Juggling 101

  • 23 Aug 2010 /  Uncategorized

    Last time I wrote about recent media coverage of college-aged and recent college-grads (the media has dubbed this group Gen Y and The Millennials). The media seems to think that everyone in this generational group has access to cutting edge technology and knows how to use it. The media also seems to think that this group is a major buying power and regularly exercises their disposable-income-muscles. I won’t retread what I’ve already stated: but I don’t see that all Millennials fit neatly into this designation. More, I don’t even think that the super-spenders (using loans and their parents income, if the media is to be believed), is even a narrow majority. Assuming a knowledge (and spending) base can be problematic; this lack of economic agency absolutely changes the way one interacts with these individuals.

    Politics, for one thing, are different in lower-economic and working-class neighborhoods, but maybe not in the way one might think. If I believed the media I would think that all 17 - 28 year olds are super liberal. They are also atheists and anarchists, if the hype is true. Of course, that isn’t the case at either of the campuses where I teach. Both urban and rural colleges sit securely in the Land o’ the Conservative.

    While many of my students do come from politically conservative homes, proudly voting to maintain the system, regularly attending their various churches and temples, wanting to control the anarchy and chaos that they believe is around every corner, they nonetheless agree with me that many social programs are beneficial. The recent Obama healthcare reform law didn’t so much spark debate in my classes as it brought a sense of relief for many local families facing home foreclosure, job loss, and worse. Because I believed the media hype that “all conservatives” were against healthcare initiatives that provided benefits for people without any insurance, I was shocked to discover this.

    Blogger Samuel P. Jacobs, over at The Daily Beast, doesn’t seem to agree with my students or me in his recent post: “Slackers Cheer Health Reform.” He writes that specifically the provision that grants “twenty-somethings extended healthcare coverage under their parents’ health-insurance plans closes a major gap in the social safety net.” He also predicts that it “also might coax a few recent college grads back to Mom’s couch.” But will this extension keep college graduates longer in their parents home, will it allow them to linger in their unemployment, and  prolong their college-years slacker lifestyle? I asked my students in one of my classes this very question and they all said a resounding “no.” In fact, they laughed at Jacobs’ suggestion.

    My students, you see, come from families that don’t have any insurance to begin with. These are not the elite; these are not even the kids who grew up thinking they would change the world. These are ethnically diverse young people, many from immigrant families, versus the predominantly white groups that the media focuses on. They are working and poverty class, versus the upper-middle-class and wealthy that the media pokes at.

    In my classes, I routinely spend the first several weeks, even in my online classes, teaching students how to do basic things like access their student email, log into Blackboard to find what resources I have available for them, and how to utilize the colleges’ databases. These students didn’t grow up with a computer in their home. The media seems to think otherwise. These students are thrilled with their new phones, but often can’t afford the basic data package that would give them even limited internet access. Many of these students worked through high school to earn enough money to buy a car and then come to college with no clear goals or any idea of what to expect.

    TV shows on network and cable channels lavish attention on the tech generation. This can only create an enormous gap between the “us” and the “them.” Music genres also reference the toys of the generation with fixated devotion, and no authentic sense of the reality for the listeners. Billboards, radio commercials, all tout this idea. I do my best, as we all do in the classroom, to educate my students not just about my course subjects but also the world they actually live in. It never feels like it’s enough, though.

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  • 16 Aug 2010 /  students

    This is a longer blog, and I’ve decided to break it into two parts.

    I see them shuffle in every semester, this group referred to by the label-makers as Gen Y or The Millennials. The Millennials in my Community College classes, though, don’t look like the super slick, Gossip Girl outfitted, tech-savvy young adults I see in Apple computer or Kia Soul commercials.

    One of the communities that I teach in is very rural, and the students come in right off their jobs on ranches or in construction. The other community that I teach in is extremely urban, with many students unfamiliar with technology except in regards to their music players. In neither group do I have many commercial viewing, internet trolling, movie-going young adults who live on that tech cutting edge.

