Dreams and Disillusionment

I'll Never Forget

2011-09-11T10:00:00.003-04:00

I'll never forget the color of the sky that day. That azure would become the backdrop for the blackened plumes on the video clips played in a loop on every television station.

I'll never forget the togetherness, the unitedness. We were of single-mindedness in our sorrow, numbness, and rage. No one seemed capable of understanding what had happened; indeed, I couldn't fathom the abstractness behind the devastatingly concrete act.

I'll never forget the profound loneliness, even among the thousands who attended the memorial service on the campus mall. It was warm, but not hot, a signal that autumn was drawing near. The mall on September 12 should have been home to students playing frisbee, chatting with friends, and enjoying college. Celebrating the joys of youth. Instead, we sat morosely, together yet alone, instantly sobered, suddenly aged, realizing that the world was no longer the same.

I'll never forget.

Prometheus' Fire

2011-06-11T09:28:00.008-04:00

Like so many Americans, I claim To Kill a Mockingbird as one of the books that have most influenced my life. It helped me realize the importance and beauty of literature. I often cite the text as one of the reasons why I became a teacher.

I recently read Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee, recommended by a close friend and fellow lover of literature.

One passage from the book struck me:

When [Harper Lee] couldn't be found during social hour before dinner, she could often be spotted with John Steinbeck, standing in a corner discussing favorite books.

The thought of two of my favorite authors discussing literature gave me pause. What had they discussed, I wonder? What books, what authors would the titans of American literature admire?

As a teacher of writing, I often remind my students that the acts of writing and reading cannot be divorced from one another. But somehow I managed to forget this myself. I had always assumed my favorite writers were also avid readers, but I had never ventured to dream what filled their bookshelves, crowded their nightstands, spurred their own craft.

The Trifle of Standard Usage

2011-05-26T23:44:00.009-04:00

After much consideration, I picked up Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters. (Steinbeck never disappoints.) The text is a posthumous collection of letters Steinbeck wrote to his editor every day he worked on Eden. It's raw Steinbeck—typed from his handwritten letters long after his death, and unrevised.

The publisher's note, however, states that there are a few corrections in spelling and the like: "Steinbeck was normally permissive with his editors on such points, though he strongly resisted what he called 'collaboration' on more important matters." There is a footnote that elaborates on the nature of those corrections:

Although Steinbeck's spelling in general was exceptionally good, he consistently spelled the word "rhythm" without the first "h"; usually inserted an apostrophe in the possessive pronoun "its" while omitting it from the contraction "it's"; omitted the apostrophe from "the day's work" and the like; tended to make two words of such compounds as "background" and wrote "of course" as if it were one. Only changes of this very minor order have been made here.

In the great shadow of East of Eden, its and it's is indeed very minor. But as a teacher of writing, my mind stalled on these minor points. That one of the greatest American authors couldn't be bothered to use an apostrophe correctly gave me pause. The American canon has no finer text than East of Eden, paradoxically simple yet complex, universal yet personal.

It's difficult to believe that Steinbeck was ever sloppy in his writing and thus relied on his editor to clean up his proverbial mess. His letters not only have remarkable grammatical correctness (far beyond the trifle of its and it's), but they also employ a level of diction and variety of syntax that suggest Steinbeck's raw is rather refined.

My devotion to Steinbeck is so strong, I find myself questioning the absolute value of standard usage. I doubt I would forgive a lesser writer for lacking such knowledge of his language; in fact, I'm sure I wouldn't. But good grammar does not a good writer make, and perhaps visa versa.

Searching for Satiety

2011-05-25T22:55:00.006-04:00

During summer especially, I thirst for literature. For as long as I can remember, I've slept with a book on my nightstand, or opened on my chest. I buy purses that are large enough to carry even Atlas Shrugged, so I'm prepared for waiting in a doctor's office or on line at the grocery. The weight of books is a consideration for my checked baggage when I travel. I even have nightmares about not reading the great works of literature in my lifetime.

But the problem with reading great literature is this: What next?

I'm about seventy-five pages shy of finishing The Lacuna, a book that has consumed my time and my thoughts. I've hardly put the book down in days, but now I slow my pace. Once I finish reading this novel, what can I read next that won't be a disappointment?

After I finished reading East of Eden, I asked friends for suggestions. Forgetting my distaste for postmodern literature, I took a friend's suggestion to read DeLillo's Mao II—a good book, but not on the same shelf as Eden.

After I finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany, I contemplated beginning the novel again immediately, but instead reread Great Expectations—the novels are similar in their ambition. I knew Dickens wouldn't starve me after Irving's feast.

Ironically, with so many works of literature I'm eager to read in my lifetime, I find myself unable to find titles to satisfy me now, the craving I have today. Do I begin something new, take a risk on a book that may be bland? Or do I cleanse my palate with an old favorite?

How could I not love what I do?

2011-04-05T18:45:00.002-04:00

An email I received from a former student:

THANK YOU!!!!!! So much for all your support and encouragement and letters (o so many letters) this year. I have been invited to join Teach for America Memphis Corp as a History Teacher for next year. I look forward to inspiring others to be better as you have inspired me.

Recruiting for the Dark Side

2011-03-29T19:34:00.007-04:00

I've recently written about the mixed feelings I have when students want to study literature, or not. I'm often tempted to lure a beloved student away from his chosen major to come to the Dark Side. But I stop myself—I don't need a good student's lifetime of struggle on my conscience.

***

Recently, I recalled Mrs. Dorsey, my TA for a CORE class in Women's Lit. Mrs. Dorsey was a returning student—she was probably in her early sixties—working toward her Ph.D. After the course ended, in an email I revealed to her that I was majoring in architecture. Her reply was almost immediate: why architecture? She knew I had a love of literature, so why not make it my life? She ended the email with a sentence I'll never forget: "I guess English's loss is architecture's gain."

Over the next day or two, the seeds began to germinate. Well, I wrote, what could I do with a degree in English, anyway? Her response was lengthy and bulleted. Her campaign had begun.

By the end of the summer, I had decided to change my major to English and figure the rest out later. I thrived in my lit classes, I was accepted into the creative writing concentration, and I excelled as a peer tutor.

I should have been an English major all along.

***

Ten years later, I remember Mrs. Dorsey with fondness. I give thanks to the Fates for leading me on that wayward path to an English degree, and eventually to a career in teaching. I can't imagine doing anything else.

So maybe ours isn't the Dark Side. Maybe I need to be someone else's Mrs. Dorsey and plant those seeds of change.

For Dad, con amor

2011-03-01T17:23:00.008-05:00

It's not unusual for people to identify with others who speak the same language. One of my college roommates spoke to her sister in Spanish, although each of them spoke English fluently. It was a connection they shared and embraced.

My students, many of whom are multilingual, tell me similar anecdotes. Even children who do not speak their parents' native language retain some of its words and expressions. My mother, who doesn't know more Italian than she can find on a menu, swears in her ancestors' language with fluency. Our lexicons so often reflect our experiences, and even the experiences we have with others. Language is an emblem of shared experience.

Although I have always thought of the Italian-American idioms as being the language I shared with my family (and the greater Sopranos-watching community), I recently realized that I participate in another language with a much smaller number of speakers, population: 2.

A few minutes ago, I sent an email to my father. I forwarded him an attachment of my director's observation for my reappointment. The body of my email:

I thought you might enjoy reading que tu hija hace. Te amo, xoxo

I'm not a native Spanish speaker, but my father technically is. (He speaks it fluently but doesn't read or write it.) Our emails and text messages are often an assortment of English and Spanish phrases cobbled together, often misspelled, using only the words we can summon as we type. As a writing teacher, I would call it reckless composition, but as a writer, I recognize this as language representing a shared experience—and a fondness that transcends language.

