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.

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.

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.

End of semester blues (and rosy reds)

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

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

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

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.