favor free online content, subscriptions have plummeted. Because Gourmet wasn't making enough profit, Condé Nast chose to eliminate it for the good of the company.
But is it for the good of the culture? Gourmet isn't a cooking magazine; it's "The Magazine of Good Living." Yes, it contains recipes and tips for food preparation, but that's not the reason Gourmet has such a high resubscription rate. The magazine celebrates the tradition and culture surrounding food. The delightfully written articles and artistic photographs convey the sense that its writers and editors believe that even complicated dishes deserve to be a part of our lives—to serve an elaborate meal to loved ones is a labor of love.
On my desk are the November issues of Gourmet and Bon Appétit, side by side. The cover of Gourmet features an amber turkey on a bed of greens, its platter set on a crocheted table cloth. Behind the bird—and behind the magazine's title—are vertical wooden planks that one may find in a home in any corner of America. Bon Appétit's cover reads in orange print just above its title, "Thanksgiving Made Easy." Other headlines: "10 Perfect Menus," "Entertaining Dos and Don'ts," and "Leftovers done right!" The headlines encircle a well-seasoned turkey in a copper-plated roaster (the All-Clad label expertly PhotoShopped off the handle) resting on a stainless steel surface that fades to white.
It's easy to see why Condé Nast thought Bon Appétit to be the more successful of the two magazines, sales aside: It appeals to a larger population. Americans no longer have the patience for a laborious meal, and they often don't even appreciate the difference in quality of the fruits of that labor. Americans would rather have a "Thanksgiving Made Easy" and believe it can happen in an immaculate stainless steel kitchen than have an honest meal served on a realistic table.
American culture has lost its Americanness. Americans believe they have high standards, but too many of us have become satisfied with mediocrity. We want it now, we don't want to do it ourselves, and for those reasons, we'll take what we can get. The result: We eat a gluttonous amount of food that's passable at best.
And so the few of us who consider food a part of good living are further marginalized. As I pour over the final issue of Gourmet, I lament the death of a true American institution. I wonder how I'll manage to host my own large family dinners without Gourmet. It won't be easy.
And then I will cancel my four-year subscription.
I understand business; I understand economics. In an age when readers favor free online content, subscriptions have plummeted. Because Gourmet wasn't making enough profit, Condé Nast chose to eliminate it for the good of the company.
But is it for the good of the culture? Gourmet isn't a cooking magazine; it's "The Magazine of Good Living." Yes, it contains recipes and tips for food preparation, but that's not the reason Gourmet has such a high resubscription rate. The magazine celebrates the tradition and culture surrounding food. The delightfully written articles and artistic photographs convey the sense that its writers and editors believe that even complicated dishes deserve to be a part of our lives—to serve an elaborate meal to loved ones is a labor of love.
On my desk are the November issues of Gourmet and Bon Appétit, side by side. The cover of Gourmet features an amber turkey on a bed of greens, its platter set on a crocheted table cloth. Behind the bird—and behind the magazine's title—are vertical wooden planks that one may find in a home in any corner of America. Bon Appétit's cover reads in orange print just above its title, "Thanksgiving Made Easy." Other headlines: "10 Perfect Menus," "Entertaining Dos and Don'ts," and "Leftovers done right!" The headlines encircle a well-seasoned turkey in a copper-plated roaster (the All-Clad label expertly PhotoShopped off the handle) resting on a stainless steel surface that fades to white.
It's easy to see why Condé Nast thought Bon Appétit to be the more successful of the two magazines, sales aside: It appeals to a larger population. Americans no longer have the patience for a laborious meal, and they often don't even appreciate the difference in quality of the fruits of that labor. Americans would rather have a "Thanksgiving Made Easy" and believe it can happen in an immaculate stainless steel kitchen than have an honest meal served on a realistic table.
American culture has lost its Americanness. Americans believe they have high standards, but too many of us have become satisfied with mediocrity. We want it now, we don't want to do it ourselves, and for those reasons, we'll take what we can get. The result: We eat a gluttonous amount of food that's passable at best.
And so the few of us who consider food a part of good living are further marginalized. As I pour over the final issue of Gourmet, I lament the death of a true American institution. I wonder how I'll manage to host my own large family dinners without Gourmet. It won't be easy.
10.07.2009
Children left behind and passed along
In many ways, my summer Grammar 200 class spoiled me. There were eight students, all of whom were motivated to learn about language, and few had obligations outside of our class. The result: active class participation, thoughtful questions, and noticeably-improved student understanding in just six weeks.
One would expect that the students enrolled in a fall grammar class would be of a similar, if less pure, ilk. In the class of eighteen, about three of them are competent writers curious about the language. The other fifteen took the course in a desperate attempt to compensate for a lifetime of lack of instruction, lack of effort, or both.
As I grade their first set of response papers, I can see why they were so eager to sign up for a class that promised to teach them more about language. But the problems in their writing are not what I expected: yes, there are missing commas and errant semicolons, but misplaced punctuation is far less serious than poor organization and underdeveloped ideas. These students signed up for a course on language when what they really needed was a course on writing. They need to take 101 and 102.
But they've already taken 101 and 102. And considering most of them are upperclassmen, they've already written several papers yet have been able to stay in college. Somehow, students with murky writing (stemming from unclear thought) have been passed along from one grade to the next, then to college, where they were passed from one course to the next.
At our department meetings, there is often a professor or two who remarks that it's not our job to teach grammar or mechanics or MLA format, and therefore, we shouldn't have to teach it. Before us, the senior English teacher also decided it wasn't his job, and so he didn't teach it, and so forth. The result? We've cut our proverbial losses on a generation of writers, and there is no foreseeable end to this course.
There's just a group of eighteen students who know that they should be better writers than they are, and they were confident (or demented) enough to sign up for three credits on grammar. And so we go back to the basics, because they have to learn it somewhere.
One would expect that the students enrolled in a fall grammar class would be of a similar, if less pure, ilk. In the class of eighteen, about three of them are competent writers curious about the language. The other fifteen took the course in a desperate attempt to compensate for a lifetime of lack of instruction, lack of effort, or both.
As I grade their first set of response papers, I can see why they were so eager to sign up for a class that promised to teach them more about language. But the problems in their writing are not what I expected: yes, there are missing commas and errant semicolons, but misplaced punctuation is far less serious than poor organization and underdeveloped ideas. These students signed up for a course on language when what they really needed was a course on writing. They need to take 101 and 102.
But they've already taken 101 and 102. And considering most of them are upperclassmen, they've already written several papers yet have been able to stay in college. Somehow, students with murky writing (stemming from unclear thought) have been passed along from one grade to the next, then to college, where they were passed from one course to the next.
At our department meetings, there is often a professor or two who remarks that it's not our job to teach grammar or mechanics or MLA format, and therefore, we shouldn't have to teach it. Before us, the senior English teacher also decided it wasn't his job, and so he didn't teach it, and so forth. The result? We've cut our proverbial losses on a generation of writers, and there is no foreseeable end to this course.
There's just a group of eighteen students who know that they should be better writers than they are, and they were confident (or demented) enough to sign up for three credits on grammar. And so we go back to the basics, because they have to learn it somewhere.