    Many times during lectures, in fact, I am reminded of my students’ lack of popular culture exposure. I reference movies, songs, news items, the latest commentary on The Daily Show, etc and I get blank stares back at me. In my online Introduction to Myth class I even use contemporary movies to illustrate the mythic themes each week, and I wade through regular emails from confused students complaining that they don’t have an online movie rental account, don’t have access to a DVD player or a computer that will play movies, or worse, can’t even choose a movie because they’ve never heard of them. (Note that I choose mostly current movies, those 10 years old or newer).

    I’m not the only person who’s noticed this inequity in representation. Social commentary writer for Bitch Magazine online, J. Maureen Henderson wrote a recent blog (03 May 2010) called “The Young and the Feckless” where she specifically addresses the “largely invisible” who, “by virtue of culture, religion or upbringing, have different values or a different relationship to technology than those which defines the Millennial archetype.” She believes it’s predominantly an economic issue. I’m not so sure.

    Is it economy alone? Isn’t there some amount of culture of origin, and faith system, and even political affiliations at play? While money is, I think, a large part of this equation it isn’t only money that separates the tech savvy from the tech invisibles.

    Whatever the reason, there’s a definite divide; it is, though, quickly being bridged, even if the media hasn’t caught on to that fact yet. In March, Jennifer Bleyer wrote “Hipsters on Food Stamps,” a blog post about college educated young adults who are finding themselves on food stamps (and they’re shopping at Whole Foods, which adds to the controversy.) Bleyer’s piece looks specifically at those who enter the workforce with a certain expectation of success, only to find themselves heavily in debt and starving. To her credit she makes no overt critique of these graduates utilizing government social programs, but there is a certain cluck-clucking sound playing in the background. I have mixed feelings.

    Few, if any, of my students have ever stepped into a Whole Foods and while these so-called Hipsters might have been the original Gen Y models for all those cell phone commercials, they no longer have the disposable cash to utilize their tech know-how. The divide could easily close over all of them, without regard for their parentage or economic status of origin.

    Next time: The media and Healthcare versus the reality for Community College students.

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  • 16 May 2010 /  organization, teaching

    I’m already planning my Fall courses.

    I start with the syllabus. It’s a question about how many rules I want to put in the syllabus. I hate to start the class on such a negative point; but when I don’t include rules it always comes back to haunt me.

    One of the elements I struggle with is my “no late work” policy. In a perfect world I would absolutely never accept late work. I haven’t been as married to the policy, though, these past two semesters and it’s caused me untold problems getting all of the grading done. I won’t tell you how behind I’ve been because I know you’ll want to scold me.

    Into the new syllabi will be a firm (and hopefully enforced) no late policy.

    Some of my peers think that this is a rather harsh policy. My peers aren’t really the issue, though. It’s the students who have such extreme needs throughout the semester who fight against this structure more than any other.

    Students don’t realize that when they turn work in late they’re eroding the careful balance their harried instructor has worked so hard to create. I’m the harried instructor here, and I only speak for myself on this. I’m betting all of you handle this far better than I do. I’m a soft touch; I crumble at the first excuse, I’m afraid.

    For example, students have argued eloquently that there was a deficit for that essay at the time it was due because it wasn’t done on time. Like roll-over minutes, the missing work opened up a time slot in the previous week, thus allowing me the opportunity to work ahead. Of course “life stuff” is actually more amorphous than that and will fill in whatever framework our days take on. No roll-over assignments, no roll-over time slots. There is no such thing as extra time. I have to schedule time to breathe; grading their late assignment is just not to be considered.

    Really, if I accept even one 5 paragraph essay late, that’s one more essay to read when I am past that assignment and onto grading midterms, commenting on ePosts in my online classes, correcting quizzes, or inputting grades. It’s an easily collapsible mound of time-sensitive stuff.

    I am sorry when their dog dies or their rock star crush breaks their heart; I’m even more sorry when the serious reasons unfold, such as their neighbor sues them, their car is stolen or wrecked, or their landlord kicks them out. I always wonder: are my hands tied? Like with finals that can’t be taken as scheduled, how much accommodation do I need to make?

    I’m just as much a softy about attendance. That one confuses me because I tend rant and rave on the first day and have in my syllabus in several places that coming in late or not showing up at all isn’t my problem it’s the students’. They figure out pretty early, though, that they can work me. This really goes hand-in-hand with the late work policy, as it turns out.

