As an instructor in general—and a grammar instructor in particular—I often have to consider the difference between prescriptive and descriptive grammar. I teach prescriptive grammar rules (what's "right"), but my students often consider instances of descriptive grammar (how it actually works). I have to concede that in certain contexts for certain audiences, the rules of Standard English may—or should—deviate. All great speakers and writers know how to bend language to their purpose. But those speakers know the rules and when to bend them.
Writers and speakers consult resources to learn or confirm those rules. My husband reaches for Garner's American Usage. As a poor speller, I frequent my dictionary. I've long held a good dictionary to be an ideal of knowledge; I expect its entries to be thorough and accurate. Why wouldn't I?
Today, a colleague shared this article with me. It chronicles incorrect pronunciations that have become commonplace (licorice oughtn't be pronounced lickerish) and how modern dictionaries perpetuate poor pronunciations. Even this Language Maven will concede that pronunciation changes—knight was once pronounced as it's spelled, after all—but the other examples listed triggered my gag reflex. Online dictionaries now provide audio pronunciations of li-berry, ek-setera, and ath-a-lete, pronunciations we'd call quaint at best. (These are reminiscent of the Brooklynese chim-in-ee.)
I suppose the issue here is not whether these pronunciations exist—I'm certain they do—but whether we should acknowledge nonstandard examples where English speakers seek the standard. When we compromise those standards, Merriam-Webster begins to resemble Urban Dictionary.
11.28.2010
11.10.2010
Freud would be proud.
Earlier this week, I met with a student who had questions about minute points in her thesis. She was worried that she had errors in her works cited page. I assured her, "A missed period is nothing to lose sleep over." Pause. "Actually, it is. But missed punctuation isn't."
Oops.
Oops.
Searching for an Apprentice
Few things please me more than when I learn one of my students wants to be an English teacher. To hear that someone else has chosen my path—it's a selfish kind of joy.
Recently, one of my former students found me on Facebook. I taught Chris in my Gifted and Talented English 9 class, and he was one of the brightest young men I've ever had the privilege to teach. His understanding and excitement for Romeo and Juliet fueled my own enthusiasm, and later, Chris wrote me a letter of recommendation for a Folger Shakespeare workshop for teachers.
Now Chris is a freshman in college. From his profile, I learned that he was a biochemistry major. I wrote to him, "Biochem, eh? I guess I always secretly hoped you'd become a Shakespearean scholar."
He replied, "Yes, Biochem, sorry. I do love my literature, and I continue to read for pleasure, but my dream nowadays is to cure cancer."
Ah, crap. That's a good answer.
And why should I have aspirations for him to study literature? Graduates with degrees in the Humanities have difficulty finding careers in their field, and if they do, they're ill compensated for it. To wish him into Humanities is to wish him a life of struggle. Besides, isn't it more beneficial that this brilliant young man work to eradicate disease than study a 400-year-old text?
It is. I admit it. Maybe I want this brilliant mind on my team to validate what I do, what I've chosen. But instead, I'll support him, and we'll occasionally talk about literature, his hobby.
Recently, one of my former students found me on Facebook. I taught Chris in my Gifted and Talented English 9 class, and he was one of the brightest young men I've ever had the privilege to teach. His understanding and excitement for Romeo and Juliet fueled my own enthusiasm, and later, Chris wrote me a letter of recommendation for a Folger Shakespeare workshop for teachers.
Now Chris is a freshman in college. From his profile, I learned that he was a biochemistry major. I wrote to him, "Biochem, eh? I guess I always secretly hoped you'd become a Shakespearean scholar."
He replied, "Yes, Biochem, sorry. I do love my literature, and I continue to read for pleasure, but my dream nowadays is to cure cancer."
Ah, crap. That's a good answer.
And why should I have aspirations for him to study literature? Graduates with degrees in the Humanities have difficulty finding careers in their field, and if they do, they're ill compensated for it. To wish him into Humanities is to wish him a life of struggle. Besides, isn't it more beneficial that this brilliant young man work to eradicate disease than study a 400-year-old text?
It is. I admit it. Maybe I want this brilliant mind on my team to validate what I do, what I've chosen. But instead, I'll support him, and we'll occasionally talk about literature, his hobby.
11.06.2010
A Glimpse of the Past
Today I received the English Alumni newsletter from my undergrad program. It contained, among other things, an invitation to the First Annual Alumni Lunch. The keynote speaker is Howard Norman, my creative writing professor and one of my favorite teachers of all time.
