As much as I like teaching, it’s often frustrating, seemingly relentless (part of why I’m buried and not blogging as much these days) and short of tangible rewards. On top of that, criticism of higher education is common, from employers to students. Why? What prevents colleges and universities from performing better?
I’ve thought about writing a series of reflections about this for over a year. At that time, however, I was also angry at a handful of related issues, and it wasn’t the time for clear thinking. Now that I’m merely buried in work, though, I’m ready to explain. The problem, in no particular order, is students, professors, high schools, parents, taxpayers, administrators, government, employers, guidance counselors, economics, culture, and society at large. Did I leave anybody out?
As I find a moment here and there, I’ll explore these areas one by one, labeling them when I do as part one, part two, etc. But here’s a start.
Higher education exists for one purpose--to continue. Seriously, no irony. It always has, since its inception in the 12th century. Sure, if research occurs, if education happens, if knowledge expands, terrific. But the system is set up not to reward those endeavors, but to continue. In fact, not only have many new ideas originated outside of supposed intelligentsia, but also those institutions often opposed the new approaches. Despite its more recent “liberal” label, college is a thoroughly conservative institution.
All the other stakeholders have much the same focus--to survive. Admittedly, lots of people throw themselves into endeavors for lots of commendable reasons. But the bottom line is survival, not growth. What growth does occur is a byproduct. Add a healthy dose of self-justification, and we have a system of higher education.
So join me on an exploration, and I look forward to your comments along the way.
Writer
Showing posts with label education. Show all posts
Showing posts with label education. Show all posts
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Grading Papers on a Spring Term Evening
Whose words these are indeed I know;
His seat is by the window, though—
He will not see me sitting here
To read his essay, filled with snow.
My little house must think it queer
To stop with other work so near;
The only sound I hear’s the creep
Of anxious dog (the cats—asleep).
My plans are many, lovely, deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And piles to grade before I sleep,
And piles to grade before I sleep.
Writer
His seat is by the window, though—
He will not see me sitting here
To read his essay, filled with snow.
My little house must think it queer
To stop with other work so near;
The only sound I hear’s the creep
Of anxious dog (the cats—asleep).
My plans are many, lovely, deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And piles to grade before I sleep,
And piles to grade before I sleep.
Writer
Saturday, April 5, 2008
An Artist's Circle
I was perhaps an accidental artist, growing up alienated with a slightly abusive mother and a dad working long hours and going to night school, themselves the children of dairy farmers, my childhood era the turmoil of senseless violence of the sixties, my environment stuck in fifties philosophy, a tarnished Pleasantville.
Yet the house was filled with books, the library was down the street, and inexpensive books were available from catalogs the teachers gave us in class. I took refuge here, eventually also in mathematics (I liked the logical aspects and the challenge of theoretical math) and increasingly in music. From music, the path I decided to follow, I learned a good deal about what the music addressed, including time periods, cultures, philosophies, literature, dance, opera—anything that might make me a better musician—learning FAR more than in school or college.
Most of all, I learned to identify myself as an artist—one who strove to see the world in terms of ideas, particularly fresh views of that world, challenging entrenched, outdated, unuseful thought patterns. “I was sent into the world to rattle cages,” I sometimes explained—my view of the artist as a young man, my way of dealing with a confusing world in my search for purpose and identity.
Thirty years later, I seem to have circled back. My family is scattered and some members won’t even speak to each other. I feel alienated at work, my classroom successes—new approaches, students winning awards for their writing and so forth—are met with polite praise and official criticism, as I’m viewed more as a threat than an asset, indicated by the degree of nitpicking necessary to respond to my endeavors (which remain otherwise successful). I’m irritated and angry, despondent and discouraged. What a waste of energy.
So, I find myself back to rattling cages, back to letting go of what others think, back to seeing the world as freshly as I can, and back to living in my own mental compartment, perhaps symbolized by my cave of an office, or by my home located far out in the country by myself.
Ironic, I suppose (or maybe this has just been building): I sat down to consider how to approach my Intro to Fiction class in this next unit. We’ve just finished “Dubliners”—essentially the story of Joyce’s journey from artistic/alienated adolescent in ”Araby” to his cosmic self-realization(s) at the end of “The Dead”—and his next work? “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” (one of the books I read on my own as a student). Then I started to read the next work, Hesse’s “Magister Ludi,” and I had my own epiphany.
As the “biographer” described the history of the novel’s Glass Bead Game, I remembered why I chose to read this work too as a student, and I know what I’ll teach the class to get them into the novel. As the narrator describes, I’ll show them what’s so special about Bach, Mozart, and Renaissance masters, how Joyce parallels music, how music and mathematics are richly intertwined, how great a role math plays in Renaissance painting and architecture, how Ancient Greece saw music as also geometry and astronomy, how this started the university system, and how Ancient China governed the use of music as essential to the health of the state—and why.
And then the role of contemplation. How everything is a symbol. And just what do we DO with this knowledge after we attain it?