    I will be addressing both of these, and a few other challenges I seem to regularly deal with, as I make my syllabi. I’ve decided, in fact, that for the Fall I am going to sound like a Marine Drill Sergeant on that first day and scare off anyone who isn’t serious about my class. Maybe I’ll wear a uniform and use an air horn to punctuate each of the points in my policies section. All joking aside, colleagues have told me that giving students a test on the syllabus really helps. I’m starting with that.

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  • 10 May 2010 /  commuting

    The old, dirty flatbed truck two vehicles ahead if me is loaded down with assorted shopping carts. Had I noticed, I would have gotten in the other lane; now, it’s too late. I’ll be trapped in this spot for at least 20 minutes. I pound my flat palms on the steering wheel and use my most colorful language in my closed car. It’ll be a slow move up the main drag of my hometown, into the hills, over and around the bend, then back down into the town where I work today.

    It’s my fault; I left late.

    I have come to believe that there’s an art to getting through the commuter traffic. Timing, quick but calculated decisions, and a healthy helping of luck are all necessary components. As I sit at yet another light smelling exhaust fumes, feeling the combined thump-thump of the big truck’s engine and the stereo from the car immediately in front of me, I start to think that, as in all art, there’s a narrative to this car-ballet I do during the week.

    There are the slow-goers who insist on driving just below the speed limit and they truly, sincerely believe it is best if everyone follows their lead. They almost never pull over to let the line of cars behind them pass. They staunchly guard their lane-place, and will even give their horn a little tap-tap if someone gets cheeky enough to tailgate.

    On the road we also have the multi-taskers, who like to conduct blue-tooth meetings in their car while they also shave, or put on eyeliner, read reports, and root around for something-or-other in their glove compartment (something they seem frustrated about because it is seldom there). The multi-taskers can be dangerous; often you’ll spot them first weaving a little in the lane (although they usually manage to stay in the lane, at least). They are very distracted, and that always concerns me, particularly on winding, two-lane roads.

    Then there are the happy-to-breathe who, when they come to a four-way stop, like to wave people through ahead of them two and three cars at a time just because it’s a nice thing to do. They keep plenty of distance between their car and the one in front of them, even if it’s a seriously-slow-goer. Their windows are down and you can see them singing along to the music, looking at the clouds in the sky, and just generally being glad they are alive.

    Two other types of commuters that I see regularly are the all-business drivers and the oh-so-impatient. The all-business are my favorite to get behind, because they aren’t going to slow down to look at accidents or try any crazy passes around the slow-goers. They don’t gesture wildly when someone cuts them off, or give the middle finger to tailgaters. The oh-so-impatient drivers quite honestly scare me and I try to give them ample room (probably looking like a happy-to-breather in the process). They will always (you can count on this) use turn lanes and wide shoulders to pass the slow-goers and anyone else in the way. For this driver, it isn’t actually about being able to drive at a certain speed; they just don’t want anyone in front of them. They often have loud music coming out of their tinted windows. But despite what some may think, they aren’t all in their late teens and early 20s - impatience is not necessarily a matter of age.

    I will admit that I’ve been some form of each of these drivers and appreciate the headspace that each type represents.

    I catch a break in my commute this morning….my slow-goer truck turns off before the long trek up the two-lane hill-road and I say a little prayer of thanks to the commuter gods; it looks like I may get to my class on time after all. I crank up the stereo and start singing along to the upbeat song. I notice the clouds dancing around in the blue-blue sky. Some days are just good.

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  • 30 Apr 2010 /  teaching

    It’s almost May. The weather has changed and it’s making me think ahead.

    I’m already planning my meager summer vacation. Most of this summer I’ll be desperately working 8 and 9 hour days getting my dissertation finished so I don’t have to face my scary committee chair and ask for even more time than I’ve already taken. I’ve been blessed, or cursed, depending on how you see it, with no classes this summer.

    Blessed, because this dissertation isn’t going to write itself. I’m mired in Chapter Three and finding the time to even finish that has been difficult, at best. Having dedicated time, even just the sporadic hour here or there, is always a gift, and I appreciate it whenever it happens. Obviously, I’m cursed, because having no classes can mean dire financial consequences for part timers.