Improving on self-improvement

2011-02-17T10:36:00.006-05:00

Last night I chatted with the assistant director of our department (and the instructor of our graduate seminar). I have tremendous respect for this young Ph.D. for his passion and scholarly accomplishments. I've even been thinking lately that I would take advantage of the university's tuition remission to pursue a graduate certificate or even a Ph.D. After all, why not?

But then the AD confessed to me that he no longer enjoyed reading—students' papers ruined his taste for it, and his nights, weekends, and summers filled with scholarly research don't leave much time for it.

I was awe-struck. How could someone so passionate have lost his love for what drove him into the discipline? After all, writers are nothing without their readers.

Since this conversation, I've been rethinking my goals. Besides the fact that earning additional degrees will monopolize my spare time for the next several years, I hate the idea that it may also dictate the rest of my life—and alienate me from the reasons why I became a teacher.

Does it make me a bad teacher for not wanting to pursue my own education? I of course value education highly, but perhaps I've been tainted by the belief that I need formal education to be well-educated. It's my hope that having my own hobbies, and my own reading list, will make me a more complete person and therefore a better teacher.

A Matter of Priorities

2011-02-03T15:57:00.003-05:00

Recently I spoke with some graduate students who asked me about my diet. I explained that being gluten-free is challenging, but it helps that I make so much of my food from scratch: chicken stock, sausage, pickles, cheese, the yogurt I was eating at the time. One of them asked, incredulously, "How do you find time for all this?"

I replied, "I make time for my priorities."

As I said it, I thought about my blog—my poor, neglected blog—that's only had two new posts in the past two months because I just haven't had the time. My heart sank a little.

The Smartest Person in the Room

2011-01-27T10:53:00.012-05:00

In the course of my regular blog reading, I came across one titled "Stop Thinking You're the Smartest Person in the Room." I expected it to discuss the humbling experience of knowing the students sometimes are smarter than the instructor.

But the article wasn't what I had expected. The title of the article comes from a student's course evaluation. The author of the blog, a self-described feminist scholar, attributes the comment to the Internet-induced democracy of learning; her Ph.D. weighs more heavily than the students' online pursuits. This may be true, but is "smart" synonymous with "educated"?

I've taught many students who were clearly smarter than I. Intimidating, yes, but also an opportunity. Especially in the humanities, we work to teach students to think. Because I've had more training and more practice, I can help them think in ways their bright little minds hadn't considered. No true educator laments the intelligent student; we're always eager to provide more of a challenge for the students who seek it.

I needn't be the smartest person in the room to help those students learn.

Evolushun or Ruin?

2010-11-28T16:04:00.006-05:00

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.

Freud would be proud.

2010-11-10T21:12:00.004-05:00

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.

Searching for an Apprentice

2010-11-10T11:42:00.003-05:00

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.

A Glimpse of the Past

2010-11-06T22:37:00.004-04:00

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.

Growing Nostalgia

2010-07-19T21:06:00.004-04:00

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.

The Scourge of Fiction

2010-07-13T17:20:00.000-04:00

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."

Under a cloak of anonymity

2010-07-09T16:43:00.003-04:00

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.

Martha, Oprah, and Rachel

2010-05-13T20:11:00.008-04:00

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.

On Rapport, Redux

2010-04-01T10:32:00.007-04:00

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.

East Meets West

2010-03-31T22:44:00.004-04:00

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

2010-03-29T21:41:00.002-04:00

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

2010-03-15T21:15:00.004-04:00

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

2010-03-15T20:50:00.004-04:00

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.

Words, Words, Words

2010-02-27T21:47:00.006-05:00

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.

An Abandoned Craft

2010-02-18T16:47:00.006-05:00

"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.

Two Thumbs Up

2010-02-18T16:23:00.004-05:00

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.

Italiana al Cuore

2010-01-28T20:10:00.006-05:00

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.

Hold Your Applause

2009-12-11T20:59:00.000-05:00

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.

The Decline of the English Department

2009-12-03T23:26:00.000-05:00

It had to be said.

Full Moon, No Moon; New Moon

2009-12-03T19:08:00.006-05:00

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.

Turning my back on my training

2009-11-13T22:47:00.003-05:00

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.

On Easy Street: Saying Goodbye to Gourmet

2009-11-13T21:54:00.008-05:00

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.

Children left behind and passed along

2009-10-07T17:26:00.008-04:00

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.

Professing Respect

2009-10-07T16:19:00.005-04:00

"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.

Pass/Fail; Win/Win

2009-09-23T21:09:00.006-04:00

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

2009-09-11T12:36:00.007-04:00

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.

Of Readers and Writers

2009-06-08T21:25:00.007-04:00

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.

End of semester blues (and rosy reds)

2009-05-13T21:03:00.006-04:00

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.

A Matter of Accountability

2009-05-07T12:08:00.004-04:00

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.

A Welcome Message

2009-05-05T18:02:00.002-04:00

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.

Finding My Voice

2009-04-16T11:14:00.005-04:00

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.

How sweet it is

2009-04-14T13:53:00.003-04:00

Ladies: Looking for a way to earn extra cash in this downtrodden economy?
Gentlemen: Have disposable income and a low self-esteem?

Read on.

Oh, the Humanity

2009-04-09T09:28:00.008-04:00

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?

Eff(ort)in' Academia

2009-04-02T19:17:00.005-04:00

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.

I would tell him to shrug.

2009-03-12T21:39:00.005-04:00

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.

A Compartmentalized Life

2009-03-07T22:18:00.003-05:00

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.

Word Nerds, Unite!

2009-03-05T09:07:00.001-05:00

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!

Endorsements

2009-02-09T22:07:00.002-05:00

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 Humanities

2009-02-06T17:25:00.002-05:00

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.

Hot to Trot

2009-02-04T18:12:00.002-05:00

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!"

I LEGO NY

2009-02-03T20:29:00.000-05:00

Thank you, Rob, for letting me steal this from you. Enjoy!

Of the Ages

2009-01-28T19:26:00.003-05:00

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.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen

2009-01-26T17:53:00.003-05:00

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.

My Spidey Sense is Tingling

2009-01-19T10:26:00.000-05:00

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.

For the Love of the Game

2009-01-15T19:09:00.000-05:00

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.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

2009-01-15T17:27:00.003-05:00

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.

Politics: It's What's for Dinner

2009-01-11T18:49:00.003-05:00

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?

Derailed

2009-01-06T21:55:00.003-05:00

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.)

Great Expectations

2009-01-06T18:54:00.002-05:00

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?

Embracing Stereotypes

2009-01-05T19:01:00.002-05:00

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?

Cold Feet

2009-01-05T18:48:00.004-05:00

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.

Have a holly, jolly Christmas

2008-12-21T17:49:00.002-05:00

It's no surprise that I'm not a fan of Christmas music. In fact, mere minutes of it trigger my homicidal reflex. (This probably stemmed from working retail in high school; the Gap's 45-minute loop of poppy Christmas songs is something from which I may never recover.)

But just when I thought I couldn't get more cynical, I stumbled upon this article about the secularization of Christmas through Christmas music.

Another interesting thought about the great American gift card exchange.

Happy Festivus.

Why speling is impotent

2008-12-19T21:21:00.003-05:00

In an email from a student explaining why he missed my office hours today:

Sorry...I got raped up in my take home philosophy final.

That really shouldn't be as funny as it is.