Professing Respect
"Do you teach elementary school?" My butcher asked. He, like most people who learn I'm an educator, assume I teach little ones.
"No," I replied. "I teach college writing."
"Oh," his eyebrows chased his receding hairline, "a professor!"
I still am unaccustomed to the word professor. Perhaps because I'm only a lecturer. Still, the culture on campus is that any instructor who isn't a TA is addressed as professor. Like a little girl trying on her mother's jewelry, I don't feel comfortable parading the title, but I do feel flattered by it.
Since then, my interaction with the butcher has changed. I imagine he talked to his coworkers—now all of the guys in the shop ask me how classes are going, how my students are this semester. And in their tone is a quiet respect reserved, inexplicably, for college professors and no other educators.
***
Last week, I was at the butcher shop buying a cut of beef when I noticed pork shoulder was on sale. I placed my usual order—I love that my butcher knows my "usual"—and came back two days later to pick it up. When I did, the sack he handed me was labeled not with my name; in thick black marker, it read Prof.
"No," I replied. "I teach college writing."
"Oh," his eyebrows chased his receding hairline, "a professor!"
I still am unaccustomed to the word professor. Perhaps because I'm only a lecturer. Still, the culture on campus is that any instructor who isn't a TA is addressed as professor. Like a little girl trying on her mother's jewelry, I don't feel comfortable parading the title, but I do feel flattered by it.
Since then, my interaction with the butcher has changed. I imagine he talked to his coworkers—now all of the guys in the shop ask me how classes are going, how my students are this semester. And in their tone is a quiet respect reserved, inexplicably, for college professors and no other educators.
***
Last week, I was at the butcher shop buying a cut of beef when I noticed pork shoulder was on sale. I placed my usual order—I love that my butcher knows my "usual"—and came back two days later to pick it up. When I did, the sack he handed me was labeled not with my name; in thick black marker, it read Prof.
9.23.2009
Pass/Fail; Win/Win
Grading is my least favorite part of my job. In fact, it's the only part I don't love. However, I dread the task of grading less when I assign a check, check-plus, or check-minus at the bottom of a page instead of a letter or number. My marginal and end comments are just as reflective, but they often convey a more helpful—instead of judgmental—tone.
Now, I realize that grades are imperative to higher ed. But so much in a writing course is subjective, it's often impractical to quantitatively assess student writing. The purpose of the course is to give students the tools and the practice to write better, and too often students are paralyzed by the fear of what a writing course will do to their GPAs. They're less willing to take risks in their writing and often just want to know the "right" answer.
Fortunately, I've gotten a glimpse of the alternative. I've begun teaching my third semester of a pass/fail class offered through the School of Journalism. It's a writing immersion lab; I teach the fundamentals of grammar, prod students to apply it to their writing, then subject them to a proficiency test at the end of the course. If they pass the test, they pass the course. If they fail twice, they're booted from the major.
Along the way, they take several quizzes and submit weekly essays. The essays are returned with a litany of comments, and at the end is a numerical grade based on rubric quantifying errors and content (just as they will see on the proficiency test, which needs a hard pass/fail line). The grades on the essays and quizzes have no bearing on the letters that will appear on their transcripts. The better writers—those passionate about their craft—revel in the opportunity to experiment with language.
Of course, there are students who take advantage of this system in another way: they get by doing as little work as possible and just barely pass the test at the end of the semester. The Ps on their transcripts are the same as the students who worked to refine their writing.
And so, paradoxically, the classes that have less consequence in terms of grades may have the most consequence in terms of education. It is in those classes that the students who seek knowledge can take the risks required to truly gain it.
Now, I realize that grades are imperative to higher ed. But so much in a writing course is subjective, it's often impractical to quantitatively assess student writing. The purpose of the course is to give students the tools and the practice to write better, and too often students are paralyzed by the fear of what a writing course will do to their GPAs. They're less willing to take risks in their writing and often just want to know the "right" answer.
Fortunately, I've gotten a glimpse of the alternative. I've begun teaching my third semester of a pass/fail class offered through the School of Journalism. It's a writing immersion lab; I teach the fundamentals of grammar, prod students to apply it to their writing, then subject them to a proficiency test at the end of the course. If they pass the test, they pass the course. If they fail twice, they're booted from the major.
Along the way, they take several quizzes and submit weekly essays. The essays are returned with a litany of comments, and at the end is a numerical grade based on rubric quantifying errors and content (just as they will see on the proficiency test, which needs a hard pass/fail line). The grades on the essays and quizzes have no bearing on the letters that will appear on their transcripts. The better writers—those passionate about their craft—revel in the opportunity to experiment with language.
Of course, there are students who take advantage of this system in another way: they get by doing as little work as possible and just barely pass the test at the end of the semester. The Ps on their transcripts are the same as the students who worked to refine their writing.
And so, paradoxically, the classes that have less consequence in terms of grades may have the most consequence in terms of education. It is in those classes that the students who seek knowledge can take the risks required to truly gain it.
9.11.2009
Masquerading
I like to think that I am myself around my students. This is especially true now that I teach college; I can be more honest with my students than ever before. (Over the summer, I explained to my Grammar 200 class that I am supposed to officially discourage Journalism majors from using semicolons. When one asked why, I explained it's because Americans are stupid and are easily intimidated by things they don't understand.)
However, I've recently realized that she who teaches my classes is but a lukewarm version of myself. I finally caved and joined Facebook this summer, and I was surprised by the flood of friend requests from former students. The requests sat, bolded, in my inbox for about a day while I considered it. Was it appropriate to "friend" my students if they were no longer my students? I finally decided that they were adults and I am an adult and I don't do anything wildly inappropriate that they shouldn't know about. I confirmed every request.
But ever since I've been double- and triple-thinking everything I post on my wall or in an album. Maybe my actions or words aren't inappropriate, but they are still not something I want to influence my students' perception of me. I assume that the students who "friended" me were driven by more than a curiosity to see who I am outside of class—I assume they also view me with some kind of respect.
And so I selectively censor myself on my Facebook page. (Something, I realize, that probably isn't a bad idea anyway.) I wouldn't want to warp my students' perception of me; instead, I'll add dimension to it.
However, I've recently realized that she who teaches my classes is but a lukewarm version of myself. I finally caved and joined Facebook this summer, and I was surprised by the flood of friend requests from former students. The requests sat, bolded, in my inbox for about a day while I considered it. Was it appropriate to "friend" my students if they were no longer my students? I finally decided that they were adults and I am an adult and I don't do anything wildly inappropriate that they shouldn't know about. I confirmed every request.
But ever since I've been double- and triple-thinking everything I post on my wall or in an album. Maybe my actions or words aren't inappropriate, but they are still not something I want to influence my students' perception of me. I assume that the students who "friended" me were driven by more than a curiosity to see who I am outside of class—I assume they also view me with some kind of respect.
And so I selectively censor myself on my Facebook page. (Something, I realize, that probably isn't a bad idea anyway.) I wouldn't want to warp my students' perception of me; instead, I'll add dimension to it.
6.08.2009
Of Readers and Writers
Last week I began teaching the university's new grammar class. It's the first class I've ever taught that wasn't a requirement—and it's better than I had dreamed. The students who enrolled in the summer grammar class are sincerely interested in learning more about language and writing—"by carrot or stick," as my program director noted.