    As for the upcoming summer vacation, one of my oldest friends is planning on visiting here in June. She called me last week to ask if I was “in.” My only criteria for going along with any of her crazy plans was that I needed to be able to read trashy novels (no laptop, no Blackberry) and laze by some kind of body of water. She ended the conversation quickly; later, she texted me that we would be going out on another friend’s sailboat for four days. Four days. I’m in shock thinking of how wonderful getting a four-day break will be.

    Along with the anticipation of relaxing days under a deep blue sky, dipping my toe in the rippling waters of the Pacific ocean, I am also thinking of all of the work still to be done between now and the actual end of the semester. There are final projects to be graded, stacks and stacks of essays to get through, more online discussions than I know what to do with to comment on and grade, and then the finals to write.

    There are also the bevy of worried student-faces hovering around me at the end of each class, their pleading eyes and wistful voices hoping for some kind of extra credit for assignments earlier blown off and now (belatedly) causing gpa concerns.

    The semester has gone by so fast, it seems. Actually, the entire year is a blur. Like my students, I see my own as-a-student work, my dissertation, and what it means - work I’ve put off, and now must face. Because I am anticipating my soon-to-be loafing I will likely be more understanding with my needy students. I get their anxiety. I’m going to try and not pack that when I back my sunscreen and swimsuit.

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  • 25 Apr 2010 /  students, teaching

    It was bound to happen in one of my classes. I knew that sooner or later I would be confronted by the fanatical devotion fans have for the Twilight books and movies. Twilight, for the three people in the United States who don’t know, is the first in a series of novels and movies about a young woman named Bella Swan. As the series progresses, she must choose between two different young men with whom she has fallen in love. The first is Edward, the outsider who comes from a wealthy and prominent family; the other, Jacob, is everyone’s favorite town son. The twist that makes this more than a standard teen romance novel is that Edward is a vampire and Jacob is a werewolf.

    These stories have captured the attention of so many people, from all different age groups. Christine Seifert, writing for BitchMagazine.org back in 2008, explains that this multigenerational reader infatuation with Bella and Edward’s smoldering romance was even the focus of a fan “engagement” party at the Sandy, Utah, Barnes & Noble store on the night before the fourth book was released that year. Participants wore formal wedding attire in honor of the happy fictional couple. It was a big night for romantics, one and all (”Bite me, (Or Don’t!“).

    With so much overexposure, I should have realized that at some point a student would bring up the books and movies in a class discussion. We were talking that day about “showing” versus “telling” in writing. I was giving examples about word choice, word placement, sentence choice, and using examples. One young woman lovingly brought out her copy of the second or third book and, in a rush of breathless exclamation points, told the class that she wanted to write like Stephanie Meyers, the author.

    Quite the controversy exists around these works and this author. Early last year, horror writer Stephen King, in the USA Weekend Magazine, stated that while Meyers does speak directly to her audience, “Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn.” Her lack of polish and talent dogs her as she continues to write for fans who are so avid they call themselves Twi-Fans and Twi-Hards, or Twi-moms if they’re of the older variety. They don’t seem to care that literary critics pan her work, they just keep buying her products obsessively. And, with the second movie just out on DVD, and the third movie scheduled to arrive in theatres at the end of June this year, fans everywhere are in a frenzy.

    Here I was in my college writing class faced with just such a dedicated enthusiast and I was caught off-guard. I am not going to spend this entire post outlining the failings of Ms. Meyers’s books. Not when gifted bloggers like Eric Boyd Vogeler have already done a superb job of it here. And the Monkey See duo at NPR have also done a series well worth your time here.

    But I was at a loss as to how to manage the spellbound student. I barely had to. Not all students, it turned out, were in the thrall of this pseudo-gothic-vampire love story. A heated debate broke out. One contingent believed that Twilight was a poor substitute for such literary classics as Dracula, Frankenstein, and Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. Another didn’t care about the literary merit because readin’ is readin’ and that’s what these books caused people to do (people who normally weren’t bookish). Still another rallied in support of the writing in the Twilight books, sticking with their dogged belief that it was good. What’s an instructor to do?