For better or for worse, the artist is back, attitude and all. It’s simply who and what I am, and I refuse to be "a creature driven and derided by vanity."
Writer
Yet the house was filled with books, the library was down the street, and inexpensive books were available from catalogs the teachers gave us in class. I took refuge here, eventually also in mathematics (I liked the logical aspects and the challenge of theoretical math) and increasingly in music. From music, the path I decided to follow, I learned a good deal about what the music addressed, including time periods, cultures, philosophies, literature, dance, opera—anything that might make me a better musician—learning FAR more than in school or college.
Most of all, I learned to identify myself as an artist—one who strove to see the world in terms of ideas, particularly fresh views of that world, challenging entrenched, outdated, unuseful thought patterns. “I was sent into the world to rattle cages,” I sometimes explained—my view of the artist as a young man, my way of dealing with a confusing world in my search for purpose and identity.
Thirty years later, I seem to have circled back. My family is scattered and some members won’t even speak to each other. I feel alienated at work, my classroom successes—new approaches, students winning awards for their writing and so forth—are met with polite praise and official criticism, as I’m viewed more as a threat than an asset, indicated by the degree of nitpicking necessary to respond to my endeavors (which remain otherwise successful). I’m irritated and angry, despondent and discouraged. What a waste of energy.
So, I find myself back to rattling cages, back to letting go of what others think, back to seeing the world as freshly as I can, and back to living in my own mental compartment, perhaps symbolized by my cave of an office, or by my home located far out in the country by myself.
Ironic, I suppose (or maybe this has just been building): I sat down to consider how to approach my Intro to Fiction class in this next unit. We’ve just finished “Dubliners”—essentially the story of Joyce’s journey from artistic/alienated adolescent in ”Araby” to his cosmic self-realization(s) at the end of “The Dead”—and his next work? “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” (one of the books I read on my own as a student). Then I started to read the next work, Hesse’s “Magister Ludi,” and I had my own epiphany.
As the “biographer” described the history of the novel’s Glass Bead Game, I remembered why I chose to read this work too as a student, and I know what I’ll teach the class to get them into the novel. As the narrator describes, I’ll show them what’s so special about Bach, Mozart, and Renaissance masters, how Joyce parallels music, how music and mathematics are richly intertwined, how great a role math plays in Renaissance painting and architecture, how Ancient Greece saw music as also geometry and astronomy, how this started the university system, and how Ancient China governed the use of music as essential to the health of the state—and why.
And then the role of contemplation. How everything is a symbol. And just what do we DO with this knowledge after we attain it?
For better or for worse, the artist is back, attitude and all. It’s simply who and what I am, and I refuse to be "a creature driven and derided by vanity."
Writer
Sunday, December 16, 2007
College?
When one of the clerks at my local small-town store returned from college last spring, I asked her how her first year of college went.
“OK,” she answered cheerfully, and then added emphatically, “Only thing is, college professors just don’t care about you. High school teachers care; professors just want to collect that check, and that’s all they care about.”
I kept my groans and sighs internal. “What do you mean, exactly?” I asked. She just repeated the above. “Well, like what, for example?” I prompted. She didn’t know. Said she’d think about it.
I saw her again this week, back from school again. I didn’t recognize her until I heard her voice—she was at best “stocky” before, and in the past few months, she’s changed her hair style and color and gained at least 25 lbs.—now seriously obese. I was shaking my head about a few of my own students, students who had emailed me course work eight days after the last day of classes—no explanation, no excuse, no plea for clemency, just the blithe expectation that of course I could just accept it whenever they got around to submitting it.
“A problem with math skills, perhaps!” I joked with the clerk.
“Oh, I’m terrible at math—but I got an A, because my math teacher likes me.”
Still joking, I abruptly shifted my weight, placed my fist on my hip, demanding “And English?!”
“Oh—that was horrible!” she replied. “We had an adjunct.”
OK—not quite enough information (especially since she attends a community college—60%+ of the faculty are adjuncts)…
“What was the problem?” I asked.
“He hardly ever came to class,” she said calmly, and then with much more animation, “And he was the kind of professor who would assign a ten page paper on introducing wolves into the Adirondacks…”
I cut her off. “Wait a minute. He hardly ever came to class?”
“Yup,” she answered, “And he assigned this ridiculous ten page paper on introducing wolves into the Adirondacks…”
I sensed a pattern here, and sure enough, we repeated it a few more times.
“Never mind the paper,” I finally insisted. “Let’s stick with your first point—if he hardly ever came to class, why didn’t you talk to the department Chair? Or the Dean?”
She looked at me and shrugged, a bit confused. “Well, this paper was just ridiculous…”
A ten page paper. O the horrors. Probably involved research too.
“But why would you all sit there repeatedly when he didn’t come to class and not report it?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know. We didn’t think of it, I guess.”
Critical thinking. Education in action.
