Having been challenged to write about the best teacher in my life, I knew immediately who I would write about. But first...
I have many memories of teachers. Some memories are fraught with negative recollections. There was the algebra teacher who forever ruined whatever interest or capability I might have had in any math subject. She was returning exams and took the time to bring me to the front of the class. She returned my paper (which had earned a passing grade--one of only two students who passed!). Then she proceeded to berate me saying I should have done better, that I had the ability to do better. And that, dear reader, was it. I have never since had any confidence in doing math.
There were several high school teachers. Since I had spent the bulk of my elementary and secondary education years in schools overseas, I was somewhat at sea coming into the U.S. education system. So I particularly responded to good or commanding teachers. There was the high school history teacher who had this habit of repeating a phrase--we students began to call him Mr. B, Mr. B, imitating his repetitive style. But I wrote a research paper for his class on medicine in the Civil War and still remember the interest he generated in me for history. Or the advanced biology teacher who was so engaging that when he died recently, I joined other students in an outpouring of memories of his excellence as a teacher.
Of course, there was my first ever teacher--my mother. Since we were living on a mission station away from any town, my mother taught me for kindergarten and first grade. Long before home schooling was possible, my mother was my teacher.
And now, to my favorite teacher ever. When I entered college, I had thoughts of becoming a physician. I don't know how I thought I would accomplish that without any interest or ability in math. It was chemistry that ended any thought of becoming a physician--chemistry, of course, requires some math ability.
I wasn't at loose ends about choosing a major, however. I redirected my academic goal into English literature. And that's when Dr. S became my favorite teacher. The college I attended had a small student body and a correspondingly small faculty. That meant that many of the various courses I needed to take as an English major were taught by Dr. S. Interestingly, he had a brother who also taught at the college--so there were two Drs. S. And the brother was a history professor, so I took English history courses from him.
From Dr. S, I learned critical thinking. I was encouraged to approach information curiously. All things were open to discovery. And that trait remains with me to this day.
When I graduated from college, I went off to graduate school. During that year, I was moved to write a letter of thanks to Dr. S. His response was most unexpected and surprising. He asked--did I want to return to my alma mater to teach for a year, filling in for a professor on sabbatical leave. Of course, I said yes. That year turned in eight. And my career was thus begun.
A memorable teacher, indeed. Not long after I returned to teach, Dr. S. moved on to other academic institutions. I have lost contact him. But the memory of his excellence remains.
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Monday, October 21, 2013
First World, Third World
Reading a post by my blogging friend Jayne today (go here to read it for yourself...and make sure you watch the video at the end of her post), I found these words: "First world problem." Her post was making a completely different point, but it sent my mind back several years to my teaching at the nearby community college.
I taught several course--the ubiquitous English 101--Introduction to Composition. Since the community college curriculum requires that ALL students take English Composition, there were many sections of this course and many teachers. English 101 was followed by English 102--Introduction to Argument and Logic. I taught these two courses, but I much preferred teaching English 102. (One other course I got to teach several times was Introduction to Literature--my favorite course!)
So, why did Jayne's words--first world problem--set my mind back to teaching? Because as a final project, I required students to work in teams to explore a third world problem and whether or not the first world had any obligation to address that problem.
Before I describe more about this problem, I acknowledge that current terminology no longer favors the use of the terms "first world" or "third world". These terms are relics of the balance of power following World War II--the former Allies, primarily the United States and Britain, were the first world; the Communist block was the second world; and the developing countries in Asia, Africa and Latin America constituted the third world. Eventually, the terms "first world" and "third world" came to indicated "developed" and "undeveloped/ developing" countries. Of course, today, the Cold War has ended; and developing countries are rising--think India or Brazil. So, the old terms don't work any more.
Here's what the project entailed. I instructed each group to pick a "third world" country, and then identify a major problem in that country. Then, decide what obligation, if any, the "first world" has to help ameliorate that problem. The project involved an oral team report, as well as individual research papers.
The range of problems selected and countries researched was fascinating. Oh, there were some amusing (and appalling) problems. I had one young African-American woman tell me she wanted to study Africa. I said--fine, which country? She gave me a genuinely blank look which told me she had no idea Africa was a continent, not a country. Once more informed, she and her team decided to study AIDS in Zambia--a worthy project.
For several semesters running, I had projects on Haiti--you name it, Haiti has it as a problem. I had human trafficking in general, and more specifically focused on prostitution. I had water, or really lack thereof. And I had many diseases--AIDS, malaria. I had genocide (in Rwanda, of course).