    In the end, I allowed all sides to state their views. Then I took lines from the book and used them as examples. Sadly, they just didn’t hold up to scrutiny and the student-fans were forever awakened to that fact.

    I seem to be breaking ever more hearts in my classroom…

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  • 02 Apr 2010 /  evalution, students

    As I’ve said before, critical thinking is important, but if the students can’t figure out how to put their ideas down on the page in a readable way, then no one will care if they thought critically. Even if I explain all of this to the students and they agree that learning methods is what they most desire, when we get into the actual methods work they balk. No one likes to be criticized; and no one wants their comfortable bad habits attacked. Worse, students don’t even realize they have bad habits. They believe that what they produce is good writing and previous teachers gave them poor grades for other reasons.

    I had a young man approach me just a few weeks ago. He shook his head, clucked his tongue, and told me that I just didn’t like him and that’s why I was so hard on his fantastic work. His writing was a series of long-winded sentences that offered no subject, only layers and layers of modifying adverbs and adjectives. When I asked him to find me the subject of the sentences he couldn’t, of course. He was undaunted, though, by the evidence of his own work.

    Denial is not new to me in these classes. A few years ago I had a student insist that he wasn’t plagiarizing, even though he had no citations at all anywhere in his writing. I’d given him the benefit of the doubt and explained unintentional plagiarism, but he was adamant that it wasn’t necessary to cite anywhere in the document as long as he had a Works Cited page. His reasoning was that no other teacher had said anything.

    In another class, a young woman interrupted my lecture on thesis statements to inform me that I taught thesis statements all wrong. They don’t have to be arguable, she vehemently maintained. She was quite sure that they could simply be informative. When I explained that arguability, if nothing else, made for a more interesting thesis, and potentially a more interesting essay, she interrupted again to tell me that no other English teacher ever taught thesis statements this way, and her proof was that her brother had had a composition class the previous semester and his teacher didn’t, nor had any of her high school teachers. Irrefutable evidence, indeed.

    Some might think that these types of incidents as absolute proof that students are rude and ungrateful. But I think it has more to do with how hard it is to let go of what we know, what we are comfortable with, even if that “what” doesn’t gain us positive results. Change really is hard, just as the cliché goes.

    I initially believed that students would welcome my approach of teaching them the methods and tools they’d need for their required college writing. Over time, though, I’ve come to see that they long for their mixed metaphors, their clichés, and their idiomatic phrasings. They tell me they miss randomly and unconsciously injected figures of speech. They miss their colorful phrases that they believe liven up their sentences. I patiently explain that you can’t dress up bad, no matter how hard you try.

    They also enjoy taking my lecture notes and telling me that I break the rules: I use contractions, I start sentences with FANBOYS, etc. Ah, but my lecture notes aren’t formal writing, I reply….every semester…..

    There is much handholding that goes on in writing classes, and mine is no different. Being told that one has superfluous wording, poor grammar, troubled syntax, or any other corrective statement can be tough to endure. My class size dwindles as the assignments collect and the papers are returned without praise for what the student truly believed were legendary masterpieces. I’m eyeballing a stack right now, writing this blog instead of making the necessary corrections. Another group will find out this week that their brilliant and clever creations are only a C- grade at best. I feel bad for their lost innocence - now, where’s that red pen.

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  • 30 Mar 2010 /  time management

    This week is Spring Break. Well, sort of. No, it is, but not necessarily for me. It’s break for some schools, some instructors, some kids, but not all of them. One of my colleges is, in fact, on break for the week. I teach two online classes and a face-to-face class there. In the face-to-face class we had the midterm last week and they couldn’t get out of that classroom fast enough. I warned them that we still had the second half of class to finish. One young man asked if I was going to get the midterms done early. I laughed. “I still have classes to teach at a different school. I’ll try, but I need to work them into my regular grading schedule.” He was shocked that I wasn’t on break. He said, “I thought I worked all the time, but your schedule is nuts.” He has no idea.

    At the other college where I teach, I have classes this week, next week, and then one of the classes is on break for a week, and the other for two weeks.

    Last Thursday, in one of those classes, I forgot where I was and tried to send them off on a break. They were thrilled at the idea of having the entire month off. “Not so fast,” I told them. “Even if I get confused, you have the schedule, you know when we’re supposed to be here.”

