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.
7.09.2010
5.13.2010
Martha, Oprah, and Rachel
When I was twenty, I moved into an on-campus apartment with a kitchen. When my mother was helping me unpack my dishes, she turned one over and saw the Martha Stewart label emblazoned on the bottom of a plate. "Oh, Ann Marie," she said, shaking her head as only a Catholic mother can.
What's wrong with Martha? She's too perfect, she's so bitchy, she got away with murder. (Well, not murder. But if she had, I doubt Americans would hold her in lower esteem.) We reject Martha and her lifestyle. What American wants to be too perfect? What American has the time?
Instead, we turn to Oprah Winfrey and Rachel Ray. They too have television shows and magazines and products geared toward American women. And we can be Oprah or Rachel if we just take their tips on fashion and cooking and life. Because it's easy! We can eat dinner in 30 minutes! We can be thin (because it's ok to love yourself enough to have lipo)!
But no woman can be Oprah or Rachel any more than she can be Martha. They peddle magical beans that will make us pretty and thin and happy, but the beans never sprout. We buy more of their products (and into their products) to fill the need, to quench our unhappiness, but we only feel more empty.
The emptiness is the nothingness that has become American culture. We put in our forty hours a week, and therefore, we cut corners to cook our meals, keep our homes, and entertain our guests. We buy food—mixes, frozen meals, and ready-to-eat garbage—instead of making our own food. We consume to fill the emptiness, but we do not produce. It is in the production that we can feel whole.
Which brings us back to Martha. She cooks with ingredients, she grows the flowers in her centerpieces, and she decorates her home with handmade crafts. Do I have time for all of this? Hell no. But instead of trying to have everything, but doing it quickly and poorly, I'll choose what's most important to me, and do it right.
What's wrong with Martha? She's too perfect, she's so bitchy, she got away with murder. (Well, not murder. But if she had, I doubt Americans would hold her in lower esteem.) We reject Martha and her lifestyle. What American wants to be too perfect? What American has the time?
Instead, we turn to Oprah Winfrey and Rachel Ray. They too have television shows and magazines and products geared toward American women. And we can be Oprah or Rachel if we just take their tips on fashion and cooking and life. Because it's easy! We can eat dinner in 30 minutes! We can be thin (because it's ok to love yourself enough to have lipo)!
But no woman can be Oprah or Rachel any more than she can be Martha. They peddle magical beans that will make us pretty and thin and happy, but the beans never sprout. We buy more of their products (and into their products) to fill the need, to quench our unhappiness, but we only feel more empty.
The emptiness is the nothingness that has become American culture. We put in our forty hours a week, and therefore, we cut corners to cook our meals, keep our homes, and entertain our guests. We buy food—mixes, frozen meals, and ready-to-eat garbage—instead of making our own food. We consume to fill the emptiness, but we do not produce. It is in the production that we can feel whole.
Which brings us back to Martha. She cooks with ingredients, she grows the flowers in her centerpieces, and she decorates her home with handmade crafts. Do I have time for all of this? Hell no. But instead of trying to have everything, but doing it quickly and poorly, I'll choose what's most important to me, and do it right.
4.01.2010
On Rapport, Redux
Although I am not yet able to brazenly insult students, I can say that I have a good rapport with them. It's taken me a few semesters to find my voice, but I've become comfortable with my expectations for students and their expectations of me.
Perhaps it took me so long to find my balance because of my age. I'm about five years older than most seniors—it isn't much, but it's enough if I pretend it is. I make old lady jokes and reprimand them for making me feel like an old hag. It works.
Just as I gained a level of comfort, I was presented with a new challenge: This semester, I'm teaching some students who are older than I.
In many ways, my relationships with these thirty-somethings is unique—they consider themselves my co-conspirators, as we've both been out in the world, and the rest of the kids don't even know what they're up against.
But with one of these students, it's harder to find my balance. Andrea is thirty, and she's a good writer. But she wants to be better. So she seeks my approval, my advice. I'm happy to talk with her, but I feel like more of a colleague—a co-conspirator—than a mentor. I question my credentials: Really, what do I know about writing? It's one thing to teach 20-year-olds, but another to teach someone who's older, more experienced, more ambitious.
