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.
11.10.2010
Searching for an Apprentice
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.
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.
11.06.2010
A Glimpse of the Past
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.
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.
7.19.2010
Growing Nostalgia
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.
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.
7.13.2010
The Scourge of Fiction
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."
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."
7.09.2010
Under a cloak of anonymity
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.
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.
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.
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