    It would funny, this crazy schedule of mine. OK, it is funny. But my poor husband has his own crazy adjunct schedule that doesn’t line up with mine. Worse, I have a daughter in high school and one at the local university. Their schedules also don’t mesh with my husband’s or mine.  We used to take family vacations, but that just isn’t possible since we started teaching as adjuncts.

    My older daughter asked for help with one of her final projects due this week. We laughed as we pulled out the calendars (on our cell phones and laptops) to find some time. She keeps getting confused because she’s on quarters, hence she’s in finals, and her father and I are on semesters, which puts us at midterms.

    One of the real victims in all of this is my elderly father who can’t keep any of these schedules straight. My husband prints schedules for my dad, but we have to constantly update them. And my daughters have things come up weekly, sometimes daily, that cause them to need to be out of the house when the schedule says they should be home. It really confuses poor Dad. He has started just bolting and chaining the front door all the time. He doesn’t even check who’s not home yet. We have to call each other from outside and ask someone to take the chain off the door.

    Worse than that, I have a dear friend who also teaches adjunct. She and I were hoping to get together for lunch over one of the breaks. Sadly, she’s at still other schools and none of our breaks line up. In fact, our personal schedules don’t line up, either. The previous weekend she left me a message on my Facebook asking if we could try to do lunch. She suggested the weekend, since our days are so crazy. While I teach five classes at three locations, she teaches something like nine classes at I-don’t know how many locations. She also works as a tutor at one of my colleges. On Thursday, last week, I called her. I got her voicemail. I left her a message that asked if she had Sunday off. I needed to take my daughter to get her senior portraits done on Saturday, so Sunday was the only day I had open.

    She texted me back that Sunday she was taking her kids to the movies. Several texts later we tried to find a two-hour spot in our schedules but had no luck. Her last text was “we’ll have to play it by ear.”

    My ear is getting tired and sore, though, because this keeps happening. You would think that I would be used to it by now, but I’m just not.

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  • 19 Mar 2010 /  organization, teaching

    I was out walking with a friend last week and the conversation turned, as it often does, to school. She’d just finished her college-level writing class and was sharing her experiences. She loved her instructor and mostly wanted to express how grateful she was for the terrific job he had done. In his class, the students wrote eight essays, plus a rash of smaller writing assignments. They watched movies, and analyzed them. She raved about the various critical thinking exercises and discussions this instructor offered—she felt challenged to try harder, and to push herself. Overall, the class sounded like one that, as a student, I would’ve enjoyed.

    This got me to thinking.

    Much goes into putting together a writing class. As part of the design, instructors consider the course’s outline of record and other requirements. These can be rather strict and stiff. Some schools have tightly controlled curricula, some limit the textbooks used, while others allow the instructor total autonomy. A minimalistic approach is one extreme (basics only), and a fully-loaded course like the one my friend had is at the other extreme.

    Where my friend’s class was chock-full of critical thinking opportunities, a variety of materials for the students to analyze, and ample classroom discussions on controversial topics, the minimalist approach offers a more practicum-oriented structure rather like a vocational application of writing techniques. Here, students spend their time learning writing formulas for thesis statements, paragraphs, and essays; they read mostly other student work looking at style, function, and effectiveness more than content and quality of writing; and while they are introduced to critical thinking as per the requirements, classroom time is mostly spent in various writing exercises and workshops rather than heated discussions.  Instead of spending weeks on research essays and longer writing pieces, students have a shorter reading and writing assignment due every class, and frequently workshop those assignments in groups.

    Now, the ultimate goal of any instructor is to offer a variety of teaching styles so that more students’ needs are addressed. Sticking too closely with one or another style, however well-intentioned, can result in losing some, or many students. Having too minimal an approach can lead to formulaic and dull writing; having too creative an approach can lead to the basics getting lost in the milieu of technique. Perhaps it comes down to that old battle of function over form, of practicality over style.

    You might be thinking that I am about to say that my courses fall firmly between the two extremes. That isn’t the case, though. I did used to teach the fully-loaded, critical thinking heavy class. If lessons got sidetracked because of hot topic discussions, I figured that students were learning how to express themselves. I encouraged creativity. I cheered on individuality and innovative thinking—at least I did until I taught a critical argument class about two years ago.