HoNo, as we affectionately addressed him, effortlessly fulfilled the expectations of a writing professor: he regularly wore tweed, had no email address, and typed our syllabus on a typewriter. And he had endless experiences—or was very adept at making them up, or both.
I took two of HoNo's classes, the first in spring, the second the following fall. During the summer between, I found his novel The Museum Guard in a local bookstore. I had always respected him as a professor, but the depth and complexity of his novel gave me a new respect for him as a writer.
Now that I myself am a writing instructor, I struggle with my own identity as a writer. It's been years since I've penned fiction, and the hours my classes demand leave me with little time or desire to write.
But hearing HoNo's name, and remembering our class, and recalling my former work has stirred something in my core. I may be an alumna from the English program, but that doesn't have to mean my writing career has ended.
HoNo, as we affectionately addressed him, effortlessly fulfilled the expectations of a writing professor: he regularly wore tweed, had no email address, and typed our syllabus on a typewriter. And he had endless experiences—or was very adept at making them up, or both.
I took two of HoNo's classes, the first in spring, the second the following fall. During the summer between, I found his novel The Museum Guard in a local bookstore. I had always respected him as a professor, but the depth and complexity of his novel gave me a new respect for him as a writer.
Now that I myself am a writing instructor, I struggle with my own identity as a writer. It's been years since I've penned fiction, and the hours my classes demand leave me with little time or desire to write.
But hearing HoNo's name, and remembering our class, and recalling my former work has stirred something in my core. I may be an alumna from the English program, but that doesn't have to mean my writing career has ended.
7.19.2010
Growing Nostalgia
Often when I tell people I began my career teaching high school, I joke that I could never go back.
But the last time I made that proclamation, I questioned it the moment it left my lips. I love teaching college—of this I have no doubt—but was teaching high school really so bad?
This week, I spoke with my close friend and former colleague Allison. She was (and, I suppose, still is) my unofficial mentor, and I credit her for my survival in the career of education. She teaches Advanced Placement Language and Composition—and this year, she taught in eleventh grade the last Gifted and Talented students I taught in ninth grade.
Allison had just received the AP Exam scores, so she recounted how each of her (our) students performed. Two 5s, a handful of 4s, a bunch of 3s, and two 2s: a winning scorecard for that high school.
Upon hearing the news, I felt a swell of pride for my former students. I can imagine how much they've matured these past two years, and I remain curious about how they'll do their senior year and where they'll attend college. Time and distance have made me no less fond of those kids.
But it's not even specific to those students: I began recalling other interactions I had with students during my tenure as a high school teacher, and there are so many sweet memories. I haven't for a moment forgotten how difficult teaching high school was—the long hours, the discipline, the paperwork, the parents, the bullshit—but somehow time has caused those memories to fade while the better ones have remained in focus.
So could I go back? Someday, maybe. But right now, I think I'll enjoy my role as a lecturer. I need more time for my nostalgia to grow.
But the last time I made that proclamation, I questioned it the moment it left my lips. I love teaching college—of this I have no doubt—but was teaching high school really so bad?
This week, I spoke with my close friend and former colleague Allison. She was (and, I suppose, still is) my unofficial mentor, and I credit her for my survival in the career of education. She teaches Advanced Placement Language and Composition—and this year, she taught in eleventh grade the last Gifted and Talented students I taught in ninth grade.
Allison had just received the AP Exam scores, so she recounted how each of her (our) students performed. Two 5s, a handful of 4s, a bunch of 3s, and two 2s: a winning scorecard for that high school.
Upon hearing the news, I felt a swell of pride for my former students. I can imagine how much they've matured these past two years, and I remain curious about how they'll do their senior year and where they'll attend college. Time and distance have made me no less fond of those kids.
But it's not even specific to those students: I began recalling other interactions I had with students during my tenure as a high school teacher, and there are so many sweet memories. I haven't for a moment forgotten how difficult teaching high school was—the long hours, the discipline, the paperwork, the parents, the bullshit—but somehow time has caused those memories to fade while the better ones have remained in focus.
So could I go back? Someday, maybe. But right now, I think I'll enjoy my role as a lecturer. I need more time for my nostalgia to grow.