Writer
“OK,” she answered cheerfully, and then added emphatically, “Only thing is, college professors just don’t care about you. High school teachers care; professors just want to collect that check, and that’s all they care about.”
I kept my groans and sighs internal. “What do you mean, exactly?” I asked. She just repeated the above. “Well, like what, for example?” I prompted. She didn’t know. Said she’d think about it.
I saw her again this week, back from school again. I didn’t recognize her until I heard her voice—she was at best “stocky” before, and in the past few months, she’s changed her hair style and color and gained at least 25 lbs.—now seriously obese. I was shaking my head about a few of my own students, students who had emailed me course work eight days after the last day of classes—no explanation, no excuse, no plea for clemency, just the blithe expectation that of course I could just accept it whenever they got around to submitting it.
“A problem with math skills, perhaps!” I joked with the clerk.
“Oh, I’m terrible at math—but I got an A, because my math teacher likes me.”
Still joking, I abruptly shifted my weight, placed my fist on my hip, demanding “And English?!”
“Oh—that was horrible!” she replied. “We had an adjunct.”
OK—not quite enough information (especially since she attends a community college—60%+ of the faculty are adjuncts)…
“What was the problem?” I asked.
“He hardly ever came to class,” she said calmly, and then with much more animation, “And he was the kind of professor who would assign a ten page paper on introducing wolves into the Adirondacks…”
I cut her off. “Wait a minute. He hardly ever came to class?”
“Yup,” she answered, “And he assigned this ridiculous ten page paper on introducing wolves into the Adirondacks…”
I sensed a pattern here, and sure enough, we repeated it a few more times.
“Never mind the paper,” I finally insisted. “Let’s stick with your first point—if he hardly ever came to class, why didn’t you talk to the department Chair? Or the Dean?”
She looked at me and shrugged, a bit confused. “Well, this paper was just ridiculous…”
A ten page paper. O the horrors. Probably involved research too.
“But why would you all sit there repeatedly when he didn’t come to class and not report it?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know. We didn’t think of it, I guess.”
Critical thinking. Education in action.
Writer
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Last Lie I Told
I know this strains credulity, but it’s true—I told my last lie in 8th grade.
Not that I was (or am, for that matter) any saint. My parents maintained that the lie was a separate, punishable action from the original offense, a rule I ran afoul of multiple times (especially since age seven—not sure why that age in particular).
Mr. Lane, my 8th grade Social Studies teacher, was one of three junior high school teachers who showed us that learning was important, that the subjects were relevant, interesting, even fascinating once we started to understand them. This trio also taught us to think for ourselves, frequently giving us structured tasks or group activities, getting out of our way, letting us make our mistakes, but then coming back and addressing our shortcomings. They pushed us, worked us, gave us lower grades then we were used to earning, redirected us, sent us back to thinking and working—and we loved it. They were my favorite teachers.
So when I didn’t hand in my Social Studies report (I don’t remember how many pages were required), it wasn’t any judgment against the class or the teacher—I just was a kid who got busy doing some other kid things and didn’t get to the assigned report in time. I sat cringing as the class passed in their work, knowing I was in serious trouble. Fortunately, Mr. Lane didn’t notice I hadn’t turned in a report, so I was reprieved for the moment, but I knew it would eventually catch up with me.
And that day arrived. While the rest of the class worked on an in-class assignment, Mr. Lane came over to talk with me. My stomach churned—I knew I was in deep trouble.
“I didn’t see your report,” he started. I hung my head. “Did you turn one in?” Nervous, I nodded. “OK—I’ll look through everything here and at home and see if I can find it.” I knew he wouldn’t, of course, but at least I’d bought another reprieve.
I worried all through class each day—my brief reprieve had become a week. It couldn’t last.
Finally, almost as a relief, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Mr. Lane called me over to his desk at the end of class. Here it comes. As my classmates filed out the door, I shuffled slowly to my doom.
“I’ve looked everywhere for your paper,” began Mr. Lane. I looked at the floor. “I tore apart everything, every pile, and it’s just not there.” My shoulders slumped. Fear grew by the second, anticipating my fate. “So,” Mr. Lane continued, “I’m just going to have to assume it was an “A” paper.”
My heart jumped into my throat. I looked at him, stunned. “OK,” I answered, lamely, and followed my classmates to our next class.
I should have felt relieved, elated, joyful. I didn’t. I felt two inches tall. I didn’t even feel some cliché emotion, like “I let my favorite teacher down,” for example. Instead, I knew I’d just had an interaction with a man who was a far better person than I, and I’d failed miserably. I didn’t like it. I still don’t, years later. Mistakes are one thing, but this was another. It was the last lie I told.