Mostly, the students would argue that the "first world" should do something about these various problems. No magical solutions ever emerged. One group, that had tackled Somalia and its piracy, acknowledged that a lack of strong government was a major problem. One student in that group turned in his research paper wherein he had argued, quite sincerely, that the country's problems would all be solved if they simply became Christian. I pressed him hard on his paper--and in the end pointed out that he had not demonstrated a complete comprehension of what the country was like (for example, he didn't even enumerate how many people followed what faith traditions) and I pointed out that he had not convincingly argued for his solution. Poor kid--he really thought that waiving Christianity as a solution was convincing--no need for proof.
All in all, the end of semester projects were always a highlight for me. My strong sense was that most of the students actually grappled, even for a short while, with large, perhaps unsolvable, problems. And they had to learn something outside their own small worlds. Plus they had to think about what it means to live in the "first world" when so many other people live in the "third world."
I taught several course--the ubiquitous English 101--Introduction to Composition. Since the community college curriculum requires that ALL students take English Composition, there were many sections of this course and many teachers. English 101 was followed by English 102--Introduction to Argument and Logic. I taught these two courses, but I much preferred teaching English 102. (One other course I got to teach several times was Introduction to Literature--my favorite course!)
So, why did Jayne's words--first world problem--set my mind back to teaching? Because as a final project, I required students to work in teams to explore a third world problem and whether or not the first world had any obligation to address that problem.
Before I describe more about this problem, I acknowledge that current terminology no longer favors the use of the terms "first world" or "third world". These terms are relics of the balance of power following World War II--the former Allies, primarily the United States and Britain, were the first world; the Communist block was the second world; and the developing countries in Asia, Africa and Latin America constituted the third world. Eventually, the terms "first world" and "third world" came to indicated "developed" and "undeveloped/ developing" countries. Of course, today, the Cold War has ended; and developing countries are rising--think India or Brazil. So, the old terms don't work any more.
Here's what the project entailed. I instructed each group to pick a "third world" country, and then identify a major problem in that country. Then, decide what obligation, if any, the "first world" has to help ameliorate that problem. The project involved an oral team report, as well as individual research papers.
The range of problems selected and countries researched was fascinating. Oh, there were some amusing (and appalling) problems. I had one young African-American woman tell me she wanted to study Africa. I said--fine, which country? She gave me a genuinely blank look which told me she had no idea Africa was a continent, not a country. Once more informed, she and her team decided to study AIDS in Zambia--a worthy project.
For several semesters running, I had projects on Haiti--you name it, Haiti has it as a problem. I had human trafficking in general, and more specifically focused on prostitution. I had water, or really lack thereof. And I had many diseases--AIDS, malaria. I had genocide (in Rwanda, of course).
Mostly, the students would argue that the "first world" should do something about these various problems. No magical solutions ever emerged. One group, that had tackled Somalia and its piracy, acknowledged that a lack of strong government was a major problem. One student in that group turned in his research paper wherein he had argued, quite sincerely, that the country's problems would all be solved if they simply became Christian. I pressed him hard on his paper--and in the end pointed out that he had not demonstrated a complete comprehension of what the country was like (for example, he didn't even enumerate how many people followed what faith traditions) and I pointed out that he had not convincingly argued for his solution. Poor kid--he really thought that waiving Christianity as a solution was convincing--no need for proof.
All in all, the end of semester projects were always a highlight for me. My strong sense was that most of the students actually grappled, even for a short while, with large, perhaps unsolvable, problems. And they had to learn something outside their own small worlds. Plus they had to think about what it means to live in the "first world" when so many other people live in the "third world."
Thursday, February 28, 2013
BABY TALK
Our daughter recently sent us a short video of our sweet
granddaughter. Given that an ocean separates us, and does not facilitate a
quick stop-by to see how she is growing, videos are such a great way to get little
glimpses into this new life. This most
recent shows this 2 month old baby trying with all her might to vocalize. Her mouth works to get into a shape to form
words, her eyebrows lift as she really really tries to talk. And, of course, these dear little ooohs and
ahhs come out of her mouth.
I have been fascinated with the way we teach children
language by reading or saying nursery rhymes to them. Many of these rhymes are silly and sometimes
nonsensical. But they do help teach
language by repetition, alliteration, rhyming.
So the topic I had in mind was to evaluate the correlation between
exposure to nursery rhymes and language acquisition. Of course, I did not get to a stage of
collecting data, so I don’t know if there is a statistically valid
correlation. It stands to reason that
the more culturally rich a child’s environs are when she is learning to speak,
the quicker her language skills will develop.
Baby talk! Isn’t it
great?
Among the milestones we parents mark are the ways in which
our children learned words, and then strung them together into sentences. Parents record the first word a child says. Many parents even save some of the precious
pronunciations a child makes. We still
joke about our daughter saying CHIK-UMP for chipmunk. Somehow, it seemed like a suitable
renaming.