7.13.2010
The Scourge of Fiction
Not long ago, a friend admitted to me that he wished he read more. "I start books," he said, "but they just don't hold my attention." I offered to recommend a few good novels. "Oh, I have no problem reading fiction. It's nonfiction I can't get into."
I understand his sentiment—I'm reading (slowly) my third consecutive work of nonfiction, a triumph for me—but I'm not sure why reading fiction is considered less respectable than reading nonfiction. (Or why even I should consider reading nonfiction a triumph.)
Perhaps the stigma associated with fiction is because it's fabricated. The school librarian where I used to teach reminded the students that "fiction" means "fake." But is it fake? We can still learn from fiction because it presents universal truths. In fact, fiction can only be successful if it's grounded in truth—we, as readers, are capable of suspending a great deal of disbelief if we still have a semblance of reality to grasp.
More than retelling facts—what "really" happened—a skilled author will capture the essence of a theme, a culture, an icon. I've learned much more from literature than from American history class, courtesy of John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Harper Lee. In fact, my understanding of a spectrum of topics is directly because of my having read widely.
But Lennie and Gatsby and Boo Radley are no less real because they never existed. They are the portraits of their time and culture, not told by a man, but by a generation. As Ken Kesey wrote in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, "But it's the truth even if it didn't happen."
I understand his sentiment—I'm reading (slowly) my third consecutive work of nonfiction, a triumph for me—but I'm not sure why reading fiction is considered less respectable than reading nonfiction. (Or why even I should consider reading nonfiction a triumph.)
Perhaps the stigma associated with fiction is because it's fabricated. The school librarian where I used to teach reminded the students that "fiction" means "fake." But is it fake? We can still learn from fiction because it presents universal truths. In fact, fiction can only be successful if it's grounded in truth—we, as readers, are capable of suspending a great deal of disbelief if we still have a semblance of reality to grasp.
More than retelling facts—what "really" happened—a skilled author will capture the essence of a theme, a culture, an icon. I've learned much more from literature than from American history class, courtesy of John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Harper Lee. In fact, my understanding of a spectrum of topics is directly because of my having read widely.
But Lennie and Gatsby and Boo Radley are no less real because they never existed. They are the portraits of their time and culture, not told by a man, but by a generation. As Ken Kesey wrote in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, "But it's the truth even if it didn't happen."
7.09.2010
Under a cloak of anonymity
I'm amazed by what students will write on an anonymous course evaluation. My favorite this term:
Q: Any comments on the professor: teaching style, availability, knowledge of material, conduct of classes?
A: Bomb-ass teacher who knows her shit. And laid back but always helpful. Motivated me to come to class. Your style of teaching is good, and you obviously love what you do.
Q: Any other comments?
A: Keep looking good. Real talk. You're blazingly hot. It's a good thing.
...I wonder if he would have written that if he knew how easy it is to identify a student's handwriting in a class of ten.
Q: Any comments on the professor: teaching style, availability, knowledge of material, conduct of classes?
A: Bomb-ass teacher who knows her shit. And laid back but always helpful. Motivated me to come to class. Your style of teaching is good, and you obviously love what you do.
Q: Any other comments?
A: Keep looking good. Real talk. You're blazingly hot. It's a good thing.
...I wonder if he would have written that if he knew how easy it is to identify a student's handwriting in a class of ten.
5.13.2010
Martha, Oprah, and Rachel
When I was twenty, I moved into an on-campus apartment with a kitchen. When my mother was helping me unpack my dishes, she turned one over and saw the Martha Stewart label emblazoned on the bottom of a plate. "Oh, Ann Marie," she said, shaking her head as only a Catholic mother can.
What's wrong with Martha? She's too perfect, she's so bitchy, she got away with murder. (Well, not murder. But if she had, I doubt Americans would hold her in lower esteem.) We reject Martha and her lifestyle. What American wants to be too perfect? What American has the time?
Instead, we turn to Oprah Winfrey and Rachel Ray. They too have television shows and magazines and products geared toward American women. And we can be Oprah or Rachel if we just take their tips on fashion and cooking and life. Because it's easy! We can eat dinner in 30 minutes! We can be thin (because it's ok to love yourself enough to have lipo)!
But no woman can be Oprah or Rachel any more than she can be Martha. They peddle magical beans that will make us pretty and thin and happy, but the beans never sprout. We buy more of their products (and into their products) to fill the need, to quench our unhappiness, but we only feel more empty.