Before class began, I surveyed the roster for the students' majors. Some were English/liberal arts majors, some journalism, and a few science. Uh oh, science majors, I thought. They're probably taking the class because they really have trouble with writing.
Come to find out that the science majors are my best writers. In their diagnostic essays, they recounted their previous exposure to grammar, why they enrolled in the course, and what they hoped to gain from it. The best writers told me what I could have guessed: Their grammar is intuitive, and they have somehow absorbed grammatical concepts from the volumes of texts they've read. One student, a math major, spent his free time last semester reading books on mathematical and scientific theory, which led him to theology, and then to literature. (He cited Orwell as a literary author whom he respects.) The student's writing was clear, concise, and had a voice uncharacteristically strong for a rising sophomore.
A component of our course is what I call Issues in Grammar: Students read texts on a language-related topic, and we have discussions that spring forth from those texts. Today, somehow, we got on the topic of reading a physical text versus reading text on a screen, be it online or on a Kindle. One student said she felt smart reading an actual book on a train; apparently she carries Elements of Style in her purse. (Be still my beating heart!) Another student said she feels a sense of accomplishment at seeing the thickness of the books she reads—she named Atlas Shrugged as an example. Yet another student said she was proud to have read The Fountainhead on the treadmill. At that point, another student exclaimed, "Every time I finish reading a Twilight book, I think, 'Wow, I finished another one!'"
Silence.
We readers swallowed, felt our incisors with our tongues, took a drink of water. Something to occupy our tongues while we considered how to respond to the accomplishment of reading literary junk food.
Finally someone, maybe it was I, said something generic about how nice it looks to line up books on a bookshelf, that having a Kindle on an empty bookcase would be a sad sight indeed.
As I commuted home this afternoon, I had the opportunity to digest today's discussion. I realize that it was the students who took the most pride in reading, who read the most challenging and thought-provoking books they could find, who were the ones who produced the best writing. Not surprisingly, it was the students who devoured literary junk food who produced, well, junk.
Before class began, I surveyed the roster for the students' majors. Some were English/liberal arts majors, some journalism, and a few science. Uh oh, science majors, I thought. They're probably taking the class because they really have trouble with writing.
Come to find out that the science majors are my best writers. In their diagnostic essays, they recounted their previous exposure to grammar, why they enrolled in the course, and what they hoped to gain from it. The best writers told me what I could have guessed: Their grammar is intuitive, and they have somehow absorbed grammatical concepts from the volumes of texts they've read. One student, a math major, spent his free time last semester reading books on mathematical and scientific theory, which led him to theology, and then to literature. (He cited Orwell as a literary author whom he respects.) The student's writing was clear, concise, and had a voice uncharacteristically strong for a rising sophomore.
***
A component of our course is what I call Issues in Grammar: Students read texts on a language-related topic, and we have discussions that spring forth from those texts. Today, somehow, we got on the topic of reading a physical text versus reading text on a screen, be it online or on a Kindle. One student said she felt smart reading an actual book on a train; apparently she carries Elements of Style in her purse. (Be still my beating heart!) Another student said she feels a sense of accomplishment at seeing the thickness of the books she reads—she named Atlas Shrugged as an example. Yet another student said she was proud to have read The Fountainhead on the treadmill. At that point, another student exclaimed, "Every time I finish reading a Twilight book, I think, 'Wow, I finished another one!'"
Silence.
We readers swallowed, felt our incisors with our tongues, took a drink of water. Something to occupy our tongues while we considered how to respond to the accomplishment of reading literary junk food.
Finally someone, maybe it was I, said something generic about how nice it looks to line up books on a bookshelf, that having a Kindle on an empty bookcase would be a sad sight indeed.
As I commuted home this afternoon, I had the opportunity to digest today's discussion. I realize that it was the students who took the most pride in reading, who read the most challenging and thought-provoking books they could find, who were the ones who produced the best writing. Not surprisingly, it was the students who devoured literary junk food who produced, well, junk.
5.13.2009
End of semester blues (and rosy reds)
I have to admit that the end of the semester (or year) is my favorite time in any course. And it's not for the jaded reason that it's over—no more teenagers—but because it's immensely satisfying, like a laborious yet delicious meal.
Here are some responses I've received from students:
This class was very challenging but I want to thank you for setting the standard so high. I really learned a lot this semester. —A.D.
I just wanted to say thanks for a good semester and to tell you that I learned a lot. Even though the work load was tough, and the grading was tough, I feel it made me an overall better writer. I appreciate it! P.S. Your cookies were really good. —B.U.
Some of my peers were genuinely worried about their portfolios. I couldn't feel their pain. I've been there and done that! I've told them numerous times: I had Prof. Casey, if I could pass her (barely), I could pass any writing professor. —L.W.
One student, a twice-veteran of Professor Casey, thanked me for two great semesters, and gave me a toothy smile and a thumbs up as he said goodbye.
And one ESL student, upon picking up her passing portfolio, found that words failed her—and gave me a hug instead.
Here are some responses I've received from students:
This class was very challenging but I want to thank you for setting the standard so high. I really learned a lot this semester. —A.D.
I just wanted to say thanks for a good semester and to tell you that I learned a lot. Even though the work load was tough, and the grading was tough, I feel it made me an overall better writer. I appreciate it! P.S. Your cookies were really good. —B.U.
Some of my peers were genuinely worried about their portfolios. I couldn't feel their pain. I've been there and done that! I've told them numerous times: I had Prof. Casey, if I could pass her (barely), I could pass any writing professor. —L.W.
One student, a twice-veteran of Professor Casey, thanked me for two great semesters, and gave me a toothy smile and a thumbs up as he said goodbye.
And one ESL student, upon picking up her passing portfolio, found that words failed her—and gave me a hug instead.
5.07.2009
A Matter of Accountability
Our department requires each Writing 102 student to submit a brief cover letter with his portfolio. The cover letter explains the assignments and how each demonstrates that the student is proficient in the major areas of college writing: argument, analysis, and research. If the student's work is not deemed competent, he must repeat the course.
Some instructors say they read this letter last—they claim they feel bad failing a student who claims to have worked so diligently during the semester. (After all, it's easier to fail a portfolio than to fail a student.)
So I had been methodically working my way through a stack of portfolios until I came upon a portfolio with a cover letter not from a student, but from the professor.
Some backstory first: This is the same professor who has been fighting the portfolio system every step of the way; he claims that it suggests our department does not trust its instructors to plan a course or grade papers judiciously—it undermines us as educators.
At first, I think little of the cover letter written by the professor; others have submitted explanatory cover letters as well. But as I read, I became increasingly irritated; the tone was condescending, as if I wouldn't know how to evaluate an argument. And to top it off, this is how he concluded his letter:
Argument? Textual analysis? Sound rhetorical theory recognizes that these concepts are tran-genred and may occur in any or all of some of these essays.
Please be kind to my students. They have worked very hard and please substitute common sense for pedantry.
Really, how dare he try to persuade his colleagues with a blatant appeal for sympathy? Sorry, buddy—I'm going hold your students' work to the same standards as everyone else. Because the portfolio is a way of holding our instructors to the same standard as well.
