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.
10.19.2008
Mother Tongue
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.
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.
9.24.2008
That'll Learn Ya
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.)
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.)
9.19.2008
I Believe in Yesterday
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.
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.
9.04.2008
...Did you get the memo?
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?
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?
9.03.2008
Academic Food Chain
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.
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.
8.24.2008
Superiority Complex
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.
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.
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