The emptiness is the nothingness that has become American culture. We put in our forty hours a week, and therefore, we cut corners to cook our meals, keep our homes, and entertain our guests. We buy food—mixes, frozen meals, and ready-to-eat garbage—instead of making our own food. We consume to fill the emptiness, but we do not produce. It is in the production that we can feel whole.
Which brings us back to Martha. She cooks with ingredients, she grows the flowers in her centerpieces, and she decorates her home with handmade crafts. Do I have time for all of this? Hell no. But instead of trying to have everything, but doing it quickly and poorly, I'll choose what's most important to me, and do it right.
What's wrong with Martha? She's too perfect, she's so bitchy, she got away with murder. (Well, not murder. But if she had, I doubt Americans would hold her in lower esteem.) We reject Martha and her lifestyle. What American wants to be too perfect? What American has the time?
Instead, we turn to Oprah Winfrey and Rachel Ray. They too have television shows and magazines and products geared toward American women. And we can be Oprah or Rachel if we just take their tips on fashion and cooking and life. Because it's easy! We can eat dinner in 30 minutes! We can be thin (because it's ok to love yourself enough to have lipo)!
But no woman can be Oprah or Rachel any more than she can be Martha. They peddle magical beans that will make us pretty and thin and happy, but the beans never sprout. We buy more of their products (and into their products) to fill the need, to quench our unhappiness, but we only feel more empty.
The emptiness is the nothingness that has become American culture. We put in our forty hours a week, and therefore, we cut corners to cook our meals, keep our homes, and entertain our guests. We buy food—mixes, frozen meals, and ready-to-eat garbage—instead of making our own food. We consume to fill the emptiness, but we do not produce. It is in the production that we can feel whole.
Which brings us back to Martha. She cooks with ingredients, she grows the flowers in her centerpieces, and she decorates her home with handmade crafts. Do I have time for all of this? Hell no. But instead of trying to have everything, but doing it quickly and poorly, I'll choose what's most important to me, and do it right.
4.01.2010
On Rapport, Redux
Although I am not yet able to brazenly insult students, I can say that I have a good rapport with them. It's taken me a few semesters to find my voice, but I've become comfortable with my expectations for students and their expectations of me.
Perhaps it took me so long to find my balance because of my age. I'm about five years older than most seniors—it isn't much, but it's enough if I pretend it is. I make old lady jokes and reprimand them for making me feel like an old hag. It works.
Just as I gained a level of comfort, I was presented with a new challenge: This semester, I'm teaching some students who are older than I.
In many ways, my relationships with these thirty-somethings is unique—they consider themselves my co-conspirators, as we've both been out in the world, and the rest of the kids don't even know what they're up against.
But with one of these students, it's harder to find my balance. Andrea is thirty, and she's a good writer. But she wants to be better. So she seeks my approval, my advice. I'm happy to talk with her, but I feel like more of a colleague—a co-conspirator—than a mentor. I question my credentials: Really, what do I know about writing? It's one thing to teach 20-year-olds, but another to teach someone who's older, more experienced, more ambitious.
So in my moments of self-doubt, I do for her what I do for every other student: I answer her questions honestly and to the best of my ability.
Perhaps it took me so long to find my balance because of my age. I'm about five years older than most seniors—it isn't much, but it's enough if I pretend it is. I make old lady jokes and reprimand them for making me feel like an old hag. It works.
Just as I gained a level of comfort, I was presented with a new challenge: This semester, I'm teaching some students who are older than I.
In many ways, my relationships with these thirty-somethings is unique—they consider themselves my co-conspirators, as we've both been out in the world, and the rest of the kids don't even know what they're up against.
But with one of these students, it's harder to find my balance. Andrea is thirty, and she's a good writer. But she wants to be better. So she seeks my approval, my advice. I'm happy to talk with her, but I feel like more of a colleague—a co-conspirator—than a mentor. I question my credentials: Really, what do I know about writing? It's one thing to teach 20-year-olds, but another to teach someone who's older, more experienced, more ambitious.
So in my moments of self-doubt, I do for her what I do for every other student: I answer her questions honestly and to the best of my ability.
3.31.2010
East Meets West
This August, my mother's family will celebrate the 100-year anniversary of our arrival in America. I never knew my great-grandfather, the man who boarded a ship in Naples and headed west, nor have I heard many stories about him. One story I have heard was that when he passed gas, he would blame his squeaky chair. Another was his inability to ever gain a firm grasp of English: He told his grandchildren that he arrived in the New World in "nineteen-oh-ten."