Some instructors say they read this letter last—they claim they feel bad failing a student who claims to have worked so diligently during the semester. (After all, it's easier to fail a portfolio than to fail a student.)
So I had been methodically working my way through a stack of portfolios until I came upon a portfolio with a cover letter not from a student, but from the professor.
Some backstory first: This is the same professor who has been fighting the portfolio system every step of the way; he claims that it suggests our department does not trust its instructors to plan a course or grade papers judiciously—it undermines us as educators.
At first, I think little of the cover letter written by the professor; others have submitted explanatory cover letters as well. But as I read, I became increasingly irritated; the tone was condescending, as if I wouldn't know how to evaluate an argument. And to top it off, this is how he concluded his letter:
Argument? Textual analysis? Sound rhetorical theory recognizes that these concepts are tran-genred and may occur in any or all of some of these essays.
Please be kind to my students. They have worked very hard and please substitute common sense for pedantry.
Really, how dare he try to persuade his colleagues with a blatant appeal for sympathy? Sorry, buddy—I'm going hold your students' work to the same standards as everyone else. Because the portfolio is a way of holding our instructors to the same standard as well.
5.05.2009
A Welcome Message
I just received an email from one of the ninth graders I taught last year. She began her email:
What's up? I miss you! You were the best teacher ever! :)
I can't help but smile myself.
What's up? I miss you! You were the best teacher ever! :)
I can't help but smile myself.
4.16.2009
Finding My Voice
As a teacher in a new school, the hardest part of my task, oddly, has been to write my syllabi. Beyond adjusting to the policies of the institution and adding my own rules, I must also write an introductory blurb that captures the essence of the course—and my own persona.
That's just it. First teaching in high school, then in college, I wasn't sure of the type of teacher I would be; I therefore had difficulty finding my voice as the instructor. I read other teachers' and professors' syllabi and was envious of their distinct, easy voices—they had taught the course many times before and were certain of what to teach and who they were in front of a classroom. I was certain of neither.
Now, as I plan the classes for my fourth and fifth terms teaching at the college level, I find it remarkably easier to write their syllabi. I've never taught an honors thesis course (or a business-related course, for that matter), and I've only taught a basic grammar course, but somehow I have a strong sense of who I will be in front of those classes. (From my Grammar 200 syllabus: "Because you have signed up for a summer grammar course, I can assume you are either extremely motivated to learn about our language or are completely mad.")
I've finally become comfortable enough to convey myself confidently and naturally—I've learned to use my normal speaking voice.
That's just it. First teaching in high school, then in college, I wasn't sure of the type of teacher I would be; I therefore had difficulty finding my voice as the instructor. I read other teachers' and professors' syllabi and was envious of their distinct, easy voices—they had taught the course many times before and were certain of what to teach and who they were in front of a classroom. I was certain of neither.
Now, as I plan the classes for my fourth and fifth terms teaching at the college level, I find it remarkably easier to write their syllabi. I've never taught an honors thesis course (or a business-related course, for that matter), and I've only taught a basic grammar course, but somehow I have a strong sense of who I will be in front of those classes. (From my Grammar 200 syllabus: "Because you have signed up for a summer grammar course, I can assume you are either extremely motivated to learn about our language or are completely mad.")
I've finally become comfortable enough to convey myself confidently and naturally—I've learned to use my normal speaking voice.
4.14.2009
How sweet it is
Ladies: Looking for a way to earn extra cash in this downtrodden economy?
Gentlemen: Have disposable income and a low self-esteem?
Read on.
Gentlemen: Have disposable income and a low self-esteem?
Read on.
4.09.2009
Oh, the Humanity
I have a liberal arts degree. By the way—would you like fries with that?
The above is a bumper sticker I bought for myself while I was an undergrad. I hung it proudly on the cork board above my desk next to my favorite Far Side cartoons ("Although it lasted only 2 million years, the Awkward Age was considered a hazardous time for most species"), a rather ambitious to do list (including "Write Great American novel," "Become quadrilingual," and "Stomp out feminism"), and fortune cookie fortunes ("The road to knowledge begins with the turn of a page").
Humanities students have long since resigned themselves to the likelihood that they will not hold lucrative jobs after graduation (if they are fortunate enough to hold a job at all). I recall one day my junior year when our rhetoric professor joked, "I know, you guys are all going to graduate and start out making six figures." One of my classmates replied, "Not as English majors." The professor stopped short, then said, "Oh, come on. You all know English is one of the most important majors. Don't make me give you guys a speech."
She was right, of course. Few other disciplines push their students to think critically and write analytically. (Or even write well.) But try convincing an employer of that fact.
Recently, the Times published an article titled, "In Tough Times, the Humanities Must Justify Their Worth." The article doesn't say much humanities majors don't already know: it's difficult enough to come by jobs, so students should just study a "useful" subject.
After all, what use are the humanities in today's society? Why even study literature?
Look at the word itself: the humanities make us human; they make us whole. Literature exposes us to ideas and worlds we would otherwise never experience. They teach us about history—even fiction reflects the context in which it was written. (As Mr. Heltzer, my high school Humanities teacher, often said, "No one writes in a vacuum.")
This is evidenced by my Writing 102 students. They are mostly of the pre-med variety, yet they revel in our literary analysis unit. Last semester we read Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," Hughes's "Salvation" paired with O'Connor's "The Lame Shall Enter First," Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," and Orwell's "Shooting an Elephant." Precious few of them had any exposure to these works—or anything else written by these timeless authors. But reading works of such depth, underscored by their thorough analyses of these works, helped them realize ideas they had never really considered. Hemingway made the plucky 18-year-old girls reassess their own relationships; Hughes and O'Connor spoke to the religious and atheistic alike; Faulkner exposed the class of northerners to the decomposition of the American South; Orwell demonstrated the complexity—and the weakness—of the British Empire, which especially touched students whose ancestry is from the Indian subcontinent.
Less than one hundred pages of text and two weeks of class discussion exposed these students to concepts that would never have otherwise entered their periphery. Many of them came to see me during office hours and marvelled at the pieces we read—and how much they learned from them.
So the humanities have little value in today's job market. It seems that it would be more beneficial to society if we train our students to engage in critical thought—and not to meerely fill a position. Wasn't it a horde of unthinking lemmings who got us into this mess in the first place?
The above is a bumper sticker I bought for myself while I was an undergrad. I hung it proudly on the cork board above my desk next to my favorite Far Side cartoons ("Although it lasted only 2 million years, the Awkward Age was considered a hazardous time for most species"), a rather ambitious to do list (including "Write Great American novel," "Become quadrilingual," and "Stomp out feminism"), and fortune cookie fortunes ("The road to knowledge begins with the turn of a page").
Humanities students have long since resigned themselves to the likelihood that they will not hold lucrative jobs after graduation (if they are fortunate enough to hold a job at all). I recall one day my junior year when our rhetoric professor joked, "I know, you guys are all going to graduate and start out making six figures." One of my classmates replied, "Not as English majors." The professor stopped short, then said, "Oh, come on. You all know English is one of the most important majors. Don't make me give you guys a speech."
