Last night I chatted with the assistant director of our department (and the instructor of our graduate seminar). I have tremendous respect for this young Ph.D. for his passion and scholarly accomplishments. I've even been thinking lately that I would take advantage of the university's tuition remission to pursue a graduate certificate or even a Ph.D. After all, why not?
But then the AD confessed to me that he no longer enjoyed reading—students' papers ruined his taste for it, and his nights, weekends, and summers filled with scholarly research don't leave much time for it.
I was awe-struck. How could someone so passionate have lost his love for what drove him into the discipline? After all, writers are nothing without their readers.
Since this conversation, I've been rethinking my goals. Besides the fact that earning additional degrees will monopolize my spare time for the next several years, I hate the idea that it may also dictate the rest of my life—and alienate me from the reasons why I became a teacher.
Does it make me a bad teacher for not wanting to pursue my own education? I of course value education highly, but perhaps I've been tainted by the belief that I need formal education to be well-educated. It's my hope that having my own hobbies, and my own reading list, will make me a more complete person and therefore a better teacher.
2.17.2011
2.03.2011
A Matter of Priorities
Recently I spoke with some graduate students who asked me about my diet. I explained that being gluten-free is challenging, but it helps that I make so much of my food from scratch: chicken stock, sausage, pickles, cheese, the yogurt I was eating at the time. One of them asked, incredulously, "How do you find time for all this?"
I replied, "I make time for my priorities."
As I said it, I thought about my blog—my poor, neglected blog—that's only had two new posts in the past two months because I just haven't had the time. My heart sank a little.
I replied, "I make time for my priorities."
As I said it, I thought about my blog—my poor, neglected blog—that's only had two new posts in the past two months because I just haven't had the time. My heart sank a little.
1.27.2011
The Smartest Person in the Room
In the course of my regular blog reading, I came across one titled "Stop Thinking You're the Smartest Person in the Room." I expected it to discuss the humbling experience of knowing the students sometimes are smarter than the instructor.
But the article wasn't what I had expected. The title of the article comes from a student's course evaluation. The author of the blog, a self-described feminist scholar, attributes the comment to the Internet-induced democracy of learning; her Ph.D. weighs more heavily than the students' online pursuits. This may be true, but is "smart" synonymous with "educated"?
I've taught many students who were clearly smarter than I. Intimidating, yes, but also an opportunity. Especially in the humanities, we work to teach students to think. Because I've had more training and more practice, I can help them think in ways their bright little minds hadn't considered. No true educator laments the intelligent student; we're always eager to provide more of a challenge for the students who seek it.
I needn't be the smartest person in the room to help those students learn.
But the article wasn't what I had expected. The title of the article comes from a student's course evaluation. The author of the blog, a self-described feminist scholar, attributes the comment to the Internet-induced democracy of learning; her Ph.D. weighs more heavily than the students' online pursuits. This may be true, but is "smart" synonymous with "educated"?
I've taught many students who were clearly smarter than I. Intimidating, yes, but also an opportunity. Especially in the humanities, we work to teach students to think. Because I've had more training and more practice, I can help them think in ways their bright little minds hadn't considered. No true educator laments the intelligent student; we're always eager to provide more of a challenge for the students who seek it.
I needn't be the smartest person in the room to help those students learn.
11.28.2010
Evolushun or Ruin?
As an instructor in general—and a grammar instructor in particular—I often have to consider the difference between prescriptive and descriptive grammar. I teach prescriptive grammar rules (what's "right"), but my students often consider instances of descriptive grammar (how it actually works). I have to concede that in certain contexts for certain audiences, the rules of Standard English may—or should—deviate. All great speakers and writers know how to bend language to their purpose. But those speakers know the rules and when to bend them.
Writers and speakers consult resources to learn or confirm those rules. My husband reaches for Garner's American Usage. As a poor speller, I frequent my dictionary. I've long held a good dictionary to be an ideal of knowledge; I expect its entries to be thorough and accurate. Why wouldn't I?
Today, a colleague shared this article with me. It chronicles incorrect pronunciations that have become commonplace (licorice oughtn't be pronounced lickerish) and how modern dictionaries perpetuate poor pronunciations. Even this Language Maven will concede that pronunciation changes—knight was once pronounced as it's spelled, after all—but the other examples listed triggered my gag reflex. Online dictionaries now provide audio pronunciations of li-berry, ek-setera, and ath-a-lete, pronunciations we'd call quaint at best. (These are reminiscent of the Brooklynese chim-in-ee.)
I suppose the issue here is not whether these pronunciations exist—I'm certain they do—but whether we should acknowledge nonstandard examples where English speakers seek the standard. When we compromise those standards, Merriam-Webster begins to resemble Urban Dictionary.
Writers and speakers consult resources to learn or confirm those rules. My husband reaches for Garner's American Usage. As a poor speller, I frequent my dictionary. I've long held a good dictionary to be an ideal of knowledge; I expect its entries to be thorough and accurate. Why wouldn't I?
Today, a colleague shared this article with me. It chronicles incorrect pronunciations that have become commonplace (licorice oughtn't be pronounced lickerish) and how modern dictionaries perpetuate poor pronunciations. Even this Language Maven will concede that pronunciation changes—knight was once pronounced as it's spelled, after all—but the other examples listed triggered my gag reflex. Online dictionaries now provide audio pronunciations of li-berry, ek-setera, and ath-a-lete, pronunciations we'd call quaint at best. (These are reminiscent of the Brooklynese chim-in-ee.)
I suppose the issue here is not whether these pronunciations exist—I'm certain they do—but whether we should acknowledge nonstandard examples where English speakers seek the standard. When we compromise those standards, Merriam-Webster begins to resemble Urban Dictionary.
11.10.2010
Freud would be proud.
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.
Oops.
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.
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