Today, I know at least some of my college students wouldn’t hesitate to lie about their work, judging from the number of blatant plagiarism cases I’ve busted. In my own way, I’ve offered them a small if unpalatable way out: “May I talk to you for a minute before class, outside? Do you realize that the deadline for dropping a course is this Friday? Are you aware that students aren’t allowed to drop courses to escape plagiarism charges? Now, if someone plagiarized one of these papers I’m about to hand back, my comments about that would constitute a plagiarism charge, subject to the formal policies laid out in detail in the College Handbook. However, if such a student dropped before I was able to return the paper and make the charge, I’m not sure I could do much about it.”
I don’t know what impact this has on students long term. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. I wonder if Mr. Lane simply knew I was lying.
Our culture currently seems not to even blink at dishonesty. People have so long stolen copied music that they don’t even consider the ramifications. One folk artist even did a song about it (these lyrics are to the best of my memory):
So I copied it
Gave it to all my friends
A lot them gave it to their friends too
Cause I love ya man
I’m your biggest fan…
…and so forth, with the speaker in the song ironically wondering why the band isn’t more successful, even wondering if maybe they just don’t try hard enough.
One of my colleagues, a self-styled (and continually unpublished) novelist maintains, “I wouldn’t mind if someone made copies of my novel, so why should I worry about copying music?” I think the law and at least many of the musicians might view the case differently.
My younger brother, Mr. Values, downloads copied DVDs. “Hey, they’re on the Internet,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re stolen or not!” I mentioned we could say the same about TVs sold from the back of a truck in a parking lot. Uncharacteristically, he had no retort.
Seemingly, if you can get away with it, it’s moral.
And how do you argue against that, when the Bush administration claims lying as executive privilege? The ridiculous spin on Iraq, the mind-numbing audacity of Alberto Gonzalez—these are just the obvious points with bipartisan agreement, let alone the host of other nonsense.
As a society, we’re like alcoholics—we arguably COULD stop, COULD get help—but we want to lie.
And the lack of truth shall continue to render us less and less free.
Writer
Not that I was (or am, for that matter) any saint. My parents maintained that the lie was a separate, punishable action from the original offense, a rule I ran afoul of multiple times (especially since age seven—not sure why that age in particular).
Mr. Lane, my 8th grade Social Studies teacher, was one of three junior high school teachers who showed us that learning was important, that the subjects were relevant, interesting, even fascinating once we started to understand them. This trio also taught us to think for ourselves, frequently giving us structured tasks or group activities, getting out of our way, letting us make our mistakes, but then coming back and addressing our shortcomings. They pushed us, worked us, gave us lower grades then we were used to earning, redirected us, sent us back to thinking and working—and we loved it. They were my favorite teachers.
So when I didn’t hand in my Social Studies report (I don’t remember how many pages were required), it wasn’t any judgment against the class or the teacher—I just was a kid who got busy doing some other kid things and didn’t get to the assigned report in time. I sat cringing as the class passed in their work, knowing I was in serious trouble. Fortunately, Mr. Lane didn’t notice I hadn’t turned in a report, so I was reprieved for the moment, but I knew it would eventually catch up with me.
And that day arrived. While the rest of the class worked on an in-class assignment, Mr. Lane came over to talk with me. My stomach churned—I knew I was in deep trouble.
“I didn’t see your report,” he started. I hung my head. “Did you turn one in?” Nervous, I nodded. “OK—I’ll look through everything here and at home and see if I can find it.” I knew he wouldn’t, of course, but at least I’d bought another reprieve.
I worried all through class each day—my brief reprieve had become a week. It couldn’t last.
Finally, almost as a relief, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Mr. Lane called me over to his desk at the end of class. Here it comes. As my classmates filed out the door, I shuffled slowly to my doom.
“I’ve looked everywhere for your paper,” began Mr. Lane. I looked at the floor. “I tore apart everything, every pile, and it’s just not there.” My shoulders slumped. Fear grew by the second, anticipating my fate. “So,” Mr. Lane continued, “I’m just going to have to assume it was an “A” paper.”
My heart jumped into my throat. I looked at him, stunned. “OK,” I answered, lamely, and followed my classmates to our next class.
I should have felt relieved, elated, joyful. I didn’t. I felt two inches tall. I didn’t even feel some cliché emotion, like “I let my favorite teacher down,” for example. Instead, I knew I’d just had an interaction with a man who was a far better person than I, and I’d failed miserably. I didn’t like it. I still don’t, years later. Mistakes are one thing, but this was another. It was the last lie I told.
Today, I know at least some of my college students wouldn’t hesitate to lie about their work, judging from the number of blatant plagiarism cases I’ve busted. In my own way, I’ve offered them a small if unpalatable way out: “May I talk to you for a minute before class, outside? Do you realize that the deadline for dropping a course is this Friday? Are you aware that students aren’t allowed to drop courses to escape plagiarism charges? Now, if someone plagiarized one of these papers I’m about to hand back, my comments about that would constitute a plagiarism charge, subject to the formal policies laid out in detail in the College Handbook. However, if such a student dropped before I was able to return the paper and make the charge, I’m not sure I could do much about it.”
I don’t know what impact this has on students long term. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. I wonder if Mr. Lane simply knew I was lying.