Irony at Work

2008-11-21T19:27:00.002-05:00

Before I begin grading, I arrange the papers from (anticipated) worst to best—so I generally feel pretty good by the time I finish grading the class. I realize that this is both horrible and what education classes taught us not to do—in fact, they say to arrange them from best to worst. But as a striving optimist, I do the opposite. (As my husband says, "I feel bad for the poor kids who are on the top of that stack.")

I spent my day (and evening) yesterday grading a section of 101 proposal papers. One student, who has managed to climb from the beginning to the middle of the stack, wrote a fantastic paper. I was truly proud of the fact that Andrea had put so much effort into the paper—dozens of questions in class, emails, and even IMs—for she had created an exemplary product. Except there were no citations.

Technically, I should have failed this student—internal citations are detrimental to her ethos as a writer and, really, her integrity as a student. But I consider myself a generous person, so I wrote her a paragraph explaining that hers was an A paper, but she can't get an A without internal citations. It breaks my heart! I wrote. I know you'll crush the next one! Then I penned a B+ and circled it.

Today after class Andrea was a wreck. She tried pleading with me, asking to put in the citations so that I could give her the A. I explained a (true) story I had heard from another professor: he had a student who submitted a research paper without internal citations for the portfolio review, so he failed. He didn't just fail the portfolio review—he failed the course. So really, I said, the B+ is generous, because technically she should have failed. I then said that I hoped that she would learn from the situation so she wouldn't be the unfortunate student who has to repeat a course—or worse—because of something so silly.

Andrea was far from satisfied, but she eventually exited the classroom. I then went to my last class, a 102, and later stayed after to speak to a handful of students who had questions on their upcoming draft.

One girl, Lily, relayed an anecdote about a girl she met in the stairwell who started talking about being caught for accidental plagiarism; she had forgotten to use internal citations in her paper. The stairwell girl had told this perfect stranger, "This is bad karma for all the times I plagiarized. This time it was entirely by accident—and I got caught! I can't believe it."

I hope Andrea learned not to plagiarize—accidentally or purposefully—at least in my class. If nothing else, I hope the irony isn't lost on her.

Catholic Guilt as a Teaching Strategy

2008-11-20T21:29:00.003-05:00

A concept I emphasize to my freshmen is knowing your audience. This is especially true with knowing my students.

I just—as in minutes ago—read a paper by a particularly competent writer. In fact, I saved his paper for the bottom of my stack so that I won't feel depressed when I go to bed tonight. This student wants to please me and wants to do well in our class, but he's definitely a freshman—he runs to our 12:50 class with his contact case in his hand because he woke up minutes before we're scheduled to meet. It's been apparent that his social life is infringing on his academic priorities, and it has become more apparent now that I've read his third paper.

This is the note I wrote for him at the bottom of his last page:

This paper is not double spaced. I'd rather your paper run short than have you think I'm too dumb to notice.

Frankly, I'm disappointed. It's clear you know how to conduct research and incorporate it into your own ideas, but your paper lacks development and seems thrown together. I sincerely hope you put more effort into your next paper because you're a talented writer who just isn't meeting his potential.

I'm curious to see how he does on the next one.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2008-11-19T20:36:00.003-05:00

On the wall of our department's reading room (faculty lounge) is the photocopy of a professor's letter written to an advice columnist. In short, course evaluations left the professor questioning her career path; the columnist reassures her by saying that "to allow students to say what they like anonymously about their teachers strikes me as democracy gone mad."

The columnist has a point about professors being the ones responsible for passing judgment, and that the distressed professor should be less concerned about being liked and more concerned about being an effective teacher. However. Just like students, professors should also be held accountable—perhaps even more so. These students are, after all, paying a hefty sum for the privilege of higher education; it is therefore our responsibility to provide that education.

This college professor should know her classes—and herself—well enough to discern immature ranting from constructive criticism; if she cannot, then perhaps she should consider a change of vocation.

Rhetorical Trainwreck

2008-11-17T16:33:00.005-05:00

This is one of the best pieces of terrible rhetoric I have ever seen. I don't know whether to laugh or shake my fist in the air.

I'll punctuate you in the face

2008-11-12T18:49:00.005-05:00

Today I taught punctuation to my 101 kids. As always, I began the lesson by writing the following on the board and asking the students to punctuate it:

A woman without her man is nothing

After they couldn't do anything more than add a period, I changed it to the following:

A woman: without her, man is nothing.

I then asked, "What happened when I added these two pieces of punctuation?"

One of my students said, "It made the sentence false."

For more on why punctuation is important, see this YouTube video. (Thanks, Rob.)

Out of Step

2008-11-11T20:04:00.005-05:00

I heard it before I saw it.

I was standing just inside the Central Reading Room in our university's main library waiting for my 101 students to attend our library orientation. Then I heard it—that erratic, yet oddly rhythmic fall of footsteps that echoed in the open stone lobby.

I lifted my head, irrationally expecting to see Bobby, my former student, when I of course glimpsed another young man with cerebral palsy and a similar gait.

Bobby was in my most troublesome class to date: a standard ninth grade English class at the end of the school day my first year teaching. The roster comprised not only Bobby, but a student with an IQ of about 50; a student with an emotional disturbance; a half dozen overstimulated, undermedicated ADHD teenagers; and about as many repeaters. I would like to attribute my difficulty with this group to my inexperience as a teacher, but I'm confident I would flounder about as much now as I did then. While combating apathety and misbehavior, I also had to contend with Bobby, who, when I asked why he wasn't doing his work, replied, "leave me alone—I'm a cripple."

This was obviously unacceptable. What followed was a long private conversation with Bobby: his physical disability had nothing to do with his mental ability.

Bobby was one of those students—and help me, there are many—who made my life difficult from August until June, but the following fall became my best friend. (This may have been influenced by my teaching his doll of a sister Jackie in my English 12 class the following year.) Every time Bobby saw me in the halls—or even as he passed by my door while I was teaching—he'd say hello. He showed a chordiality in those who years I would never have guessed he possessed.

About two years ago Bobby began a series of surgeries to correct his walk. The surgeries would cut and then fuse the muscles in his legs, relieving the tension and allowing him to walk more normally. The last time saw Bobby was this past spring. His legs had healed enough that he had graduated from a wheelchair to a walker. He was substantially taller—not only the result of puberty, but also because leg muscles no longer wrenching his body together, creating a labored, staggered walk.

I won't say that Bobby's attitude toward me has anything to do with his corrective surgeries; I think it's mostly owing to his emotional maturation. In any event, when I heard the troubled walk of a college student—a walk no longer characteristic of my Bobby—I couldn't help but think of him and smile.

From Girlhood to Motherhood

2008-11-11T19:46:00.005-05:00

So I've recently been thinking about babies. (This has probably been influenced more by the fact that I'm reading Midwives than the ticking of my biological clock.) It has occurred to me that my former students who were pregnant when I taught them last year have recently become mothers. Just as they probably did not equate sex with pregnancy, I had difficulty equating their pregnancy with motherhood.

I can't help but wonder how these girls—now women, I suppose—are faring. I know that most of them have the support of family members, even if the father of the child is no longer in the picture. (This is the case, I know, of three out of five of these girls.) What are they doing for income? What are they doing for higher education? I realize, of course, that most of these girls weren't planning on going to college.

But one of them was. Jenn, one of my darlings that I taught in tenth then twelfth grade, spent her years in high school getting experience in child development and early child development so that she could go to college to become an elementary school teacher (no small feat, as she was the first in her family to graduate from high school). Instead, Jenn got pregnant her senior year—which prompted her boyfriend to leave her—and in August entered motherhood instead of entering college. Her sister, two years her senior, was also pregnant and due in late summer; they will be raising their children together.