She was right, of course. Few other disciplines push their students to think critically and write analytically. (Or even write well.) But try convincing an employer of that fact.
Recently, the Times published an article titled, "In Tough Times, the Humanities Must Justify Their Worth." The article doesn't say much humanities majors don't already know: it's difficult enough to come by jobs, so students should just study a "useful" subject.
After all, what use are the humanities in today's society? Why even study literature?
Look at the word itself: the humanities make us human; they make us whole. Literature exposes us to ideas and worlds we would otherwise never experience. They teach us about history—even fiction reflects the context in which it was written. (As Mr. Heltzer, my high school Humanities teacher, often said, "No one writes in a vacuum.")
This is evidenced by my Writing 102 students. They are mostly of the pre-med variety, yet they revel in our literary analysis unit. Last semester we read Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," Hughes's "Salvation" paired with O'Connor's "The Lame Shall Enter First," Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," and Orwell's "Shooting an Elephant." Precious few of them had any exposure to these works—or anything else written by these timeless authors. But reading works of such depth, underscored by their thorough analyses of these works, helped them realize ideas they had never really considered. Hemingway made the plucky 18-year-old girls reassess their own relationships; Hughes and O'Connor spoke to the religious and atheistic alike; Faulkner exposed the class of northerners to the decomposition of the American South; Orwell demonstrated the complexity—and the weakness—of the British Empire, which especially touched students whose ancestry is from the Indian subcontinent.
Less than one hundred pages of text and two weeks of class discussion exposed these students to concepts that would never have otherwise entered their periphery. Many of them came to see me during office hours and marvelled at the pieces we read—and how much they learned from them.
So the humanities have little value in today's job market. It seems that it would be more beneficial to society if we train our students to engage in critical thought—and not to meerely fill a position. Wasn't it a horde of unthinking lemmings who got us into this mess in the first place?
4.02.2009
Eff(ort)in' Academia
Earlier this semester, one of my colleagues emailed the department a link to a Times article* about student expectations. A brief discussion ensued: Most department members asserted that students have no right to expect a grade reflecting effort—grades in our classes reflect the final product, only.
To a certain extent, I agree with this notion: Especially in a course that demands students pass an exit portfolio, the final product is what matters most. But that's not to say that effort should count for nothing. (Most educators will agree that it's much more rewarding to teach a less able but motivated student than to teach a talented but lazy student.)
And besides who you know and what you know, effort has proven (to me, at least) to be an important part of career advancement. For example, when I was an undergraduate, I applied for the honors program within the English major. I was rejected, and I graduated without honors.
Now, here's the irony: Today I accepted a position to teach a 300-level writing course to senior business majors writing their honors theses. That's right, she who was not accepted into an honors program is now teaching honors students.
How, exactly, did I get here? Teaching in a challenging high school; a nighttime MA program that yielded a 4.0. A bit of luck, I admit, in finding a college-level teaching position under a director who was willing to take a chance on a young teacher with gumption.
Since that day in August, I like to believe that I've exceeded expectations: Even as an adjunct, I work late nights and weekends planning, grading, and corresponding with students. Their feedback to my courses is overwhelmingly positive. Faculty members are surprised to learn I'm not full time—because I teach more classes than they do.
So what is the point of all this bragging? Achievement isn't just about the final product. Perhaps we shouldn't give students false expectations, but I damned sure make it clear to my students that effort does count for something.
*Interesting note: Marshall Grossman, a professor interviewed for this article, was (briefly) one of my undergraduate professors. I found his expectations unrealistic and dropped his course.
To a certain extent, I agree with this notion: Especially in a course that demands students pass an exit portfolio, the final product is what matters most. But that's not to say that effort should count for nothing. (Most educators will agree that it's much more rewarding to teach a less able but motivated student than to teach a talented but lazy student.)
And besides who you know and what you know, effort has proven (to me, at least) to be an important part of career advancement. For example, when I was an undergraduate, I applied for the honors program within the English major. I was rejected, and I graduated without honors.
Now, here's the irony: Today I accepted a position to teach a 300-level writing course to senior business majors writing their honors theses. That's right, she who was not accepted into an honors program is now teaching honors students.
How, exactly, did I get here? Teaching in a challenging high school; a nighttime MA program that yielded a 4.0. A bit of luck, I admit, in finding a college-level teaching position under a director who was willing to take a chance on a young teacher with gumption.
Since that day in August, I like to believe that I've exceeded expectations: Even as an adjunct, I work late nights and weekends planning, grading, and corresponding with students. Their feedback to my courses is overwhelmingly positive. Faculty members are surprised to learn I'm not full time—because I teach more classes than they do.
So what is the point of all this bragging? Achievement isn't just about the final product. Perhaps we shouldn't give students false expectations, but I damned sure make it clear to my students that effort does count for something.
*Interesting note: Marshall Grossman, a professor interviewed for this article, was (briefly) one of my undergraduate professors. I found his expectations unrealistic and dropped his course.
3.12.2009
I would tell him to shrug.
I began rereading Atlas Shrugged a few weeks ago when I heard the terms nationalization and socialized being bandied about in the news. What I needed was a healthy dose of objectivism.
Apparently I wasn't alone. According to a recent Economist article, sales of Miss Rand's mighty tome have spiked four times in the past year. It climbed from an average Amazon sales rank of 542 and peaked at 33 on January 13. (I ordered my copy on January 18.) A website, GoingJohnGalt.org, pays homage to Miss Rand's philosophy by encouraging productive citizens to engage in a "calculated work slowdown."
Many news stations have called attention to this likeness of thought, especially Fox News. But you know it's really news when The Colbert Report features the story as The Word. ("Rand Illusion" was the word for last night.)
Maybe Miss Rand's ideas are extreme, and maybe he who runs GoingJohnGalt.org is a nut, but we should still pay heed to history and literature alike. And if nothing else, let's be impressed that so many Americans are reading a 1200-page novel.
Apparently I wasn't alone. According to a recent Economist article, sales of Miss Rand's mighty tome have spiked four times in the past year. It climbed from an average Amazon sales rank of 542 and peaked at 33 on January 13. (I ordered my copy on January 18.) A website, GoingJohnGalt.org, pays homage to Miss Rand's philosophy by encouraging productive citizens to engage in a "calculated work slowdown."
Many news stations have called attention to this likeness of thought, especially Fox News. But you know it's really news when The Colbert Report features the story as The Word. ("Rand Illusion" was the word for last night.)
Maybe Miss Rand's ideas are extreme, and maybe he who runs GoingJohnGalt.org is a nut, but we should still pay heed to history and literature alike. And if nothing else, let's be impressed that so many Americans are reading a 1200-page novel.
3.07.2009
A Compartmentalized Life
I had a friend who liked to eat one part of his meal at a time before moving onto the next one. The first time I realized this, I witnessed him eat every french fry on his plate before touching his hamburger. When I asked why, he said, "My hamburger will still taste good if it's just warm, but the fries are best hot." I, on the other hand, ate a bit of a burger, then a fry or two, then went back to my burger. I liked mixing everything together.