Our culture currently seems not to even blink at dishonesty. People have so long stolen copied music that they don’t even consider the ramifications. One folk artist even did a song about it (these lyrics are to the best of my memory):
So I copied it
Gave it to all my friends
A lot them gave it to their friends too
Cause I love ya man
I’m your biggest fan…
…and so forth, with the speaker in the song ironically wondering why the band isn’t more successful, even wondering if maybe they just don’t try hard enough.
One of my colleagues, a self-styled (and continually unpublished) novelist maintains, “I wouldn’t mind if someone made copies of my novel, so why should I worry about copying music?” I think the law and at least many of the musicians might view the case differently.
My younger brother, Mr. Values, downloads copied DVDs. “Hey, they’re on the Internet,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re stolen or not!” I mentioned we could say the same about TVs sold from the back of a truck in a parking lot. Uncharacteristically, he had no retort.
Seemingly, if you can get away with it, it’s moral.
And how do you argue against that, when the Bush administration claims lying as executive privilege? The ridiculous spin on Iraq, the mind-numbing audacity of Alberto Gonzalez—these are just the obvious points with bipartisan agreement, let alone the host of other nonsense.
As a society, we’re like alcoholics—we arguably COULD stop, COULD get help—but we want to lie.
And the lack of truth shall continue to render us less and less free.
Writer
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Lies Your Writing Teacher Told You
When teaching young children, understandably teachers might well choose to simplify concepts. That’s fine. However, simplifications are also distortions, even to the point of error, and if those children never grow past those temporary, instructionally helpful constructs, what’s left is misinformation. Such is often the case in college students and adult writers, still using techniques that are, well, wrong—in sentences, in paragraphs, and in compositions overall.
The most glaring of these is the universal comma rule: put a comma where you want a pause. Um, no. Commas aren’t moods—they show structure. Moving commas around carelessly changes the sentence structure.
Consider this sentence: Swords flashing, our heroes dashed into action. A tale of epic adventure—very different from: Swords, flashing our heroes, dashed into action—a tale of erotic surrealism.
How about these two: People, who frequently attend these auctions, spend a lot of money, vs. People who frequently attend these auctions spend a lot of money. Both sentences are correct, but their meaning differs significantly, particularly if you’ve an economic interest in those auctions. The first sentence promises that all comers at these well-attended events will be dumping cash, while the second restricts the big spenders to only the few folks who frequent the auction circuit.
Even more astounding is the oft repeated assertion that grammar isn’t important, that students will just learn eventually by doing. This is as ridiculous as “Prof.” Harold Hill in “The Music Man” promoting his “think” system for learning music. Further, what are employers going to do with those cover letters and resumes full of grammatical errors? And bosses? Clients? Fair or not, such grammar-challenged people will be judged as less intelligent and less competent. It IS 7th grade English, after all.
Now to “de-mythify” the paragraph: “a paragraph is a group of 5-8 sentences.” What, like a street gang hangin’ on the corner? Just time for a line break? What happened to a unit of developed thought? How about a topic sentence—and development leading to a meaningful conclusion. You know—content!
But two commonly promoted points completely baffle me. The first purports to connect paragraphs by abruptly changing the subject in the last sentence of a paragraph to the topic of the next paragraph—then reiterating the point in the first sentence of that next paragraph. Good grief. This is duct tape, not coherence, combining rambling off topic with redundancy. What happened to a logical progression of ideas? Yet student after student maintains someone taught this “technique.”
The second is a legitimate technique run amok, the “funnel” technique—start with a general statement, narrow it, narrow it further, and so forth, then lead back to some general observation. Yeah, granted, the specific details should come after the initial claims, but instead, students write almost bizarrely vague sentences, eventually find a hint of a point, then back off into vague obscurity, thus taking a paragraph to make a point that could have been made in one poor sentence:
--There are many great writers, some living, some in history. Many of these writers have come from America. Several of these writers became famous in the twentieth century. While many women were among this group, many men were also recognized as good writers. One of these men was Ernest Hemingway. He wrote a lot. Some of this writing was journalism, others were not. Those that were not including novels and short stories. His short stories are excellent. One of these excellent short stories is “Hills Like White Elephants.” In this short story, Hemingway shows many of the elements that made him a famous writer in America in the twentieth century. Symbolism is one of the elements that he used, and he does an excellent job of using it. Symbolism can be defined as something that represents something else. Hemingway uses a lot of symbols in his short story “Hills Like White Elephants.”
That paragraph may be an exaggeration, but not by much.
Worse, students then apply this technique to the entire essay. Sometimes, even in the middle of page two, I still can’t find a thesis—or even tell what poem or story or play the paper addresses, let alone what points it might make. “But that’s what you’re supposed to do!” students protest, ready to defend such work vigorously. “It draws the reader in!” Draws the reader in? Who would still be reading? Could you imagine, for example, picking up Sports Illustrated and reading:
--There are many sports in the world today. Some of these sports are played individually, while other sports are team sports. Different countries tend to prefer some sports over other sports. Soccer is one sport popular in many countries. Americans like football. Other Americans like baseball, while some like basketball. Many people like more than one sport. Soccer is called football in other countries. Some Americans like soccer, though.