So in my moments of self-doubt, I do for her what I do for every other student: I answer her questions honestly and to the best of my ability.
Perhaps it took me so long to find my balance because of my age. I'm about five years older than most seniors—it isn't much, but it's enough if I pretend it is. I make old lady jokes and reprimand them for making me feel like an old hag. It works.
Just as I gained a level of comfort, I was presented with a new challenge: This semester, I'm teaching some students who are older than I.
In many ways, my relationships with these thirty-somethings is unique—they consider themselves my co-conspirators, as we've both been out in the world, and the rest of the kids don't even know what they're up against.
But with one of these students, it's harder to find my balance. Andrea is thirty, and she's a good writer. But she wants to be better. So she seeks my approval, my advice. I'm happy to talk with her, but I feel like more of a colleague—a co-conspirator—than a mentor. I question my credentials: Really, what do I know about writing? It's one thing to teach 20-year-olds, but another to teach someone who's older, more experienced, more ambitious.
So in my moments of self-doubt, I do for her what I do for every other student: I answer her questions honestly and to the best of my ability.
3.31.2010
East Meets West
This August, my mother's family will celebrate the 100-year anniversary of our arrival in America. I never knew my great-grandfather, the man who boarded a ship in Naples and headed west, nor have I heard many stories about him. One story I have heard was that when he passed gas, he would blame his squeaky chair. Another was his inability to ever gain a firm grasp of English: He told his grandchildren that he arrived in the New World in "nineteen-oh-ten."
So this summer, in the Year of Our Lord Twenty-Oh-Ten, my mother and I will host a centennial party. A beloved uncle, my mother's youngest brother, suggested we hold it on a cruise around Liberty Harbor—a return to the boat, so to speak.
This past weekend, mom and I drafted a guest list (of over 70 A-Listers) and the wording for the invitation. It began with a brief narrative about the man who arrived in Ellis Island, and it ended with party details, but I couldn't fill in the middle. It hadn't occurred to me before that I knew almost nothing about the man responsible for bringing us to America.
I stared at the half a dozen blank lines in the middle of the page, and I blinked repeatedly. In those few moments when my eyes were closed, my mind's eye evoked images from East of Eden, Steinbeck's semiautobiographical retelling of Genesis. I yearned to know, and I yearned to tell, our origin and how we headed west.
So this summer, in the Year of Our Lord Twenty-Oh-Ten, my mother and I will host a centennial party. A beloved uncle, my mother's youngest brother, suggested we hold it on a cruise around Liberty Harbor—a return to the boat, so to speak.
This past weekend, mom and I drafted a guest list (of over 70 A-Listers) and the wording for the invitation. It began with a brief narrative about the man who arrived in Ellis Island, and it ended with party details, but I couldn't fill in the middle. It hadn't occurred to me before that I knew almost nothing about the man responsible for bringing us to America.
I stared at the half a dozen blank lines in the middle of the page, and I blinked repeatedly. In those few moments when my eyes were closed, my mind's eye evoked images from East of Eden, Steinbeck's semiautobiographical retelling of Genesis. I yearned to know, and I yearned to tell, our origin and how we headed west.
3.29.2010
On Rapport
I credit my love of Shakespeare to Dr. Keenan, who taught, among other things, a 400-level Shakespeare course I took as an undergraduate. Dr. Keenan is in stark contrast with Ms. Berk—not only did Dr. Keenan undo Shakespeare's stigma, but she also had a rapport with her students like few instructors I've ever met.
There was one student in particular with whom Dr. Keenan had a close relationship. Mike had excelled in two other classes with her before enrolling in our Shakespeare course, so she teased him mercilessly in her English accent.
One day when we were taking a quiz, Mike sneezed. We went on working, but Dr. Keenan said, "Mike, that's the most intelligent thing you've said all semester."
At the time, I thought it was funny. But since I began teaching, I've looked back on this scene many times and envied Dr. Keenan's relationship with that student. Taken out of context, her comment could be downright mean—but it wasn't. Those few words carried the weight of appreciation for being her student for so many semesters. They carried the weight of love. Because those with the passion to teach not only love the subject matter, but they also love those with whom they share it.