What life is this for Jenn? I by no means deem motherhood an inferior fate, but Jenn's teenage pregnancy has relegated her to the same life as her sister, who had not enough aspiration or motivation to graduate from high school. All I can do is shake my head; the thought of this young girl postponing—and probably never fulfilling—her dream saddens me.

Silencing my inner fascist

2008-11-04T09:18:00.005-05:00

It's no secret that I'm a workaholic. Doing the bare minimum for anything just isn't my style. In fact, I take pride in the fact that I'm such an overachiever; it's part of my identity. For example, when I grade a paper, I spend several minutes reading and commenting on it; then I write a paragraph or two assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the paper before I assign a grade. My students seem to appreciate this, and I like to think it helps them become better writers.

Recently one of my more gifted (and more lazy) students came to see me during office hours regarding his literary analysis paper. He was telling me about his recent English teachers—an AP Language and Comp teacher who commented copiously and an AP Literature teacher who only marked a letter grade at the end. I expressed similar displeasure with a college professor who had similar practices. The student said that this teacher made him not want to work as hard because he didn't think the teacher bothered to read his work. My thought was the opposite: I still worked as hard but was frustrated because I didn't have feedback on my work.

I then was about to say that I believe hard work sets you free—when I suddenly had a flashback to my days of teaching Night: the gates of Auschwitz say arbeit macht frei—work will set you free.

This is kind of scary.

Maybe I'll take a day off.

Celebrate your freedom with a free coffee

2008-11-04T09:03:00.004-05:00

Only 54% of eligible voters went to the polls in 2004.

In order to give Americans incentive to vote, Starbucks has offered a free coffee today to anyone who says he voted.

Yes, you read that correctly: Americans need incentive to vote. Colonists who came to this land seeking religious and political refuge. African-Americans who were persecuted for wanting to participate in the election process. Women who believed they too should have a say. Immigrants who come to this country so that one day they and their children can participate in free elections.

Americans need incentive to vote, so let's give them a free coffee.

The student and teacher I have become

2008-10-20T20:46:00.007-04:00

As I grade—and teach—I am surprised at what my students do and do not know. For example, why don't students who placed into the Intermediate Writing Workshop at a "good" university not know how to recognize passive voice (and instead write in active voice)? That's something I learned in ninth grade!

Ah, ninth grade. The year I reached the 5-foot mark. The year my teeth were liberated from three years' orthodontia. And, of course, the year I had Ms. Berk. That heinous bitch.

Ms. Berk, the Devil's sister, was my ninth grade English teacher. Until that point, I had loved English class (known until then as "Language Arts")—I had excelled in writing and read voraciously. I was nothing but optimistic about English class when I entered my first year of high school.

Not only did I not do well in Ms. Berk's class, but she also told me that I should not expect to do well—ever. (This was, in fact, when I spoke to her about my abysmal Romeo and Juliet reading quiz, when I went to her for extra help; she told me, "You'll never get [Shakespeare]; you're just not an English student.")

Luckily for me, I work best out of spite. I have never understood students who didn't do work because they hated the teacher—wasn't that just a favor to the teacher?—so I worked. And worked. And worked. I compelled myself to be the obsessive-compulsive overachiever I am today, just to prove to Ms. Berk that she was wrong: I could do it.

Needless to say, my self-inflicted ass kicking worked. I excelled throughout English classes in high school and college, became (if I do say so myself) an exemplary high school teacher, and now a respected writing professor. So neener neener, Ms. Berk.

I have mentioned my experiences in Ms. Berk's class to countless students I have taught, mostly to tell them that they too can learn and love Shakespeare. (Because, a decade later, I still operate out of spite, I had hung a large scroll in the back of my classroom that proclaimed I was a Shakespeare Convert, and upon which over forty students signed their names beneath mine.) I have told a number of these students that I have learned more from Ms. Berk than all my good teachers combined because she was the type of teacher I hope I will never become.

In my fourth year of teaching, however, I've had more time to think about this statement. I may have demonized Ms. Berk too much. She did legitimately make me a better writer. Every PV scrawled by her cheap green pen challenged me to write and think in active voice. Her research unit forced me to read and digest the MLA Handbook when I was fourteen years old. I wrote and revised and rewrote every paper. I pored over every word of the texts assigned so that I could dominate class discussion the next morning. Because of her criticism, I pushed myself to be the student she said I couldn't become. And I learned. I still do not accept Ms. Berk's classroom (or student) management strategies, but she was the teacher who taught me more than any other.

Mother Tongue

2008-10-19T18:11:00.003-04:00

I have always told my students that they were lucky to be native English speakers on the grounds that English is such a difficult language to learn. (Most of my native speakers, past and present, had a poor grasp of English, spoken or written.) As a wise man once said, "English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alleys, knocks them over, and goes through their pockets for loose grammar."

While I was washing the dishes a moment ago—I do most of my thinking during otherwise mindless tasks—I realized that there is another, far greater reason that I am fortunate to be a native English speaker.

Shakespeare wrote in my language.

Ok, so what? For the first time, this semester I have a number of international students. In fact, in a single class there are at least four languages spoken other than English. I admire them for their hard work—they, of course, are held to the same standards as my native speakers—but now I actually feel some sort of pity for them. If these students have read any Shakespearean plays, they were likely translated into their native language.

The very idea makes me wretch. A translation of Shakespeare?! Although English is not the most beautiful language in existence, Shakespeare made it beautiful with his meter. I cannot imagine that even the romance languages could rival the sound of a play written in our eclectic tongue.

That'll Learn Ya

2008-09-24T18:23:00.005-04:00

Today I taught literature on the university level for the first time. Although I'm technically a writing professor, I believe—as most of us do—that reading and writing are, by nature, intertwined. Besides, I miss teaching literature and crave it almost as much as I crave chocolate chip cookies. (Although I cannot tell you the date that I last taught literature, I can tell you the last time I ate a real cookie was on December 17, 2007.)

Anyway, I built a literary analysis unit into my Writing 102 class. It consists of five stories covered in two class periods, culminating in the students composing a paper discussing a literary element of their choosing. I was very interested to see how these students would fare in such a unit.

My first 102 class begins at 8:30. These students are more chipper than you'd expect—several of them are commuters, which means two things: they're generally more motivated, and they've generally had more time to awaken on the ride over.

In fact, these were the only students who were awake enough to discuss Hemingway's brilliant story, "Hills Like White Elephants." A pocket of the room was very excited about the symbols in the piece and discussed it with fervor. The others, however, did little more than sleep with their eyes open. My prompting and tooth pulling did little to draw them into the conversation. As the class ended, I thought, well, at least the next class is usually livelier.

My 9:35 class was worse! Whereas the few enthusiastic students in the 8:30 section wanted to satisfy their curiosity about this elusive piece and thus asked questions and worked out ideas aloud, this class was content with it being a story about a guy and a girl drinking cervesas in a train station. (Abortion? Where'd you get that from?!)

Just as I had believed my literary discussions to be a total flop, I entered my 2:20 class. (Don't let the time fool you; these students often drag themselves to class post-siesta and are just as groggy as the warm bodies I teach in the morning.) I had admonished them on Monday for their poor attendance and punctuality; when I walked in the door at 2:19, they were all there. That's right: I said something, and students TOOK HEED. It was a strange sensation.

Not only were they there, but they seem to have (as instructed) pumped themselves full of caffeine because they were ready to roll. From the get-go students began asking questions, drawing conclusions, and engaging in discourse that usually is only featured in my sweetest of dreams.

What happened next was more than I would even hope to dream. Two of my students are taking a Sex Lit course (Sexuality in Literature?), and one of them pointed out the them of Ave (Maria)/Eva (Eve) in the story. The student asserted that Jig's role had changed from the sin-loving Eva to a maternal Ave with the conception of her unwanted child, thus changing the man's view of her.