Are you “drawn in?” Would you keep reading in case it gets better?
And the poor readers who struggle through such essays all the way to the conclusion meet yet another silly but commonly practiced point—the “conclusion”:
--In conclusion, here I write a meaningless paragraph that does nothing except repeat the thesis you’ve already read and repeated the vague points I’ve already stated, thus making no final point whatsoever, concluding absolutely nothing, indicating the entire essay has no purpose beyond reaching a word count or minimum number of pages.
And again, students insist they’ve been taught to do this. So much time is spent swimming upstream against all this misinformation from the past, with little time left for emphasis, economy, style, effective argument and much more. After all, why should students bother with all that? They’ve earned top grades for years babbling along as such, believing they are therefore “creative.”
Unfortunately, I have heard a number of teachers maintain that writing is an art, and therefore it can’t really be taught. Some people just have a gift, and some people just aren’t good writers.
Any writing teacher who believes that has no business teaching writing. Let writers do it.
After all, why? If it’s all just a scam, lots of scams pay far better than teaching writing.
Writer
The most glaring of these is the universal comma rule: put a comma where you want a pause. Um, no. Commas aren’t moods—they show structure. Moving commas around carelessly changes the sentence structure.
Consider this sentence: Swords flashing, our heroes dashed into action. A tale of epic adventure—very different from: Swords, flashing our heroes, dashed into action—a tale of erotic surrealism.
How about these two: People, who frequently attend these auctions, spend a lot of money, vs. People who frequently attend these auctions spend a lot of money. Both sentences are correct, but their meaning differs significantly, particularly if you’ve an economic interest in those auctions. The first sentence promises that all comers at these well-attended events will be dumping cash, while the second restricts the big spenders to only the few folks who frequent the auction circuit.
Even more astounding is the oft repeated assertion that grammar isn’t important, that students will just learn eventually by doing. This is as ridiculous as “Prof.” Harold Hill in “The Music Man” promoting his “think” system for learning music. Further, what are employers going to do with those cover letters and resumes full of grammatical errors? And bosses? Clients? Fair or not, such grammar-challenged people will be judged as less intelligent and less competent. It IS 7th grade English, after all.
Now to “de-mythify” the paragraph: “a paragraph is a group of 5-8 sentences.” What, like a street gang hangin’ on the corner? Just time for a line break? What happened to a unit of developed thought? How about a topic sentence—and development leading to a meaningful conclusion. You know—content!
But two commonly promoted points completely baffle me. The first purports to connect paragraphs by abruptly changing the subject in the last sentence of a paragraph to the topic of the next paragraph—then reiterating the point in the first sentence of that next paragraph. Good grief. This is duct tape, not coherence, combining rambling off topic with redundancy. What happened to a logical progression of ideas? Yet student after student maintains someone taught this “technique.”
The second is a legitimate technique run amok, the “funnel” technique—start with a general statement, narrow it, narrow it further, and so forth, then lead back to some general observation. Yeah, granted, the specific details should come after the initial claims, but instead, students write almost bizarrely vague sentences, eventually find a hint of a point, then back off into vague obscurity, thus taking a paragraph to make a point that could have been made in one poor sentence:
--There are many great writers, some living, some in history. Many of these writers have come from America. Several of these writers became famous in the twentieth century. While many women were among this group, many men were also recognized as good writers. One of these men was Ernest Hemingway. He wrote a lot. Some of this writing was journalism, others were not. Those that were not including novels and short stories. His short stories are excellent. One of these excellent short stories is “Hills Like White Elephants.” In this short story, Hemingway shows many of the elements that made him a famous writer in America in the twentieth century. Symbolism is one of the elements that he used, and he does an excellent job of using it. Symbolism can be defined as something that represents something else. Hemingway uses a lot of symbols in his short story “Hills Like White Elephants.”
That paragraph may be an exaggeration, but not by much.
Worse, students then apply this technique to the entire essay. Sometimes, even in the middle of page two, I still can’t find a thesis—or even tell what poem or story or play the paper addresses, let alone what points it might make. “But that’s what you’re supposed to do!” students protest, ready to defend such work vigorously. “It draws the reader in!” Draws the reader in? Who would still be reading? Could you imagine, for example, picking up Sports Illustrated and reading:
--There are many sports in the world today. Some of these sports are played individually, while other sports are team sports. Different countries tend to prefer some sports over other sports. Soccer is one sport popular in many countries. Americans like football. Other Americans like baseball, while some like basketball. Many people like more than one sport. Soccer is called football in other countries. Some Americans like soccer, though.
Are you “drawn in?” Would you keep reading in case it gets better?