A few years ago, I entertained the thought of pursuing a doctoral
degree. We live near a campus of the
Penn State University, which offers a doctoral program in adult education. Now, while I didn’t actually enroll in classes, I
started to generate ideas for a possible dissertation topic. And I came up with one.
I have been fascinated with the way we teach children
language by reading or saying nursery rhymes to them. Many of these rhymes are silly and sometimes
nonsensical. But they do help teach
language by repetition, alliteration, rhyming.
So the topic I had in mind was to evaluate the correlation between
exposure to nursery rhymes and language acquisition. Of course, I did not get to a stage of
collecting data, so I don’t know if there is a statistically valid
correlation. It stands to reason that
the more culturally rich a child’s environs are when she is learning to speak,
the quicker her language skills will develop.
For now, my hypothesis about nursery rhymes playing a
critical part in language development will have to go unresearched, but maybe I
can do a mini-experiment. You can bet
that I plan to get our granddaughter some edition of Mother Goose Nursery
rhymes. And, that I will most certainly
read them aloud to her every chance I get.
Can’t wait to hear more baby talk.
Monday, September 24, 2012
I Remember You
One of the consequences--some might say benefits--of living in one area for a long time is that, having encountered someone once, there is every possibility you may encounter him or her again.
As someone who has taught in two separate colleges over my career life, I do from time to time encounter former students. My first teaching position was when I was fresh out of graduate school. For a time after I left that teaching position, I would hear from students, usually someone seeking a recommendation to graduate school. I was always touched when the former student would begin with "You may not remember me, but..." Usually I did remember--teachers remember those students who excel, and those who distinguish themselves in some other lesser way.
My more recent teaching position, about which I have written on and off here, ended about two years ago. And, now I am beginning to encounter these students in varying ways.
The first such encounter happened when my husband and I went out to eat--and our server said--You're Mrs. W., aren't you? Of course I replied affirmatively. I thought so, he said, as soon as I heard that voice. My voice?! Apparently, I must have sounded off from time to time with an air of authority. Ahem.
Since then I have encountered several former students--all of them as servers in various restaurants. Well, the economy sometimes leaves no other options for job seekers. That first student I described is working as a teacher's aid providing individual support to a student with special needs. But he also has a young family, so he supplements his income with his weekend serving job.
The other encounters have been mixed. There was one young woman who we encountered who gushed on--oh, yes she gushed--telling first me and then one of our friends who was along with us how wonderful I was as a teacher. Blush blush.
Then there was another server who said--you look familiar. And after a bit, we figured out she had been in one of my classes. She told me her name--which rang no bells at all. Then she told me the nickname she went by when she was in my class. Oh, yes--I remembered. I went home and checked my grade files (yes, I still have them) and found she has gotten a D in the class--not turning in all your required papers will do that.
Well, I recently had one more encounter with a former student. My husband and I were invited to a party given in honor of a cousin once removed who had recently become a father. And along with him would be his partner, who was the baby's mother. When I learned her name, I kept turning it over in my mind. And bells were sounding alarms. Her name was a distinctive one. So back to my student grade files I went, and there it was. She had been one of my students.
When we got to the party, I saw her--yes, I had remembered her. After a bit, she looked at me, and did a bit of a double-take. No doubt, she was thinking--oh no, not her. You see--she failed English Composition--because halfway through the course, she stopped turning in papers. There is no way you can pass when you don't do the work.
Now here she was, the mother of a baby who is a distant relative. And there I was--no doubt NOT her favorite teacher. I bet she didn't gush about me to anyone. But she recognized me. And I decided not to say anything--no point in embarrassing her.
But I thought to myself--oh yes, I remember you.
As someone who has taught in two separate colleges over my career life, I do from time to time encounter former students. My first teaching position was when I was fresh out of graduate school. For a time after I left that teaching position, I would hear from students, usually someone seeking a recommendation to graduate school. I was always touched when the former student would begin with "You may not remember me, but..." Usually I did remember--teachers remember those students who excel, and those who distinguish themselves in some other lesser way.
My more recent teaching position, about which I have written on and off here, ended about two years ago. And, now I am beginning to encounter these students in varying ways.
The first such encounter happened when my husband and I went out to eat--and our server said--You're Mrs. W., aren't you? Of course I replied affirmatively. I thought so, he said, as soon as I heard that voice. My voice?! Apparently, I must have sounded off from time to time with an air of authority. Ahem.
Since then I have encountered several former students--all of them as servers in various restaurants. Well, the economy sometimes leaves no other options for job seekers. That first student I described is working as a teacher's aid providing individual support to a student with special needs. But he also has a young family, so he supplements his income with his weekend serving job.
The other encounters have been mixed. There was one young woman who we encountered who gushed on--oh, yes she gushed--telling first me and then one of our friends who was along with us how wonderful I was as a teacher. Blush blush.