So this summer, in the Year of Our Lord Twenty-Oh-Ten, my mother and I will host a centennial party. A beloved uncle, my mother's youngest brother, suggested we hold it on a cruise around Liberty Harbor—a return to the boat, so to speak.
This past weekend, mom and I drafted a guest list (of over 70 A-Listers) and the wording for the invitation. It began with a brief narrative about the man who arrived in Ellis Island, and it ended with party details, but I couldn't fill in the middle. It hadn't occurred to me before that I knew almost nothing about the man responsible for bringing us to America.
I stared at the half a dozen blank lines in the middle of the page, and I blinked repeatedly. In those few moments when my eyes were closed, my mind's eye evoked images from East of Eden, Steinbeck's semiautobiographical retelling of Genesis. I yearned to know, and I yearned to tell, our origin and how we headed west.
So this summer, in the Year of Our Lord Twenty-Oh-Ten, my mother and I will host a centennial party. A beloved uncle, my mother's youngest brother, suggested we hold it on a cruise around Liberty Harbor—a return to the boat, so to speak.
This past weekend, mom and I drafted a guest list (of over 70 A-Listers) and the wording for the invitation. It began with a brief narrative about the man who arrived in Ellis Island, and it ended with party details, but I couldn't fill in the middle. It hadn't occurred to me before that I knew almost nothing about the man responsible for bringing us to America.
I stared at the half a dozen blank lines in the middle of the page, and I blinked repeatedly. In those few moments when my eyes were closed, my mind's eye evoked images from East of Eden, Steinbeck's semiautobiographical retelling of Genesis. I yearned to know, and I yearned to tell, our origin and how we headed west.
3.29.2010
On Rapport
I credit my love of Shakespeare to Dr. Keenan, who taught, among other things, a 400-level Shakespeare course I took as an undergraduate. Dr. Keenan is in stark contrast with Ms. Berk—not only did Dr. Keenan undo Shakespeare's stigma, but she also had a rapport with her students like few instructors I've ever met.
There was one student in particular with whom Dr. Keenan had a close relationship. Mike had excelled in two other classes with her before enrolling in our Shakespeare course, so she teased him mercilessly in her English accent.
One day when we were taking a quiz, Mike sneezed. We went on working, but Dr. Keenan said, "Mike, that's the most intelligent thing you've said all semester."
At the time, I thought it was funny. But since I began teaching, I've looked back on this scene many times and envied Dr. Keenan's relationship with that student. Taken out of context, her comment could be downright mean—but it wasn't. Those few words carried the weight of appreciation for being her student for so many semesters. They carried the weight of love. Because those with the passion to teach not only love the subject matter, but they also love those with whom they share it.
There was one student in particular with whom Dr. Keenan had a close relationship. Mike had excelled in two other classes with her before enrolling in our Shakespeare course, so she teased him mercilessly in her English accent.
One day when we were taking a quiz, Mike sneezed. We went on working, but Dr. Keenan said, "Mike, that's the most intelligent thing you've said all semester."
At the time, I thought it was funny. But since I began teaching, I've looked back on this scene many times and envied Dr. Keenan's relationship with that student. Taken out of context, her comment could be downright mean—but it wasn't. Those few words carried the weight of appreciation for being her student for so many semesters. They carried the weight of love. Because those with the passion to teach not only love the subject matter, but they also love those with whom they share it.
3.15.2010
Reading good literature to gain good favor
Better readers make better writers: that's my mantra in Grammar 200. To give them an extra nudge, I give them style assignments that ask them to examine the language of published authors. When we learned about clauses, I asked them to find published sentences in certain patterns. When we worked to sharpen our own diction, I had them analyze the diction of authors.
After the first assignment, I admitted to them that I was impressed by the sources they had chosen for the style exercises. So for the next assignment, they upped the ante. Some used their textbooks, others used articles from their favorite magazines, but most of them used esteemed pieces of literature. Hamlet, The Count of Monte Cristo, Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Catcher in the Rye. I knew well that these students probably didn't all just happen to be reading these works, and I told them that. Then I said it's ok. Even if their only aim is to kiss up to their anglophile professor, at least I've exposed them to good literature.
