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.
11.13.2009
On Easy Street: Saying Goodbye to Gourmet
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.
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.
10.07.2009
Children left behind and passed along
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.
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
"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.
"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.
9.23.2009
Pass/Fail; Win/Win
Grading is my least favorite part of my job. In fact, it's the only part I don't love. However, I dread the task of grading less when I assign a check, check-plus, or check-minus at the bottom of a page instead of a letter or number. My marginal and end comments are just as reflective, but they often convey a more helpful—instead of judgmental—tone.
Now, I realize that grades are imperative to higher ed. But so much in a writing course is subjective, it's often impractical to quantitatively assess student writing. The purpose of the course is to give students the tools and the practice to write better, and too often students are paralyzed by the fear of what a writing course will do to their GPAs. They're less willing to take risks in their writing and often just want to know the "right" answer.
Fortunately, I've gotten a glimpse of the alternative. I've begun teaching my third semester of a pass/fail class offered through the School of Journalism. It's a writing immersion lab; I teach the fundamentals of grammar, prod students to apply it to their writing, then subject them to a proficiency test at the end of the course. If they pass the test, they pass the course. If they fail twice, they're booted from the major.
Along the way, they take several quizzes and submit weekly essays. The essays are returned with a litany of comments, and at the end is a numerical grade based on rubric quantifying errors and content (just as they will see on the proficiency test, which needs a hard pass/fail line). The grades on the essays and quizzes have no bearing on the letters that will appear on their transcripts. The better writers—those passionate about their craft—revel in the opportunity to experiment with language.
Of course, there are students who take advantage of this system in another way: they get by doing as little work as possible and just barely pass the test at the end of the semester. The Ps on their transcripts are the same as the students who worked to refine their writing.
And so, paradoxically, the classes that have less consequence in terms of grades may have the most consequence in terms of education. It is in those classes that the students who seek knowledge can take the risks required to truly gain it.
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.
9.11.2009
Masquerading
I like to think that I am myself around my students. This is especially true now that I teach college; I can be more honest with my students than ever before. (Over the summer, I explained to my Grammar 200 class that I am supposed to officially discourage Journalism majors from using semicolons. When one asked why, I explained it's because Americans are stupid and are easily intimidated by things they don't understand.)
However, I've recently realized that she who teaches my classes is but a lukewarm version of myself. I finally caved and joined Facebook this summer, and I was surprised by the flood of friend requests from former students. The requests sat, bolded, in my inbox for about a day while I considered it. Was it appropriate to "friend" my students if they were no longer my students? I finally decided that they were adults and I am an adult and I don't do anything wildly inappropriate that they shouldn't know about. I confirmed every request.
But ever since I've been double- and triple-thinking everything I post on my wall or in an album. Maybe my actions or words aren't inappropriate, but they are still not something I want to influence my students' perception of me. I assume that the students who "friended" me were driven by more than a curiosity to see who I am outside of class—I assume they also view me with some kind of respect.
And so I selectively censor myself on my Facebook page. (Something, I realize, that probably isn't a bad idea anyway.) I wouldn't want to warp my students' perception of me; instead, I'll add dimension to it.
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.
6.08.2009
Of Readers and Writers
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.
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.
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