Wow.

I learned something new today. (Oh, boy.)

I Believe in Yesterday

2008-09-19T17:06:00.005-04:00

This afternoon on my way home from work I heard a block of the Beatles; I tuned in mid-"Help!" My mind wondered to one of the thoughts I find most comforting: four kids from Liverpool changed the world. At the time of the British Invasion, the Beatles ranged from 21-24 years of age, and they could not have had an inkling of how their music would influence the world. (This is a comforting thought because if this foursome could do it, I have faith that it could happen again.)

My thoughts then turned to an article I read on Paul McCartney in The New Yorker last summer: he had celebrated his 65th birthday. It's unnatural to think that Paul should have an age; he has somehow become immortalized with his departed brethren. (Ringo counts for squat.) We don't think of greats as growing old: either they are forever young or long since dead.

...Did you get the memo?

2008-09-04T10:15:00.003-04:00

My husband and I recently drove into the city. When we exited the FDR onto 96th Street, we were diverted onto 97th because there was some type of obstruction. While we were trying to merge, there was an old man in an electric wheelchair navigating 97th. My husband expressed his frustration at the old man, and we drove on.

It took us several minutes to arrive to our destination on 95th, and when we did, we saw the SAME MAN in a wheelchair zipping down the street. Apparently the most efficient mode of transportation in Manhattan is not the automobile, but the wheelchair.

Office Space, anyone?

Academic Food Chain

2008-09-03T17:32:00.010-04:00

It's always been apparent that there was a hierarchy within schools: not only are students ranked according to ability in their class placements, but the perception of departments and their members also feed into this system. (Get it? Feed!)

At my alma mater, the English building was tucked at the edge of campus—about a ten-minute walk from the academic quad—and was in disrepair. It's been a "temporary" building for over two decades; it will eventually move into another old (but nicer) building at some point. Maybe. Let's face it: English wasn't the bread-and-butter of the institution; there were several departments far more sought after and therefore far more glamorized.

Even so, there was a hierarchy within the English major. Although I generally didn't spend time with English majors outside of class (too much granola), I did get the distinct impression that the Creative Writing concentration was more prestigious. I may have taken the program for granted, but others didn't: it required a submission of a portfolio, which was judged by an admissions board. The other concentrations within the English major (rhetoric, various types of lit) did not have such stringent requirements.

This social assembly had been pushed to the back of my mind while I taught in a public high school. There I wouldn't say English teachers reigned on high, but we did have a reputation for assigning the most work and for being the most hard-nosed. (This was certainly true of the high school I attended, and I am inclined to think this is a general rule.) What took me by surprise, however, is that this happens to also be true at the university level as well. At a faculty meeting today, the Program Director said that full time lecturers would be pairing up with members of other departments to help them incorporate more writing lessons into their teaching. Apparently there have been members of other departments coming to us because they are uncertain of their own writing ability, and thus lack the confidence to teach writing or grade the writing of their students.

My first thought was glee: Others realize that writing matters! This is an excellent opportunity to make cross-curricular ties and (as the director pointed out) boost the reputation of the lowly writing department.

My second thought went back to the concept of a hierarchy: Others have a respect for writing teachers. I found this surprising. In our heart of hearts, we English teachers hold a secret contempt for those people who contribute to the world in some tangible way. No, I don't devise innovative products for consumers, but I teach students how to read, write, and think more critically. I don't do people's taxes, but I teach students to appreciate Shakespeare. I don't cure diseases, but I teach students to become better citizens. This is my job, and most days I'm proud of it, despite what American values have influenced me to think.

And for this job I don't get much compensation, nor do I truly need it (though it would be nice). My motivation for becoming an English teacher is purely selfish: I don't want to live in a society with illiterate degenerates who can't string a sentence together. Somewhere along the line, however, I became emotionally invested in the students of English, and it is for them that I go to work every day.

Whether it is in the forefront of my mind or forgotten amidst the frenzy of everyday life, I am confident that English does matter. In fact, we English teachers have been acknowledged as the teachers of teachers, a significant accomplishment for those of us who spend our lives in a field that everyone else dreads. Although we may not be at the top of the food chain, at least we don't get devoured too often.

Superiority Complex

2008-08-24T20:45:00.009-04:00

Three years ago I was "found" by the English department chair at a public high school. Although I was technically not certified to teach, she "had a good feeling" about me and insisted that the principal interview me. He too found me awesome, and they employed me until I had to relocate.

Although I had been very new to teaching, it quickly became apparent that the English department chair was neither a good teacher nor a good leader. She only taught electives. She was absent frequently. She favored some members of the department over others and fostered a division within the department. She blatantly ignored others' gross incompetence.

I'm not sure when this type of behavior/work ethic began in her eight-year career, but it has only gotten worse during my stint in the district. This spring the administration had a long meeting with her regarding her professional behavior and asked for a letter of resignation. She came back a few days later and said she wouldn't resign, but would "try harder" next year.

And that was acceptable.

I have written multiple blogs exploiting the inefficiency and the incompetence that exists in America's educational system. Besides the detriment to the students, this type of leader (and those who allow her to continue to lead) are a detriment to teachers. During my three years there, I cannot recall a single thing I learned from this woman—even as a new teacher. Instead I learned to lean on other members of the department, one of whom, my wonderful friend Emily, became my unofficial mentor.

I have recently signed on to teach freshman comp with a four-year college in the New York Metro area. As with my first job, it appears I was given the chance to teach because of a good first impression with the director: he was the director of the same program at my alma mater, so my résumé caught his eye.

As a high school teacher, I compiled a research project manual that serves as a guide (Bible) to my students as they research, draft, and stylize their projects. I am quite proud of this document, and the director expresses praise for it as well. However, when I brought the Kinkos-bound document to his office this week, he in turn handed me the textbook the department would be using this semester: it had his name branded on the hardbound cover.

Always wary of proscribed texts (and the teachers who use them), I was hesitant to employ this text. Now that I am about halfway through reading, I realize that this is what I wish I could have written, and there are few things that I would change. For the first time in my (albeit short) professional career, I actually feel like my superior is superior.

I(heart)NY

2008-08-18T21:20:00.002-04:00

Any New Yorker anywhere will refer to Manhattan as The City. Capitalized. Because really, what other city is there? This, of course, infuriates many non-natives who are jealous that they were not lucky enough to be born in a place that's on the map.

Somehow, it still caught me by surprise at how much New Yorkers simply adore the City. It's evident in the cliched-yet-beloved I(heart)NY tee shirts, self-proclaimed accolades, and Yankee Stadium-style lawn manicures. It's a love free of self-consciousness, as everyone else shares this fascination.

What surprises me more (somehow) is that I feel the same way. I had no idea how much I had missed New York until I came back. I have told my father, excitedly, in the past week that 1) a Mister Softee truck has a route through our development, and 2) there is a roach coach that sells egg creams. Honest to God, egg creams! I must be in New York! (He, a Washington Heights native, is filled with joy that his first born has returned home.)

Indeed I have.

True Love

2008-08-17T09:44:00.001-04:00

While I was in the grocery store this week, I witnessed an eight-ish year old girl and her father interacting:
"Dad, I love you."
"I love you more."
"Yeah? Well I love you more than bacon."
"Really? More than bacon?"
"Well," she thought, "maybe as much as bacon."