This preference stems beyond my eating habits, however. My professional life permeates every other part of my life: Student emails arrive in my gmail account, I read for pleasure and think of how I can use the piece in my classes, and I constantly think and talk about the courses and students I teach.
Some would call me a dedicated instructor, but I worry this behavior is unhealthy. I am unsure of how to balance being a dedicated, hardworking instructor and being a human being. How to balance being Professor Casey and being Ann.
But is there a difference? Have I not been an educator—in mind and in soul as well as in actions—my entire life?
There are many days I wish I could compartmentalize my life, just as a styrofoam lunch tray separates the main dish from the sides. But even if I could, I would probably mix my food together, anyway.
This preference stems beyond my eating habits, however. My professional life permeates every other part of my life: Student emails arrive in my gmail account, I read for pleasure and think of how I can use the piece in my classes, and I constantly think and talk about the courses and students I teach.
Some would call me a dedicated instructor, but I worry this behavior is unhealthy. I am unsure of how to balance being a dedicated, hardworking instructor and being a human being. How to balance being Professor Casey and being Ann.
But is there a difference? Have I not been an educator—in mind and in soul as well as in actions—my entire life?
There are many days I wish I could compartmentalize my life, just as a styrofoam lunch tray separates the main dish from the sides. But even if I could, I would probably mix my food together, anyway.
3.05.2009
Word Nerds, Unite!
Every year, unused words are removed from the Oxford English Dictionary. But it doesn't have to be this way.
Visit SaveTheWords.org to expand your vocabulary—and do a good deed!
Visit SaveTheWords.org to expand your vocabulary—and do a good deed!
2.09.2009
Endorsements
Lately I've gotten a number of requests for letters of recommendation. Although they take a good deal of time and energy to write, I can't say I'm not flattered.
The following is excerpted from an email from a student I had last semester:
I hope this isn't too informal, but I am applying to the Social Studies MAT program for the fall, and I would greatly appreciate it, if it isn't too much trouble, if you would write me a letter of recommendation. I really enjoyed your course last semester and would value your endorsement. If you want me to come by and discuss this with you, I can meet whenever you're available. Thank you.
The following is excerpted from an email from a student I had last semester:
I hope this isn't too informal, but I am applying to the Social Studies MAT program for the fall, and I would greatly appreciate it, if it isn't too much trouble, if you would write me a letter of recommendation. I really enjoyed your course last semester and would value your endorsement. If you want me to come by and discuss this with you, I can meet whenever you're available. Thank you.
2.06.2009
The Humanities
I don't much care for the beginning of the school year (or semester). And it's not just the anticipatory dread that comes before Day One. I just don't feel like I have any emotional investment in these very nice, literate, non-felons who comprise my roster. I know their faces and can usually link them to names, but that's about it.
But around the two week point (i.e. now) the students become better distinguished from one another. I have a better sense of their personalities, hobbies, interests. This morning I had a fifteen-minute discussion after class with one of my students about his decision to embrace a vegan diet and the challenges of negotiating an alternative diet. Afterward, I worked one-on-one with a Journalism student who was having difficulty with the grammatical concepts we've covered so far. This afternoon I spoke with a Taiwanese student about American dialects and different forms of English; he expressed the challenges of learning a language with so many colloquialisms (his word).
As I left work today, I couldn't help but love my job and each of the students in my classes. They've suddenly become human.
But around the two week point (i.e. now) the students become better distinguished from one another. I have a better sense of their personalities, hobbies, interests. This morning I had a fifteen-minute discussion after class with one of my students about his decision to embrace a vegan diet and the challenges of negotiating an alternative diet. Afterward, I worked one-on-one with a Journalism student who was having difficulty with the grammatical concepts we've covered so far. This afternoon I spoke with a Taiwanese student about American dialects and different forms of English; he expressed the challenges of learning a language with so many colloquialisms (his word).
As I left work today, I couldn't help but love my job and each of the students in my classes. They've suddenly become human.
2.04.2009
Hot to Trot
Today, in an effort to teach my 101 students how to make inferences from observed facts, I opened my wallet and told them the contents of it. Once I finished, I prodded them to make bold inferences about me and my life.
Based on the fact that I have a Petco card in my wallet, one student said I was a pet owner. But that wasn't bold enough: I asked whether I was a dog or a cat owner. One student, an English language learner still attempting to grasp colloquial speech, said, "You're a dog owner because cats are cold, and you're so...hot!"
Based on the fact that I have a Petco card in my wallet, one student said I was a pet owner. But that wasn't bold enough: I asked whether I was a dog or a cat owner. One student, an English language learner still attempting to grasp colloquial speech, said, "You're a dog owner because cats are cold, and you're so...hot!"
2.03.2009
1.28.2009
Of the Ages
I learned this morning that John Updike died yesterday.
My first exposure to Updike's writing was in The New Yorker. I began reading my high school library's copy of the magazine when I was a senior in high school. Still today I can remember sitting on the unforgiving, denim-worn wooden chairs in the magazine nook of the library and reading one of the many short stories Updike published in The New Yorker. I liked the story so much that I went to Oz, a local magazine shop, and bought the issue. It was then, because of Updike, that I became a regular reader of The New Yorker. After scanning the table of contents and seeing his name as the author of a short story, a book review, a Talk of the Town column—it happened several times a year—I knew it would be a good issue. I looked forward to those issues.
And now another great American author has left us. We bid you farewell, Mr. Updike, and may you rest in peace.
Another article on Updike.
My first exposure to Updike's writing was in The New Yorker. I began reading my high school library's copy of the magazine when I was a senior in high school. Still today I can remember sitting on the unforgiving, denim-worn wooden chairs in the magazine nook of the library and reading one of the many short stories Updike published in The New Yorker. I liked the story so much that I went to Oz, a local magazine shop, and bought the issue. It was then, because of Updike, that I became a regular reader of The New Yorker. After scanning the table of contents and seeing his name as the author of a short story, a book review, a Talk of the Town column—it happened several times a year—I knew it would be a good issue. I looked forward to those issues.
And now another great American author has left us. We bid you farewell, Mr. Updike, and may you rest in peace.
Another article on Updike.
1.26.2009
So foul and fair a day I have not seen
While I was eating lunch today, it occurred to me that this is usually the time of year I begin teaching Macbeth to my seniors.
And I miss it.
Don't get me wrong, teaching Shakespearean drama to urban rednecks is not without its challenges: We read most if not all of it aloud, and most students struggle to understand the plot, let alone appreciate the literary genius of the work. Yet some of them do.
Regardless, teaching Macbeth in the winter gives me the chance to be reacquainted with one of Shakespeare's great tragedies; without it, I feel like a beloved family member is missing from the table at Christmas dinner.
So I think it's time to call up that long lost Scotsman and plan an afternoon together, perhaps a lunch date.
And I miss it.
Don't get me wrong, teaching Shakespearean drama to urban rednecks is not without its challenges: We read most if not all of it aloud, and most students struggle to understand the plot, let alone appreciate the literary genius of the work. Yet some of them do.
Regardless, teaching Macbeth in the winter gives me the chance to be reacquainted with one of Shakespeare's great tragedies; without it, I feel like a beloved family member is missing from the table at Christmas dinner.
