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.
4.16.2009
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.
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