    The first meeting, I surveyed my students and they admitted that not a single one of them had scored higher than a C in their prerequisite writing class (which I regularly teach). I spent the majority of that semester:

    1) teaching them the what and how of a thesis statement

    2) that opinion is not analysis

    3) that plagiarism can be unintentional yet still be really bad.

    I came to dread the discussions because basic “if/then” arguments were lost on these students. Their attempts at writing clear, concise arguments were painful to read. Critical analysis was all opinion for these students, and they had no idea how to even communicate those opinions in grammatically correct ways. When we moved into the literature section they were lost in every discussion about symbol, tone, mood, and interpretation.

    I made the decision then to return to my computer training method of a practicum approach. I developed my writing formulas, and I’ve been using them since. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder sometimes if I haven’t sacrificed style for practicality. Sometimes it’s a roll of the dice how well we do in any class; sometimes we agonize over every choice we make. I’d say the proof is in the pudding, but I don’t allow my writing students to use clichés or figures of speech in their writing and it would be bad form for me to do it here.

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  • 13 Mar 2010 /  teaching

    Last semester I walked into a class that I had been petitioning to teach since I began at this particular school. It is a class on the dark and brooding subject of death. When I first talked with the department chair about this class, and about how I would bring a completely different perspective to the material, I actually had no idea what the class was about. Hubris, I know. I’d seen the name in the catalog and thought it would be fun to tell people I teach a class called Death and Dying. It is fun saying that, I admit it. I am a 40+-year-old woman, and the name sounds cool is a frivolous reason to want to teach a class.

    In that meeting with my chair he gently but firmly informed me that he was quite content with the gentleman currently teaching the course. Last summer that changed. I was suddenly mired in the culture of death, grief, mourning, and more. I was going to bring in various cultures and how they approach sickness and death. I was going to show students how Freud’s oft-misunderstood “death wish” was alive and well. I had so many plans.

    The reality, of course, is that I also had to find a textbook (or five) that allowed me to do all of that. And that was when I hit the wall. Had no one ever taught this course the way I wanted to? Was there no instructor out there who saw the ceremonial purpose of body tattoos that commemorate our beloved dead, and had a textbook made that showed pictures of them? And what about those “in loving memory” car tattoos that everyone drives around with? Wasn’t there a collection of essays someplace that had academics discussing the healing merits of such things? I did find some rather oddball books about zombie and vampire culture as outgrowths of our collective fear of dying. But the books were expensive, and the essays proved to be difficult to integrate into any other kinds of lecture. In the end, I went with a collection of essays that more or less outlines the historical development of the cross-cultural study of death utilizing essays and chapter excerpts by anthropologists, ethnographers, psychologists, folklorists, and other scholars. Mostly the students like the book. I’m constantly looking for supplemental materials, though, to fill in the gaps.

    Is teaching this subject everything I thought it would be? Yes and no. I do enjoy telling people I teach it. They always give me a strange look and then shake their heads and some, the less timid, finally ask me what a class on Death and Dying really is. The reality of the class, though, is that it’s a lot of work trying to teach students that the universe isn’t made up of “us” versus “them” but is, instead, just full of a whole bunch of “we all.” Two days a week, for 18 weeks, I do my best to teach that. Some cultures seem scary at first, some are rather boring, while others are very involved with their death and dying practices. There’s intrigue and exotic locales and more politicizing around corpses than you might think.

    Yesterday, two former students stopped by to say hello and update me on their transfers to four-year schools. As we were saying goodbye one of the young women - a smart and vivacious young woman who favors extremely tall hair styles and elaborate lip tints - said that she couldn’t get the class out of her head, even midway through a new semester. “I keep seeing death, rituals, and how people cope with it all in everything.” We laughed at that, but I think I can chalk that up to a win for me. After all, as Freud pointed out so long ago, the human body is moving inexorably toward its sure death, immortality is only, you see, a figment of the collective imagination. Every semester a few more students “get that” and perhaps see things a little more clearly in the big, bad world? Or not.

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