After the first assignment, I admitted to them that I was impressed by the sources they had chosen for the style exercises. So for the next assignment, they upped the ante. Some used their textbooks, others used articles from their favorite magazines, but most of them used esteemed pieces of literature. Hamlet, The Count of Monte Cristo, Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Catcher in the Rye. I knew well that these students probably didn't all just happen to be reading these works, and I told them that. Then I said it's ok. Even if their only aim is to kiss up to their anglophile professor, at least I've exposed them to good literature.
The Strata of Students
I'll begin with a disclaimer: I'm a grade grubber. Well, more exactly, I'm a perfectionist. Anything less than my best—and anything that doesn't exceed others' expectations of me—is unacceptable. This, of course, transfers to academics: what would represent my work ethic better than a 4.0?
Ironically, as an educator, I realize that As are far more common than they ought to be. At the college level, too many students expect As—Bs if they slack off. Cs are considered below average.
But, as my syllabus states, Cs are average. Bs are good. As are excellent. And I hold them to it.
Last week, I gave the first exam in my grammar 200 class. It was an open-book exam, and the grades ranged from 39 percent to 86 percent. Because there were no As, I scrutinized my test: were my standards too high? Were there any questions that were ambiguous or inadvertently evil?
No, I decided. Many of the errors students made suggested they did not have an understanding of the concepts worthy of an A—none of them excelled in the content. Some of them were good, and they earned Bs. Because Bs are good.
The students, however, don't follow my logic. To them, An A is good, B is average (as in "others are average, but I'm not"), and C is unthinkable. And excellent? An A without effort.
So maybe it's time to reassess our means of assessment. As a teacher and a student, I've found that lowering standards doesn't help students succeed—it creates the illusion of success while ill preparing students for the challenges ahead.
Ironically, as an educator, I realize that As are far more common than they ought to be. At the college level, too many students expect As—Bs if they slack off. Cs are considered below average.
But, as my syllabus states, Cs are average. Bs are good. As are excellent. And I hold them to it.
Last week, I gave the first exam in my grammar 200 class. It was an open-book exam, and the grades ranged from 39 percent to 86 percent. Because there were no As, I scrutinized my test: were my standards too high? Were there any questions that were ambiguous or inadvertently evil?
No, I decided. Many of the errors students made suggested they did not have an understanding of the concepts worthy of an A—none of them excelled in the content. Some of them were good, and they earned Bs. Because Bs are good.
The students, however, don't follow my logic. To them, An A is good, B is average (as in "others are average, but I'm not"), and C is unthinkable. And excellent? An A without effort.
So maybe it's time to reassess our means of assessment. As a teacher and a student, I've found that lowering standards doesn't help students succeed—it creates the illusion of success while ill preparing students for the challenges ahead.
2.27.2010
Words, Words, Words
Too often there are students who enroll in elective writing classes (or, worse, declare journalism as a major) who have no interest in language. They claim to have an interest in language, but their profound inattention to it suggests that they read rarely and write their papers while drunk.
Last week while I was grading my grammar students' homework, one journalism student, Meaghan, exasperated me. Had she not been awake for all those hours she sat in the front row of our class? Had she not thought about a single word she had heard or read in her nineteen years of life?
Because I couldn't kick her squarely in the butt, I did the next best thing: I pinged a colleague who taught—and failed—her last semester. She agreed that the student doesn't think seriously about language. I sighed, finished grading, and quickly forgot about the exchange.
***
One of our style workshops this week challenged students to consider diction. I typed a passage from The Prince of Tides and, after a few deep breaths, defiled Conroy's carefully constructed prose. I added unnecessary words and phrases, exchanged Conroy's precise nouns and verbs for drivel. (My version used the term "New York-y." No joke.)
In class, I gave students my trainwreck and asked them to work with a partner to make it less awful. Cut words. Replace phrases with exact words. Trade a vague word for a specific one. The students apprehended the paragraph, determined to rectify the injustice.
Smirking, I eavesdropped on my students while they worked. As I passed by Meaghan and her partner, she said, "This just makes me angry. It's so bad."
"Good," I smiled. "Make it better."
After hearing the students' revisions, I read Conroy's original paragraph slowly, letting them savor the richness of the prose.
When I looked up, Meaghan's lips were parted, her sapphire eyes brilliant beneath her freckled brow. "It's like poetry." She said. And she asked me the name of the novel.