There was one student in particular with whom Dr. Keenan had a close relationship. Mike had excelled in two other classes with her before enrolling in our Shakespeare course, so she teased him mercilessly in her English accent.
One day when we were taking a quiz, Mike sneezed. We went on working, but Dr. Keenan said, "Mike, that's the most intelligent thing you've said all semester."
At the time, I thought it was funny. But since I began teaching, I've looked back on this scene many times and envied Dr. Keenan's relationship with that student. Taken out of context, her comment could be downright mean—but it wasn't. Those few words carried the weight of appreciation for being her student for so many semesters. They carried the weight of love. Because those with the passion to teach not only love the subject matter, but they also love those with whom they share it.
3.15.2010
Reading good literature to gain good favor
Better readers make better writers: that's my mantra in Grammar 200. To give them an extra nudge, I give them style assignments that ask them to examine the language of published authors. When we learned about clauses, I asked them to find published sentences in certain patterns. When we worked to sharpen our own diction, I had them analyze the diction of authors.
After the first assignment, I admitted to them that I was impressed by the sources they had chosen for the style exercises. So for the next assignment, they upped the ante. Some used their textbooks, others used articles from their favorite magazines, but most of them used esteemed pieces of literature. Hamlet, The Count of Monte Cristo, Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Catcher in the Rye. I knew well that these students probably didn't all just happen to be reading these works, and I told them that. Then I said it's ok. Even if their only aim is to kiss up to their anglophile professor, at least I've exposed them to good literature.
After the first assignment, I admitted to them that I was impressed by the sources they had chosen for the style exercises. So for the next assignment, they upped the ante. Some used their textbooks, others used articles from their favorite magazines, but most of them used esteemed pieces of literature. Hamlet, The Count of Monte Cristo, Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Catcher in the Rye. I knew well that these students probably didn't all just happen to be reading these works, and I told them that. Then I said it's ok. Even if their only aim is to kiss up to their anglophile professor, at least I've exposed them to good literature.
The Strata of Students
I'll begin with a disclaimer: I'm a grade grubber. Well, more exactly, I'm a perfectionist. Anything less than my best—and anything that doesn't exceed others' expectations of me—is unacceptable. This, of course, transfers to academics: what would represent my work ethic better than a 4.0?
Ironically, as an educator, I realize that As are far more common than they ought to be. At the college level, too many students expect As—Bs if they slack off. Cs are considered below average.
But, as my syllabus states, Cs are average. Bs are good. As are excellent. And I hold them to it.
Last week, I gave the first exam in my grammar 200 class. It was an open-book exam, and the grades ranged from 39 percent to 86 percent. Because there were no As, I scrutinized my test: were my standards too high? Were there any questions that were ambiguous or inadvertently evil?
No, I decided. Many of the errors students made suggested they did not have an understanding of the concepts worthy of an A—none of them excelled in the content. Some of them were good, and they earned Bs. Because Bs are good.
The students, however, don't follow my logic. To them, An A is good, B is average (as in "others are average, but I'm not"), and C is unthinkable. And excellent? An A without effort.
So maybe it's time to reassess our means of assessment. As a teacher and a student, I've found that lowering standards doesn't help students succeed—it creates the illusion of success while ill preparing students for the challenges ahead.
Ironically, as an educator, I realize that As are far more common than they ought to be. At the college level, too many students expect As—Bs if they slack off. Cs are considered below average.
But, as my syllabus states, Cs are average. Bs are good. As are excellent. And I hold them to it.
Last week, I gave the first exam in my grammar 200 class. It was an open-book exam, and the grades ranged from 39 percent to 86 percent. Because there were no As, I scrutinized my test: were my standards too high? Were there any questions that were ambiguous or inadvertently evil?
No, I decided. Many of the errors students made suggested they did not have an understanding of the concepts worthy of an A—none of them excelled in the content. Some of them were good, and they earned Bs. Because Bs are good.
The students, however, don't follow my logic. To them, An A is good, B is average (as in "others are average, but I'm not"), and C is unthinkable. And excellent? An A without effort.
So maybe it's time to reassess our means of assessment. As a teacher and a student, I've found that lowering standards doesn't help students succeed—it creates the illusion of success while ill preparing students for the challenges ahead.
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