Small Victory No. 6

2008-07-24T15:39:00.001-04:00

Excerpted from an email from a former student of the class of '07:

In case I have not said it before, thanks for being a great teacher. I know that your new students will enjoy your classes as much as I did!! :-)

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

2008-07-20T13:18:00.004-04:00

I love Barnes and Noble. When I go there, however, I become more and more overwhelmed. I have a fear of not reading everything I want to read before I die (and, paradoxically, a worse fear of reading everything I want to read before I die), and wandering through aisles and aisles of unread literature reminds me of this fear.

While I, a lowly English teacher, struggle to read (and process and remember) these volumes of text, there is one man who seems to have read and critiqued them all: Harold Bloom. On my bookshelf is a 745-page tome, Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, in which Bloom examines each of the Bard's plays in depth, then draws conclusions about his work as a whole. Although this book could be considered a life's work, it was published a decade ago, leaving him ample time to compose thirty books, as well as lending his service as editor/author of introductions, forwards, and afterwards to dozens of books on a variety of literature...and still managing to regularly publish articles on the side. Bloom is an authority on the canon: in addition to these "smaller" works, he published The Western Canon, which is a survey of the greatest works of European literature.

I am in awe. I will be surprised if I am able to read in my lifetime all that this man has written.

And yet he seems modest about his brilliance: in Invention, he says, "...T.S. Eliot's observation [is] that all we can hope for is to be wrong about Shakespeare in a new way. I propose only that we cease to be wrong about him by stopping trying to be right. I have read and taught Shakespeare almost daily for these past twelve years, and am certain that I see him only darkly. His intellect is superior to mine: why should I not learn to interpret him by gauging that superiority..."

And so we mere mortals are humbled.

Resignation

2008-07-16T19:40:00.003-04:00

The Gatekeeper has resigned.

This week my husband accepted a two-year position in the New York Metro area, not far from where I grew up. The New York accent that has all but disappeared since I left the region eight years ago will probably be resurrected by Christmas.

So I resigned on the last possible day permitted by my contract; on Monday a friend will help me extract three years' worth of materials and decorations from my classroom.

As for next year, I have begun applying to teaching jobs in high school and local colleges, as well as to a variety of positions in publishing. For now, the Gatekeeper has no gate to tend.

Suit Up

2008-07-14T17:39:00.001-04:00

I like suits. My husband has a number of suits as well as myriad shirts and ties for a staggering number of wardrobe combinations. He, like most men, looks good when dressed professionally. A well-dressed man commands respect with his starched shirts, supercreased flat-front slacks, and well-tailored jackets. Why is it then that women's suits are often atrocious?

I can think of a number of reasons to conclude why women's suits may be so horrid:

Suits were created for men's bodies, and thus do not look good on women if not properly adapted. (To that end, suits generally also do not look good on women—or men—who are overweight.)
Suits, as I have already described, are a symbol of power, and most women do not carry themselves with the confidence it takes to assume that role of power.
Despite our cultural reputation, many women do not possess the style sense to piece together an outfit that suits (ha! so punny!) their body type and personal colors. This is not to say that men have this innate ability; the professional fashion deficiency of women may stem from the fact that they are left to their own devices in department stores, whereas men have professional, trained associates to attend to their wardrobe.
For our vast love of consumerism, Americans in general lack style. The women's suiting section of a department store will be froth with loud colors, patterns, and textures that ordinarily would be suitable for other types of apparel but are dreadful when applied to the masculine-based suit style. Just today I saw a woman wearing a green plaid suit—the type of plaid designed by a Scotsman with cataracts. I can hardly blame the style-deficient designer, as there was actually a consumer who bought and wore the product...and it's not even Halloween!

We can only hope that in our culture entranced by reality television shows, more programs such as What Not to Wear will reach more and more Americans and teach women how to dress for the workplace.

Merit Badge

2008-07-14T17:14:00.003-04:00

There are some public schools in America who have—according to many educators and legislators—gone off the proverbial deep end by employing a system of merit pay. In these systems, teachers' salaries are individually determined by the educator's performance and by their students' performance on high-stakes testing (to meet the demands of No Child Left Behind...but that's for another blog).

As is, in our "average American" school district, teachers are paid based on their highest degree earned and by the number of years in the system. There is no reward for exceptional teaching, and thus many teachers have no incentive to apply themselves fully to the job. Although our principal continually refers to our staff as a "dream team," our mediocre roster is only a "dream" compared to the other abysmal schools in our region. There are some teachers, myself immodestly included, who consistently go above and beyond for our students, and we only do so out of personal pride in our work and out of a concern for our students' well being; we then return home to review online banking statements with too little in the deposit column.

An article in the July 10, 2008 edition of The Economist, however, suggests that something revolutionary is about to occur in DC Public schools. In our nation's capital "teachers are virtually unsackable and paid by seniority. Such incentives attract the lazy and mediocre and repel the talented or diligent." This all sounds familiar. It's clear that this "system needs fundamental reform"—and the new schools chancellor of DC public is lobbying to implement that very change.

Michelle Rhee, the chancellor, will begin the revolution by increasing teachers' starting salaries from $40K to (amazingly) $78K; top teachers would be eligible to earn up to $130K a year. These teachers, of course, would not be eligible for tenure and would be paid according to a combination of merit and students' performance.

Wow. $78K+ actually makes teaching in DC Public somewhat appealing.

Upon reading the article, my husband agreed that this was a step in the right direction—but it would never happen. Unions would never give up their bargaining power: teachers' salaries and job protection.

It saddens and angers me that unions, which are supposed to protect the rights of teachers (and thus indirectly the learning environment), are only interested in self-preservation. This year our school's union representative urged each of us to write to our congressman stating that we teachers were against merit pay. "What if I'm for merit pay?" I asked. Our rep, a thirty-something history teacher that believes watching movies such as Forrest Gump constitutes stellar instruction on American history, replied, "Then don't write at all."

The bottom line is that schools need to be reformed. It's difficult to say where the reform should begin—with teachers, administrators, unions, or parents?—but giving teachers an incentive to excel in their field is a major part of it. Let's see if the unions will allow this necessary reform, and what becomes of DC Public schools in the next few years.

The Gatekeeper Recommends: The Double Bind

2008-06-27T11:15:00.004-04:00

A dear friend recommended The Double Bind and said that when I finish reading it, I was to call her right away—even if I finish reading it in the middle of the night. Indeed, I would have done so if my husband hadn't insisted I turn out the light at 1:30 this morning.

But now I'm finished, and she won't answer her phone. Ugh!

So I will pay it forward. My suggestion to you, good reader, is to read (or reread) these texts in the following order:
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (if you haven't read Gatsby since high school, it's time to revisit it)
The Double Bind by Chris Bohjalian

...and let me know when you finish reading. You won't be disappointed.

Basic Instinct

2008-06-20T15:27:00.004-04:00

Last week my husband was researching nearby strip clubs for a friend's bachelor party. He noted that the dress code for one club was "business casual." This struck me as odd. A dress code? For a strip club?

When I asked him about it, he told me that the dress code was to help deter riff-raff; this gave the bouncers the discretion to oust anyone who may potentially cause trouble or compromise the integrity of the establishment.

Um, what?

Setting aside my general disapproval of my husband watching other women take off their clothes, I marvel at the industry in general. Many people—mostly feminists—assert that these institutions degrade women. Really, it is the women who take advantage of the men: they are able to elicit many, many dollars from their customers by appealing to the sex drive of man.

We Americans don't like to talk about sex; we hide it from our children by imposing TV Parental Guidelines and make sex something of a social taboo. Although it seems that television and movies have become smuttier in the past few decades, sex has always been a part of culture. Even the literary canon contains sex: Chaucer's Canterbury Tales is wrought with sexual misconduct, and Shakespeare's greatest love story is really just a horny teenager begging for sex ("O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" a love-starved Romeo pleads).

