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.

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.