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.

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.

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.

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.