This is not to say that Chaucer or Shakespeare (or Joyce or Lawrence or...) has any less credibility as a writer. On the contrary, each of these authors—as well as the authors of today's TV shows and movies—portray the sexual drive that exists within man. The sophisticated air of a Shakespearean play or the glamorous sheen of HBO's Entourage is life's normal pairing with sex. It shouldn't surprise me, then, that we attempt to masquerade a "Gentleman's club" as something more than a place that appeals to man's most basic instinct.

Commencement

2008-06-12T12:43:00.001-04:00

Our high school's graduation was last week. Our principal asks (mandates) that teachers come adorned in academic regalia and sit in the front three rows, facing the graduates sitting on stage.

Brandi spotted me in the crowd, smiled, waved, and pointed to her mortar-board while giving me a thumbs-up. I smiled and waved back.

Between my friend/colleague Emily and I, we have taught almost the entire graduating class at some point in their high school careers. We made a game of determining which students should and should not graduate, based of course on a scale of A to E.

Emily has also taught Kyle, and (if possible) has an even lower opinion of him than I do. Although she did not teach Neal, she has heard enough about him from me and other colleagues to know that the nineteen-year-old is not qualified to receive a high school diploma.

I successfully managed a smile and applause for even these students (and was even able to control my gag reflex). Afterward, a number of faculty members met at a nearby dive bar/restaurant for a few quick drinks.

I wasn't prepared to see so many students and their families. Some of these students I adored, and genuinely enjoyed speaking to them outside of school. I was caught unawares, however, when Neal's mother came and tapped me on the shoulder.

She introduced me to Neal's father, and they both thanked me for my hard work...and Mrs. V. even apologized for her behavior. I remained positive, stating that Neal had done it, and I hope that he learned that he will succeed when he puts forth effort. I of course said hello to Neal, and wished them all the best.

Small Victory No. 5

2008-06-12T12:02:00.004-04:00

Last year (2006-07) I taught a student named Luke in my GT English 9 class. Luke wasn't "GT material" on two counts: he lacked analytical reading/writing skills, and he didn't work very hard. Even when he began to apply himself more, he did not have the foundation to do well. He scraped by most quarters with Cs and Ds.

When he had a D as a final average at the end of the year, I spoke with Luke's father about Luke dropping down into Honors English 10 for the following year. He didn't like the idea of his son not being in GT English, but he agreed that it was better for Luke to not continue drowning. He had, however, made a deal with Luke that they would not go on their family hunting trip to Montana that summer if he didn't pull at least a C for the year. Luke's dad canceled the trip.

Whenever I ran into Luke in the hallways this year, he seemed to ignore me whenever possible. On Tuesday, however, he came into my classroom brandishing a stack of papers. He said, "Mrs. Casey, I knew you'd want to see this."

Luke handed me the papers: they were his placement test score results for the community college. His English scores were high enough for him to enter English 101 as a junior (whereas many students need to take more remedial classes first). I told him how proud I was of his accomplishment, and even emailed his mother about it later that day.

Before he left, Luke said he was really glad he took Honors English 10 this year because he was actually able to keep up with the work. I'm sincerely pleased that Luke has matured (academically and personally) enough to realize that he needs to establish goals and do whatever he can to reach them.

Not Alone

2008-06-10T15:12:00.004-04:00

An article about the state of public schools in Florida:

http://www.tampabay.com/features/humaninterest/article610874.ece

Special thanks to T.E., who brought this article to my attention.

Not so much brain as earwax

2008-06-04T20:23:00.006-04:00

It amazes me that students who are in class when we read Romeo and Juliet TOGETHER still haven't a clue about what's going on.

A sixteen year old freshman's quote identification response for “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet”:
Speaker: Romeo
This quote is important because... you wouldn’t have a clue at which he/she is talking about.

This is his response to a short essay question that asks students to include the literary device used in a passage and explain how it applies to the rest of the play:

The literary device that he used is good, nice words that are bad words refrased. And that’s how it applies to the rest of the play.

Lofty Aspirations

2008-05-30T19:11:00.002-04:00

Excerpted from a GT English 9 student's journal that prompted her to write about where she wants to be in ten years:

I see my self as a graduate from the Naule accadome as a nurse, or a graduate from Harverd as a Lawyer.

Queen for the Day

2008-05-29T21:36:00.003-04:00

Students received their yearbooks today. I expected to sign a few seniors' yearbooks at the senior picnic this afternoon—I signed perhaps three or four last year—but I was unprepared for the number of students who demanded my autograph. Four sought me out in my classroom en route to the courtyard where the picnic was being held; once I arrived at the picnic, I was literally surrounded by students who wanted me to sign their yearbooks. For an hour and a half, I chatted with students (past and present) and wrote endearing passages in winding patterns in their yearbooks.

Excited by my popularity, I told my husband about it when I returned home. He said, "you probably wrote something different for every one of them." He was right: I did. The notes I wrote to students contained inside jokes, an assessment of the student's strengths, and a specific wish about their future endeavors—all written in an informal tone. I have known these students at least since August (many longer than that), and thus I wrote with an air of familiarity.

I'm embarrassed to admit how much I loved being popular in a group of eighteen year-olds. I always say that if I wanted to be popular, I wouldn't have become a high school English teacher.
Really, it's not the concept of popularity that is important to me, but that I made an impression in these students' lives. This is the time of year when my toil seems to have come to fruition: yes, I have been hard on them all year, but nonetheless they love me for it. The trick is remembering this sentiment come August.

An Unexpected Allusion

2008-05-29T21:12:00.009-04:00

On my commute home this afternoon, the song "How Could You Want Him (When You Know You Could Have Me)?" came on my iPod. I have heard this song many, many times, but somehow until today have failed to notice the following lines:

I'm quite contented to take my chances
Against the Guildensterns and Rosenkrantzes
It's a matter of Cain and Abel
And I can feel your knee beneath the table

I was impressed that an alternative rock group would make an allusion to Hamlet...and that I had never noticed it before. (Indeed, the fact that I had just read Hamlet probably has something to do with it.) In addition to the blatant reference to two characters from the play (Guildenstern and Rosencrantz), Hamlet himself makes reference to the Biblical tale of Cain and Abel (just as Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, slew Hamlet's father to take possession of the throne and queen). I also like that "I can feel your knee beneath the table" has a whisper of the sexual repression simmering between Hamlet and Ophelia. Kudos, Spin Doctors. Kudos.

Dénouement: The Final Chapter to 'The Gatekeeper'

2008-05-29T20:43:00.007-04:00

Late Tuesday night I realized that Brandi had not brought me her make-up work. I emailed Miss Sit-On-It-And-Twist asking (literally) what was up. I heard nothing.

On Wednesday the principal came to my room—a rare occurrence—to find out what had become of her. I said I had heard nothing. Upon checking my school mailbox, however, I found a stack of work from her. I was incredulous: after all this, the girl didn't even have the gall to bring it to me face-to-face? (I had been in my room NOT teaching all morning.) I relayed this information to the principal and asked him to send her to me if he saw her before I did.

Sure enough, Brandi paraded into my room this morning. There were other seniors already in my classroom who had come to ask me to sign their yearbooks; Brandi jovially chatted with her friend while I finished my autographs. Once the others had moved on, her friend took the same cue and left.

Brandi immediately apologized for not having brought her work in on Tuesday. I expressed my concern not that the work was late—er, later—but that she had dropped it in my box when I could be easily found. Again the jocular demeanor faded and she said, "I put it in your box because I didn't want to tell you why I didn't bring it on Tuesday."

I replied, "but you'll tell me now?"