So I think it's time to call up that long lost Scotsman and plan an afternoon together, perhaps a lunch date.
1.19.2009
My Spidey Sense is Tingling
Recently Barack Obama was on the cover of a special edition Spider-Man comic. It seems that our president elect has reached a new level of coolness: even Spidey wants to fist-bump Obama.
I can't help but think, on the eve of the inauguration, that Stan Lee's portrayal of Obama is representative of the glorification of Obama these past several months. He was elected on a platform of hope and change, and America expects the promises made on the campaign trail to come to immediate fruition. In actuality, it will be remarkable if Obama accomplishes his goals in four or even eight years; more likely, he will insight change that will need to be carried through by future administrations.
Obama may rightfully be thrilled that he is partnered with Spider-Man, but I couldn't blame this mortal if it also gives him pause. There are high expectations of this man, higher than for any president in recent memory. This may either result in disappointment—for no man could live up to these expectations—or America's rose-colored glasses will forgive him for merely being a man.
I can't help but think, on the eve of the inauguration, that Stan Lee's portrayal of Obama is representative of the glorification of Obama these past several months. He was elected on a platform of hope and change, and America expects the promises made on the campaign trail to come to immediate fruition. In actuality, it will be remarkable if Obama accomplishes his goals in four or even eight years; more likely, he will insight change that will need to be carried through by future administrations.
Obama may rightfully be thrilled that he is partnered with Spider-Man, but I couldn't blame this mortal if it also gives him pause. There are high expectations of this man, higher than for any president in recent memory. This may either result in disappointment—for no man could live up to these expectations—or America's rose-colored glasses will forgive him for merely being a man.
1.15.2009
For the Love of the Game
My father is a baseball fan. When we visited colleges my junior and senior years of high school, we would be one of the few families in the bleachers watching the D-III team play ball. If, when he's driving any distance, he comes upon a little league game, he will stop and watch unknown teams in an unfamiliar suburb.
And, like most New Yorkers, my father bleeds pinstripes. He holds Friday night season tickets at Yankee Stadium, and was present at the end of last season when the Yanks played their final game in the House that Ruth Built.
The Yanks will play their next season opener in a newer, cleaner, and soulless stadium located adjacent to the Bronx's Mecca. The stadium promises to be more luxurious, with a high-def LED scoreboard, cup holders, more restrooms (1 per 60 guests, versus 1 per 89 fans in the old stadium), and wider seats to accommodate the girth that has been added to the average New Yorker's gut (19-24-inch width, versus the old stadium's 18-22 inches).
But that's not all fans are getting. They're getting fewer seats, more luxury boxes (for fans, indeed), and higher prices on seats that allow fans to see the field without the aid of binoculars. The "legends" seating, whose price is not published in the club's official website, is rumored to contain seats costing $500 to $2500 per ticket.
Not everyone can buy these seats—doubtlessly, however, corporations have—but even seats in the terrace (mezzanine) section of the stadium pay $40-75 per ticket per game. The $12 bleachers and $20-25 grandstands, however, are still available for those with eagle vision or a thin wallet.
These ticket prices do not also include the cost of parking or subway/rail tickets, or the cost of food or beverage. It's not unreasonable (by Yankee Stadium standards) for two people to spend an additional $50-100 to travel to and eat at a game.
I like to believe that baseball is America's pastime because it is accessible to all Americans: urban, rural, rich, poor, and, incidentally, immigrants with a mean fastball. The final cost of attending a game at Yankee stadium, however, has become prohibitively expensive when it is "cheap" for a father to spend $100 to take his boy to a ballgame. It feels as though the notion of loving the sport of baseball has been tainted, and we must look to the game at its roots: a ball, a bat, and a mound of dirt.
And, like most New Yorkers, my father bleeds pinstripes. He holds Friday night season tickets at Yankee Stadium, and was present at the end of last season when the Yanks played their final game in the House that Ruth Built.
The Yanks will play their next season opener in a newer, cleaner, and soulless stadium located adjacent to the Bronx's Mecca. The stadium promises to be more luxurious, with a high-def LED scoreboard, cup holders, more restrooms (1 per 60 guests, versus 1 per 89 fans in the old stadium), and wider seats to accommodate the girth that has been added to the average New Yorker's gut (19-24-inch width, versus the old stadium's 18-22 inches).
But that's not all fans are getting. They're getting fewer seats, more luxury boxes (for fans, indeed), and higher prices on seats that allow fans to see the field without the aid of binoculars. The "legends" seating, whose price is not published in the club's official website, is rumored to contain seats costing $500 to $2500 per ticket.
Not everyone can buy these seats—doubtlessly, however, corporations have—but even seats in the terrace (mezzanine) section of the stadium pay $40-75 per ticket per game. The $12 bleachers and $20-25 grandstands, however, are still available for those with eagle vision or a thin wallet.
These ticket prices do not also include the cost of parking or subway/rail tickets, or the cost of food or beverage. It's not unreasonable (by Yankee Stadium standards) for two people to spend an additional $50-100 to travel to and eat at a game.
I like to believe that baseball is America's pastime because it is accessible to all Americans: urban, rural, rich, poor, and, incidentally, immigrants with a mean fastball. The final cost of attending a game at Yankee stadium, however, has become prohibitively expensive when it is "cheap" for a father to spend $100 to take his boy to a ballgame. It feels as though the notion of loving the sport of baseball has been tainted, and we must look to the game at its roots: a ball, a bat, and a mound of dirt.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
Recently I had a nightmare in which I suffered brain damage. It was not clear from the dream whether this brain damage resulted from or just resulted in watching an excess of daytime television. As I write this, I realize this blog may sound satirical, like an Onion headline: "Daytime TV Creates Zombie Out of Writing Professor." But it really and truly was a nightmare.
I remember specifically that, upon waking from whatever trauma had caused me to black out, I realized that I have yet to read King Lear. Upon attempting to read the text, I found that the language was foreign to me—instead, I was delighted by a made-for-TV version of Lear screened by a well-meaning family member.
I tremble just thinking about it. It forces me to wonder whether, if afflicted with brain damage, I would be better off knowing that I was only a shadow of my former self or being blissfully unaware of all the things I was missing.
I remember specifically that, upon waking from whatever trauma had caused me to black out, I realized that I have yet to read King Lear. Upon attempting to read the text, I found that the language was foreign to me—instead, I was delighted by a made-for-TV version of Lear screened by a well-meaning family member.
I tremble just thinking about it. It forces me to wonder whether, if afflicted with brain damage, I would be better off knowing that I was only a shadow of my former self or being blissfully unaware of all the things I was missing.
1.11.2009
Politics: It's What's for Dinner
Somehow the necessities of life—sustenance and procreation—have become a part of the political arena. I would imagine that the politics surrounding food stemmed originally from greed: I want the food that you have, and I'm more powerful than you are, so I'm going to take it. This is supported by the stretch of the British Empire: they waged war for spices, tea, and, well, opium.
So then it should come as no surprise that Twenty-First Century comestibles should be political as well. But the politics is somehow different: it's not the politics of aggression, but the politics of apology. As I graze through the aisles of my local natural foods market, I am surrounded by products that are created in such a way that offends no group, plant or animal. (My wallet pays the price for this luxury.) The shelves are lined with wheat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, casein-free, soy-free, cruetly-free, organic, vegan styrofoam that has caused no harm to the earth or its inhabitants (except, perhaps, our taste buds).