And the poor readers who struggle through such essays all the way to the conclusion meet yet another silly but commonly practiced point—the “conclusion”:
--In conclusion, here I write a meaningless paragraph that does nothing except repeat the thesis you’ve already read and repeated the vague points I’ve already stated, thus making no final point whatsoever, concluding absolutely nothing, indicating the entire essay has no purpose beyond reaching a word count or minimum number of pages.
And again, students insist they’ve been taught to do this. So much time is spent swimming upstream against all this misinformation from the past, with little time left for emphasis, economy, style, effective argument and much more. After all, why should students bother with all that? They’ve earned top grades for years babbling along as such, believing they are therefore “creative.”
Unfortunately, I have heard a number of teachers maintain that writing is an art, and therefore it can’t really be taught. Some people just have a gift, and some people just aren’t good writers.
Any writing teacher who believes that has no business teaching writing. Let writers do it.
After all, why? If it’s all just a scam, lots of scams pay far better than teaching writing.
Writer
Friday, June 29, 2007
Adulthood Sucks (and so does adjunct-hood)
Remember that sweatshop essay you wrote for freshman composition? Or, if you didn’t write one, certainly your classmates did--I’ve read multiple versions of this essay in portfolio committees and General Education Assessment Review committees.
No doubt, you pointed to unfair conditions, substandard wages, and blamed callous CEOs whose only concern was the almighty dollar—let any unhappy workers leave. You probably noted that those CEOs cited even worse conditions elsewhere—hell, those workers were damn lucky to work for these low wages, as it let them climb out of poverty.
If you were particularly insightful, you noted that those CEOs work for share holders who expect a robust return on their investments, and thus, share holders, not specifically CEOs, should be held accountable. Perhaps you even realized that a free market economy would not likely achieve equitable treatment, and hence government would need to intervene (I haven’t read many of those essays).
In the case of education, you are all those share holders. Despite how people like to complain about it, you elect the government. The school boards run the schools, the governor runs SUNY (The State University of New York)—but YOU elect these “CEOs.”
SUNY colleges—universities, ag/tech colleges, community colleges—all rely on sweatshop labor. We call them adjunct professors, and we pay them around $2600 per course, or based on the work load of full time professors (three courses per term), just over $15,000 a year. Statewide, roughly 60% of instructors are so paid. (And while SUNY colleges offer these people health insurance, many others in community colleges go without.)
A few departments in a few colleges have consistently fought against such glaring injustice, pioneering and expanding, for example, hiring adjuncts as full time lecturers. Yet even here, although this development is certainly welcome, the sweatshop continues. Full time lecturers are paid just over $30,000 to teach four courses per term, and they are denied access to tenure. Thus, many of them will work, grateful they can at least pay the bills, but will retire in poverty with little to no savings. Others cover their liability by continuing to teach as many as six courses a term at other institutions ON TOP of their full time obligations, as well as a wide assortment of outside occupations--all to earn just what a typical full professor earns, but at the expense of their personal lives.
Additionally, English professors in particular do so at virtually impossible odds. First year students arrive, convinced they know everything about writing, unable to identify the subject and verb of a sentence, let alone write a specific thesis statement, angry at instructors who challenge them to grow, annoyed they have to take writing courses at all. Even worse perhaps, I consistently see Juniors and Seniors—English majors, Professional Writing majors, Education majors and so forth—who can’t write without such basic errors as comma splice run-ons, subject/verb agreement, pronoun/antecedent agreement, misplaced modifiers, faulty parallelism—let alone effective paragraphs, sentences, rhetorical purpose. Those instructors who push this face the wrath of students seeking the easiest way through their course work possible, encouraged by administrative policies that abdicate responsibility for oversight to the course evaluation forms students complete at the end of each course, thus encouraging faculty to teach to make students happy, rather than prepare them for the outside world. So we graduate students who can’t write.
Well, suppose students want to learn in such an environment: where are all these instructors in the face of such obstacles? In their cars, on the way to their next college job—or jobs.
The pattern isn’t new—why are so many high school graduates, “A” papers in hand, so poorly prepared? Large class sizes, overly protective parents, ideologically focused school boards? Hard to tell—probably several interlocking reasons.
Here’s where you, the share holder, come in.
Changing this takes money. This means paying more in taxes—or giving up other services. I can complain all I want about my “bill burden,” but my choices are (1) increase income or (2) cut expenses. Government is no different.
Here’s the reality—you own a sweatshop. What will you do?
Is education important? Are fair employment practices? Is this what you want for your family, your community, your society?
We frequently see complaints about high taxes, but we pay a fraction of the taxes most industrial nations pay (we are also the ONLY industrial nation without national health care!). Washington keeps touting tax cuts to stimulate the economy, but ignores the growing discrepancy between rich and poor since the Reagan fallacy, admitted by his own people, created by the “trickle down” economics preached by the much more cynical Bush administration? Have you noticed that each federal tax cut costs you more locally? And for all those complaints about high taxes in New York—have you lived in other states? Yes, the taxes may be lower—and you also can’t get the services New Yorkers enjoy.