Brandi said she had to walk from the Community College—where she takes afternoon classes to get a jump on credits—back to our high school because she was stranded without a ride. The two schools are in different zip codes.

I of course told her that she could have called the school and someone (even myself) would have picked her up. Or called a cab. Or something.

I suppose you're wondering how Brandi fared? With the work she submitted, her average came to 59.5%, which, rounded to 60%, is the lowest possible passing grade.

Brandi thanked me—sincerely, I hope—and said she'd see me at graduation. That I will.

Small Victory No. 4

2008-05-25T10:41:00.005-04:00

As one of their journal entries, I ask my GT English 9 students to consider why some people believe To Kill a Mockingbird to be objectionable, why the NAACP declares it is "unfit" for students, and whether they think ninth grade students should read it. This is one African-American student's response.

I believe that some people may find TKAM objectionable because of the views expressed by the characters in the novel. They consider black people as inferior and there is a constant use of the word "nigger" throughout the novel. The NAACP would most likely find it unfit for students for that reason, and because it is a way of demeaning blacks and may teach children that it is okay to use the word whenever they feel like it. I believe that TKAM is fit for people of all ages, and especially for ninth graders because it expresses a way of viewing how unfair discriminations against blacks in the past were. So by ninth graders understanding this it leads them not to want to be as blind from racism that their ancestors were. TKAM is a novel that expresses the views on quite a few different types of discrimination. By reading it, hopefully ninth graders can benefit by understanding that these discriminations were fueled by all of the jokes and fear and anger that people expressed towards a group of people, or a type of people. If a student can understand this and realize that it is wrong, then maybe there is hope that in the future there will be much fewer discriminations and racisms in the world. Since the children are the future of the world, and if they are educated on the harmful effects and unfair outcomes of unnecessary discriminations, then they will educate their offspring and so on, causing the amount of racism and segregation in the world to decrease drastically through time. Of course, this is only a hope for the future, but if it were even to affect one person in their views on racism, then that is still a step in the right direction.

School Appropriate/Work Appropriate

2008-05-25T10:33:00.004-04:00

Just in case we needed to contact one another between Friday and Tuesday, Brandi and I exchanged emails. As she jotted hers down on a Post-It, she said, "it's not really school-appropriate."

I looked down at the Post-It: sitonitandtwist@____.com.

I advised her that before she applied to any jobs, she may want to register an email account that resembled her name.

Only Human: An Addendum to 'The Gatekeeper'

2008-05-23T18:16:00.005-04:00

This morning I found a note in my mailbox from Brandi asking me to call her on her cell phone.

I waited until noon—how late do high school students sleep?—and dialed her up. She said she was heading over to school and that she would stop by my room to talk to me.

About fifteen minutes later, Brandi walked through the door. She's an attractive young lady: about 5'8", slender, always dressed in the latest fashions—sure jailbait for some unsuspecting guy in a bar. Once she sat down next to me, however, I saw the facade starting to crack. Her arms were mottled green and purple and she was trying her utmost not to cry in front of me.

When asked why she hadn't come talk to me sooner—this whole mess could have been avoided with some communication—she said through runny mascara that she was embarrassed, that she had to be a certain person for her peers, and she didn't want to let anyone know what was going on.

I soon realized that yesterday's judgment was premature as I had greatly underestimated the problems Brandi had at home. She said she had all of the work done, but her mother has had it in her possession; "Now," she said, "Mom's home and clean, so I can get to my backpack and give you my work."

I found myself telling Brandi that she could bring me the work on Tuesday, and I could grade it while she was still here so she would know her new grade right away.

Through tears she thanked me profusely, told me she loved me, and scurried out of the room.

My first reflection on this is one of self-loathing: I folded faster than superman on laundry day. Over a few tears. I'm the Gatekeeper, and I caved...just like that.

After speaking about this with a beloved colleague, my father, and finally my husband, I know now that if Brandi fails, it will actually be a detriment to the rest of her life. With a high school diploma, she will be able to register for classes at the Community College in the fall; from there she can finish the coursework to become an RN. Without a high school diploma, she will be unable to break free of the abusive lifestyle with which she has had to live for sometime now.

On Tuesday Brandi will bring me her missing work, and she will pass and graduate.

See Dénouement

The Gatekeeper

2008-05-22T15:28:00.014-04:00

As a teacher of the only course seniors need to graduate, I proudly refer to myself as the Gatekeeper. I love the idea of holding this power in my hands; plus, it sounds cool (even if it does elicit an occasional "keymaster" joke). Today, however, I found that being the Gatekeeper isn't as great as I like to believe it is.

This year I only have two (of eighty) seniors who have failed for the year. One is Joe, who earned Es for all four quarters and failed the final. He's quite intelligent, but he feels that homework and classwork are optional.

The other senior who failed is Brandi. At the beginning of the year, she showed promise: she proclaimed her passion for helping others and told me about her parallel enrollment at the community college to begin her training to become a registered nurse. Throughout high school she had also been a part of the Allied Health program at the Vocational Tech school that partners with our high school.

At the beginning of second quarter, however, Brandi seemed to be overtaken with a case of senioritis: she missed seven class periods (out of the approximately twenty times our class meets during a quarter with block scheduling). Third quarter, she failed with a low E.

I made it clear to her that she needed to pass fourth quarter to be eligible for graduation, but things only got worse. She did not open Lord of the Flies once during the unit—inside or outside of class—and rarely even brought a backpack to school. When I made some half-joking comment about her consistent unpreparedness, Brandi threw her hands in the air and said, "I don't know where my backpack is!"

This sounds pretty bad, but it's not unusual; many students somehow manage to forget to bring a backpack, binder, writing utensil, etc. on a quasi-regular basis. How students can forget the only thing they need to bring with them is beyond me.

But back to Brandi: not only did she consistently attend class unprepared, but she did very little while she was there. If she was there. (Her poor attendance continued through the fourth quarter.) She didn't submit the last few remaining assignments of the year, sealing her quarter and final grades as an E.

Despite Brandi's abject failure, she amazed me by putting sincere effort into her final exam, on which she earned a C. Although this should mathematically average to a D for the year, the Three Es rule mandates that Brandi earn an E for the year.

Clearly Brandi did not earn a passing grade in my class and therefore cannot graduate.

However.

Today my principal stopped in my room and asked me to swing by his office for a few minutes. He told me he had spoken to Brandi and learned a little backstory. Apparently her father is severely, physically abusive. After beating her for perhaps months, he finally threw Brandi out of the house; she has been rotating through friends' couches for the last several weeks. As for her "lost" backpack, allegedly her mother stole it; the principal suspects it is to sabotage Brandi's chance at graduating, attending college, and breaking free from the lower-class, blue collar life that is all her family knows.

I like to joke with my students (seniors especially) that I do not have a heart; if it's there, it's hollow. Today I wish this were the case. Thrice the principal repeated that he is asking me no favors and that he will back my decision, whatever it may be. On his conference table were Brandi's last two assignments; I agreed to score them and enter them into the gradebook.

Brandi earned an A on both assignments, and her average jumped up significantly—from 34% to 46%. But 46% is still too low.

I brought my principal a fresh copy of Brandi's grade report and a copy of her attendance card that marked her plethora of absences. I then told him that Brandi had not earned a passing grade in my class and has not earned the right to graduate. Really, she didn't.

I have written a number of posts about students who will graduate despite their inability or foolish behavior; condemning Brandi to summer school (or year five or a GED) feels almost as dirty. I realize, of course, that I am not compromising my moral guidelines, just as I expect my superiors to do. Even so, I cannot help but wonder what will become of Brandi as I shut the door, turn the lock, and return the key to my pocket.

See Addendum