I hope she'll think about language as she reads it.
Last week while I was grading my grammar students' homework, one journalism student, Meaghan, exasperated me. Had she not been awake for all those hours she sat in the front row of our class? Had she not thought about a single word she had heard or read in her nineteen years of life?
Because I couldn't kick her squarely in the butt, I did the next best thing: I pinged a colleague who taught—and failed—her last semester. She agreed that the student doesn't think seriously about language. I sighed, finished grading, and quickly forgot about the exchange.
***
One of our style workshops this week challenged students to consider diction. I typed a passage from The Prince of Tides and, after a few deep breaths, defiled Conroy's carefully constructed prose. I added unnecessary words and phrases, exchanged Conroy's precise nouns and verbs for drivel. (My version used the term "New York-y." No joke.)
In class, I gave students my trainwreck and asked them to work with a partner to make it less awful. Cut words. Replace phrases with exact words. Trade a vague word for a specific one. The students apprehended the paragraph, determined to rectify the injustice.
Smirking, I eavesdropped on my students while they worked. As I passed by Meaghan and her partner, she said, "This just makes me angry. It's so bad."
"Good," I smiled. "Make it better."
After hearing the students' revisions, I read Conroy's original paragraph slowly, letting them savor the richness of the prose.
When I looked up, Meaghan's lips were parted, her sapphire eyes brilliant beneath her freckled brow. "It's like poetry." She said. And she asked me the name of the novel.
I hope she'll think about language as she reads it.
2.18.2010
An Abandoned Craft
"I enrolled in this class so I could be better prepared to write short fiction," one of my Grammar 200 students wrote me in an email. "Do you have any advice for me?"
My chest swelled. Yes, I have advice. Number 1: Read lots of good short fiction. (I attached some of my favorite short stories and essays.) Number 2: Revise, revise, revise. Murder your darlings. Number 3: Just write. I quoted Stephen King's Memoir, On Writing: "The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things only get better."
And there I stopped. I thought of the post-its and scraps of paper with my ideas for plot lines, characters, themes; the blank screens of too many Word documents.
I promoted Number 3 to position 1 and clicked send.
My chest swelled. Yes, I have advice. Number 1: Read lots of good short fiction. (I attached some of my favorite short stories and essays.) Number 2: Revise, revise, revise. Murder your darlings. Number 3: Just write. I quoted Stephen King's Memoir, On Writing: "The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things only get better."
And there I stopped. I thought of the post-its and scraps of paper with my ideas for plot lines, characters, themes; the blank screens of too many Word documents.
I promoted Number 3 to position 1 and clicked send.
Two Thumbs Up
Yesterday I taught a lesson on the reader/writer relationship in my freshman composition class. I've taught this lesson a few times before, but I thought I might change it a bit.
I began by asking the students to list specific things they enjoyed reading and why, then what they didn't enjoy reading and why. I drew two columns on the board: one labeled Thumbs Up and the other Thumbs Down.
To my surprise, the thumbs-up category crowded the other. And with good literature, too. The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, Of Mice and Men, The Little Prince, The Things They Carried. What's more, their reasons for listing these works in the thumbs-up category wasn't to gain my favor. (At least not entirely.) The students cited how enjoyable or easy the novels were to read, how they had engaging plots and characters with whom they empathized.
And the thumbs-down column? Emma, The Awakening, Twilight ("It's so clichéd," one student complained), and, oddly, Catcher in the Rye. They didn't like the characters, they didn't care for the language.
In the end, we discussed good and bad writing for about forty minutes—about twenty-five minutes longer than I had planned. But that was ok. By the end of the discussion, students were nodding their heads. Oh, their body language said, I'm writing for a reader. I hope that not only will these students be able to better recognize good writing, but they will also be more inclined to create it themselves.
I began by asking the students to list specific things they enjoyed reading and why, then what they didn't enjoy reading and why. I drew two columns on the board: one labeled Thumbs Up and the other Thumbs Down.
To my surprise, the thumbs-up category crowded the other. And with good literature, too. The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, Of Mice and Men, The Little Prince, The Things They Carried. What's more, their reasons for listing these works in the thumbs-up category wasn't to gain my favor. (At least not entirely.) The students cited how enjoyable or easy the novels were to read, how they had engaging plots and characters with whom they empathized.