I can't help but feel that our culture is overcompensating, much in the way most European countries have banned capital punishment after hundreds of years of sporting heads on pikes. Is it possible that man has quenched his urge to conquer and consume?
So then it should come as no surprise that Twenty-First Century comestibles should be political as well. But the politics is somehow different: it's not the politics of aggression, but the politics of apology. As I graze through the aisles of my local natural foods market, I am surrounded by products that are created in such a way that offends no group, plant or animal. (My wallet pays the price for this luxury.) The shelves are lined with wheat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, casein-free, soy-free, cruetly-free, organic, vegan styrofoam that has caused no harm to the earth or its inhabitants (except, perhaps, our taste buds).
I can't help but feel that our culture is overcompensating, much in the way most European countries have banned capital punishment after hundreds of years of sporting heads on pikes. Is it possible that man has quenched his urge to conquer and consume?
1.06.2009
Derailed
My very first teacher dream was of utter unpreparedness. During the summer I showed up at the school that had just hired me wearing some attire reminiscent of lazy college afternoons. I had expected to set up my classroom, but instead entered a room brimmed with students. "Teach us," they said, "We're ready to learn." Learn? Learn what? I had no syllabus; I had no game plan.
This dream—or variations thereof—has been the most frequently recurring since I began teaching over three years ago. (Yes, I still have teacher dreams over the summer and on long breaks. My boss, who has been on this side of the desk for over three decades, confessed to me that he still suffers from teacher dreams as well.)
Today my teacher dream was realized. I was, of course, prepared and expecting to teach students today. In fact, I was overprepared. All of our course documents, calendars, and readings are posted on Blackboard; I had intended to make our course entirely paperless. Murphy, however, had other plans. Blackboard didn't work. I had no syllabus; my game plan was shot. I moved onto Plan B—I attempted to bring up the vital documents from my USB stick—but neither MS Word nor Adobe would run without crashing. I began to sweat as eleven physics and comp sci majors watched this twentysomething "professor" (or is she a TA?) struggle to operate a PC. I eventually moved onto Plan C: the students began their diagnostic essay—I read the assignment aloud—while I jumped from computer to computer until I found one willing to cooperate with my USB stick. And then I printed copies of the syllabus and collated and stapled them.
The rest of the session went fine, but I regret this unfavorable first impression my students now have of me. I keep flashing back to my fall students' comments on their evaluations: many stated that the course was well structured and the instructor well organized. But my new students don't know that! A bad day in the middle of the semester is just an off day; a bad day to begin the semester sets an expectation of incompetence. Blech.
Let's hope tomorrow goes better. (I have hard copies, just in case.)
This dream—or variations thereof—has been the most frequently recurring since I began teaching over three years ago. (Yes, I still have teacher dreams over the summer and on long breaks. My boss, who has been on this side of the desk for over three decades, confessed to me that he still suffers from teacher dreams as well.)
Today my teacher dream was realized. I was, of course, prepared and expecting to teach students today. In fact, I was overprepared. All of our course documents, calendars, and readings are posted on Blackboard; I had intended to make our course entirely paperless. Murphy, however, had other plans. Blackboard didn't work. I had no syllabus; my game plan was shot. I moved onto Plan B—I attempted to bring up the vital documents from my USB stick—but neither MS Word nor Adobe would run without crashing. I began to sweat as eleven physics and comp sci majors watched this twentysomething "professor" (or is she a TA?) struggle to operate a PC. I eventually moved onto Plan C: the students began their diagnostic essay—I read the assignment aloud—while I jumped from computer to computer until I found one willing to cooperate with my USB stick. And then I printed copies of the syllabus and collated and stapled them.
The rest of the session went fine, but I regret this unfavorable first impression my students now have of me. I keep flashing back to my fall students' comments on their evaluations: many stated that the course was well structured and the instructor well organized. But my new students don't know that! A bad day in the middle of the semester is just an off day; a bad day to begin the semester sets an expectation of incompetence. Blech.
Let's hope tomorrow goes better. (I have hard copies, just in case.)
Great Expectations
It has become a common occurrence for faculty and students alike to ask me if I'm doing graduate work. (While teaching five courses?) Just today a recent PhD recipient asked me if I was working toward my PhD. "Why would I get a PhD," I thought, "just to do what you do?" And, piggishly, "Especially if I already do it better?"
Is it so ghastly to be a twenty-something professor with no short-term aspirations of earning a PhD? Does it make me unambitious to not want to give up a job I love...only to return to it after a few years of returning to the pseudopoverty of academia?
My readers who are still entrenched in—or have recently escaped from—higher education, I ask you: am I really such an oddity?
Is it so ghastly to be a twenty-something professor with no short-term aspirations of earning a PhD? Does it make me unambitious to not want to give up a job I love...only to return to it after a few years of returning to the pseudopoverty of academia?
My readers who are still entrenched in—or have recently escaped from—higher education, I ask you: am I really such an oddity?
1.05.2009
Embracing Stereotypes
As a teacher I've spent a good deal of classroom time combating stereotypes. They can be mean, they can be hurtful, and sometimes they can even be true.
A true stereotype that makes me laugh—often—is about one of my former students who was a native Chinese speaker: the title of his proposal paper was "Illegal Downloads Nonono."
Really, where do I begin helping him rename that title?
A true stereotype that makes me laugh—often—is about one of my former students who was a native Chinese speaker: the title of his proposal paper was "Illegal Downloads Nonono."
Really, where do I begin helping him rename that title?
Cold Feet
Winter session begins tomorrow. The group of students I will teach this semester will be my fifth; still I have an overwhelming anxiety about the first day of school. Really, this is preposterous: thirteen years of public school, eight semesters of undergrad, and nine semesters of graduate school should compound with these five terms to make the first day a breeze. And still I get cold feet.
So I sent out an announcement to let my winter students know that our classroom has moved. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!" I lied. Really, I don't look forward to it at all—not only do I love the freedom of sleeping until noon, but I harbor an irrational fear of the eleven unknown names on my roster.
That's what it is: the fear of the unknown. What if the roster is brimmed with eleven illiterates? Eleven degenerates? Eleven felons? (Still, I've taught worse.)
Then I checked my email and saw that I had a response from one of my winter students. "Hi! My name is Lu," she wrote. "Thank you for letting us know. I am glad to see you tomorrow, too."
And suddenly starting over doesn't seem so bad.
So I sent out an announcement to let my winter students know that our classroom has moved. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!" I lied. Really, I don't look forward to it at all—not only do I love the freedom of sleeping until noon, but I harbor an irrational fear of the eleven unknown names on my roster.
That's what it is: the fear of the unknown. What if the roster is brimmed with eleven illiterates? Eleven degenerates? Eleven felons? (Still, I've taught worse.)
Then I checked my email and saw that I had a response from one of my winter students. "Hi! My name is Lu," she wrote. "Thank you for letting us know. I am glad to see you tomorrow, too."
And suddenly starting over doesn't seem so bad.
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