Sure, the mantra drones on about wasted government money. Yet, the U.S. spends more on the military than EVERY NATION ON EARTH COMBINED. Overkill?
Here’s the point—as a citizen, you are the shareholder. You, implicitly, agree with these developments. You, the shareholder, could also decide to instruct your “board of directors” otherwise. You could make it clear that education is a priority in New York State, or in whatever state or country you live, and that running sweatshops is not acceptable.
Or was that freshman composition essay just talk?
Writer
No doubt, you pointed to unfair conditions, substandard wages, and blamed callous CEOs whose only concern was the almighty dollar—let any unhappy workers leave. You probably noted that those CEOs cited even worse conditions elsewhere—hell, those workers were damn lucky to work for these low wages, as it let them climb out of poverty.
If you were particularly insightful, you noted that those CEOs work for share holders who expect a robust return on their investments, and thus, share holders, not specifically CEOs, should be held accountable. Perhaps you even realized that a free market economy would not likely achieve equitable treatment, and hence government would need to intervene (I haven’t read many of those essays).
In the case of education, you are all those share holders. Despite how people like to complain about it, you elect the government. The school boards run the schools, the governor runs SUNY (The State University of New York)—but YOU elect these “CEOs.”
SUNY colleges—universities, ag/tech colleges, community colleges—all rely on sweatshop labor. We call them adjunct professors, and we pay them around $2600 per course, or based on the work load of full time professors (three courses per term), just over $15,000 a year. Statewide, roughly 60% of instructors are so paid. (And while SUNY colleges offer these people health insurance, many others in community colleges go without.)
A few departments in a few colleges have consistently fought against such glaring injustice, pioneering and expanding, for example, hiring adjuncts as full time lecturers. Yet even here, although this development is certainly welcome, the sweatshop continues. Full time lecturers are paid just over $30,000 to teach four courses per term, and they are denied access to tenure. Thus, many of them will work, grateful they can at least pay the bills, but will retire in poverty with little to no savings. Others cover their liability by continuing to teach as many as six courses a term at other institutions ON TOP of their full time obligations, as well as a wide assortment of outside occupations--all to earn just what a typical full professor earns, but at the expense of their personal lives.
Additionally, English professors in particular do so at virtually impossible odds. First year students arrive, convinced they know everything about writing, unable to identify the subject and verb of a sentence, let alone write a specific thesis statement, angry at instructors who challenge them to grow, annoyed they have to take writing courses at all. Even worse perhaps, I consistently see Juniors and Seniors—English majors, Professional Writing majors, Education majors and so forth—who can’t write without such basic errors as comma splice run-ons, subject/verb agreement, pronoun/antecedent agreement, misplaced modifiers, faulty parallelism—let alone effective paragraphs, sentences, rhetorical purpose. Those instructors who push this face the wrath of students seeking the easiest way through their course work possible, encouraged by administrative policies that abdicate responsibility for oversight to the course evaluation forms students complete at the end of each course, thus encouraging faculty to teach to make students happy, rather than prepare them for the outside world. So we graduate students who can’t write.
Well, suppose students want to learn in such an environment: where are all these instructors in the face of such obstacles? In their cars, on the way to their next college job—or jobs.
The pattern isn’t new—why are so many high school graduates, “A” papers in hand, so poorly prepared? Large class sizes, overly protective parents, ideologically focused school boards? Hard to tell—probably several interlocking reasons.
Here’s where you, the share holder, come in.
Changing this takes money. This means paying more in taxes—or giving up other services. I can complain all I want about my “bill burden,” but my choices are (1) increase income or (2) cut expenses. Government is no different.
Here’s the reality—you own a sweatshop. What will you do?
Is education important? Are fair employment practices? Is this what you want for your family, your community, your society?
We frequently see complaints about high taxes, but we pay a fraction of the taxes most industrial nations pay (we are also the ONLY industrial nation without national health care!). Washington keeps touting tax cuts to stimulate the economy, but ignores the growing discrepancy between rich and poor since the Reagan fallacy, admitted by his own people, created by the “trickle down” economics preached by the much more cynical Bush administration? Have you noticed that each federal tax cut costs you more locally? And for all those complaints about high taxes in New York—have you lived in other states? Yes, the taxes may be lower—and you also can’t get the services New Yorkers enjoy.
Sure, the mantra drones on about wasted government money. Yet, the U.S. spends more on the military than EVERY NATION ON EARTH COMBINED. Overkill?
Here’s the point—as a citizen, you are the shareholder. You, implicitly, agree with these developments. You, the shareholder, could also decide to instruct your “board of directors” otherwise. You could make it clear that education is a priority in New York State, or in whatever state or country you live, and that running sweatshops is not acceptable.
Or was that freshman composition essay just talk?
Writer
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