And the thumbs-down column? Emma, The Awakening, Twilight ("It's so clichéd," one student complained), and, oddly, Catcher in the Rye. They didn't like the characters, they didn't care for the language.
In the end, we discussed good and bad writing for about forty minutes—about twenty-five minutes longer than I had planned. But that was ok. By the end of the discussion, students were nodding their heads. Oh, their body language said, I'm writing for a reader. I hope that not only will these students be able to better recognize good writing, but they will also be more inclined to create it themselves.
1.28.2010
Italiana al Cuore
Growing up, most people didn't believe me when I said I was half Italian. My dark brown eyes were the only feature that betrayed my fair, freckled skin and medium-brown hair. My brother, meanwhile, emerged from our mother's Italian gene pool, and his olive skin and coarse hair compelled strangers to ask him to what race he belonged.
Despite the Irish features I inherited from my father, I've always best identified with my Italian lineage. This is probably because my father's adoptive family is Cuban, and we have no sense of Irish heritage besides our predilection for beer. When my father married my mother, he was then fostered into her Italian family, and, nearly three decades later, he wields bastardized Italian-American dialect with the best of 'em.
So our entire household maintained an Italian-American mentality, despite the clover branded on the patriarch's forearm. Our traditions—especially surrounding mealtime—were all Italian, which I took for American until I had exposure to the way other families interacted and served their meals. When I went to college, I longed for real Italian food, not that glorified fast food that comes with endless salad and breadsticks. (Sorry, I do not feel like "family" in a restaurant chain.) And when I began cooking for myself, I scrutinized my mother's Sunday gravy ritual so I could replicate it in my own kitchen. And eventually, I got good at it.
As my confidence grew in my cooking ability ("Of course I can cook. I'm Italian!" I'd proclaim), I would host parties at which I'd serve Italian favorites and new discoveries. I baked often and even earned a reputation for being the Cookie Lady.
Even if my appearance wasn't Italian, my heart and my stomach were; I was convinced.
But today, I'm less certain. For all my love of Italian culture—which, let's face it, revolves around the dinner table—it doesn't love me. About two years ago, I was diagnosed with celiac disease. To treat it, I've been on a strict gluten-free diet, which has rendered pasta, pizza, pastries, and all other Italian emblems inedible. (Ironically, the Irish gene that gave me such a fate also denies me beer.)
And so I've begun altering my sense of Italian cuisine: It looks just as it always had, but it's modified to be gluten-free. I've made it a personal goal to serve "normies" gluten-free treats so good, they don't know the difference. Just as I had always felt Italian but looked Irish, my cooking tastes Italian but caters to my weak Irish tummy.
Despite the Irish features I inherited from my father, I've always best identified with my Italian lineage. This is probably because my father's adoptive family is Cuban, and we have no sense of Irish heritage besides our predilection for beer. When my father married my mother, he was then fostered into her Italian family, and, nearly three decades later, he wields bastardized Italian-American dialect with the best of 'em.
So our entire household maintained an Italian-American mentality, despite the clover branded on the patriarch's forearm. Our traditions—especially surrounding mealtime—were all Italian, which I took for American until I had exposure to the way other families interacted and served their meals. When I went to college, I longed for real Italian food, not that glorified fast food that comes with endless salad and breadsticks. (Sorry, I do not feel like "family" in a restaurant chain.) And when I began cooking for myself, I scrutinized my mother's Sunday gravy ritual so I could replicate it in my own kitchen. And eventually, I got good at it.
As my confidence grew in my cooking ability ("Of course I can cook. I'm Italian!" I'd proclaim), I would host parties at which I'd serve Italian favorites and new discoveries. I baked often and even earned a reputation for being the Cookie Lady.
Even if my appearance wasn't Italian, my heart and my stomach were; I was convinced.
But today, I'm less certain. For all my love of Italian culture—which, let's face it, revolves around the dinner table—it doesn't love me. About two years ago, I was diagnosed with celiac disease. To treat it, I've been on a strict gluten-free diet, which has rendered pasta, pizza, pastries, and all other Italian emblems inedible. (Ironically, the Irish gene that gave me such a fate also denies me beer.)
And so I've begun altering my sense of Italian cuisine: It looks just as it always had, but it's modified to be gluten-free. I've made it a personal goal to serve "normies" gluten-free treats so good, they don't know the difference. Just as I had always felt Italian but looked Irish, my cooking tastes Italian but caters to my weak Irish tummy.
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