Then there was another server who said--you look familiar. And after a bit, we figured out she had been in one of my classes. She told me her name--which rang no bells at all. Then she told me the nickname she went by when she was in my class. Oh, yes--I remembered. I went home and checked my grade files (yes, I still have them) and found she has gotten a D in the class--not turning in all your required papers will do that.
Well, I recently had one more encounter with a former student. My husband and I were invited to a party given in honor of a cousin once removed who had recently become a father. And along with him would be his partner, who was the baby's mother. When I learned her name, I kept turning it over in my mind. And bells were sounding alarms. Her name was a distinctive one. So back to my student grade files I went, and there it was. She had been one of my students.
When we got to the party, I saw her--yes, I had remembered her. After a bit, she looked at me, and did a bit of a double-take. No doubt, she was thinking--oh no, not her. You see--she failed English Composition--because halfway through the course, she stopped turning in papers. There is no way you can pass when you don't do the work.
Now here she was, the mother of a baby who is a distant relative. And there I was--no doubt NOT her favorite teacher. I bet she didn't gush about me to anyone. But she recognized me. And I decided not to say anything--no point in embarrassing her.
But I thought to myself--oh yes, I remember you.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
One Man's Mutilation
An ad I saw the other day in the New York Times sent my mind spinning. And it made me recall what was so much fun about teaching.
There are many things I loved about teaching, but far and away my favorite part has always been having spirited class discussions.
Soon after I returned to teaching, at the local community college, I learned that a new essay text was going to be picked. When the writing coordinator asked if anyone wanted to help select it, I volunteered. We ended up picking a neat text of essays (called Every Day, Everywhere) that included a wide range of delightful readings.
Early in a semester, I would assign Germaine Greer's incisive essay titled "One Man's Mutilation is Another Man's Beautification." You can read it here, if you like.
To get students' minds working, I would show them various photos--here are some samples.
Of course, I was lying in wait for them. After the students got lathered up in discussing the barbarian practice of foot binding, I would ask--you mean you wouldn't submit to such a practice? Of course not, they indignantly replied.
And then I showed them photos such as this.
What's the difference? I asked. And then the discussion really heated up.
Of course, what I am tapping into with the discussion is the cultural variations we all exhibit. And that's what Germaine Greer meant by her provocative title.
Bound feet...
Super high heels
Scarification...
Body piercings...
Tattooing...
Teeth filing...
Teeth capping...
Ah, the ad? Well, it was those photos of women's super high heels. Inflicted cruelty in the name of fashion, if you ask me, resulting in long-term mutilation all for the sake of short-term beautification.
One man's (or woman's) mutilation is indeed another man's (or woman's) beautification. OK, class, discuss among yourselves.
There are many things I loved about teaching, but far and away my favorite part has always been having spirited class discussions.
Soon after I returned to teaching, at the local community college, I learned that a new essay text was going to be picked. When the writing coordinator asked if anyone wanted to help select it, I volunteered. We ended up picking a neat text of essays (called Every Day, Everywhere) that included a wide range of delightful readings.
Early in a semester, I would assign Germaine Greer's incisive essay titled "One Man's Mutilation is Another Man's Beautification." You can read it here, if you like.
To get students' minds working, I would show them various photos--here are some samples.
from top left, clockwise: Neck elongation; skin scarification; henna painted hand; lip enlarging using wooden disk; bound foot (pointing straight down); and filed teeth.
Invariably, students would react negatively. The one practice that really seemed to bother them was foot binding. A spirited discussion always followed my showing that photo.
Of course, I was lying in wait for them. After the students got lathered up in discussing the barbarian practice of foot binding, I would ask--you mean you wouldn't submit to such a practice? Of course not, they indignantly replied.
And then I showed them photos such as this.
What's the difference? I asked. And then the discussion really heated up.
I am particularly interested in the answer. Shoes with such a high heel go in and out of style. I remember spike heels. I wore some when I was younger. I do NOT wear anything like that today. I wince and hobble with bad knees, even if I am bare foot, or have my favorite pair of Clark's on my feet. Super high heels? Well, you may as well tell me to have my feet bound.
Of course, what I am tapping into with the discussion is the cultural variations we all exhibit. And that's what Germaine Greer meant by her provocative title.
Bound feet...
Super high heels
Scarification...
Body piercings...
Tattooing...
Teeth filing...
Teeth capping...
Ah, the ad? Well, it was those photos of women's super high heels. Inflicted cruelty in the name of fashion, if you ask me, resulting in long-term mutilation all for the sake of short-term beautification.
One man's (or woman's) mutilation is indeed another man's (or woman's) beautification. OK, class, discuss among yourselves.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Revisiting the Classics
Someone recently wrote a comment on my Facebook about recalling the days when I was teaching (in my first college job) and she was a student there. What she indicated was that as she and her fellow classmates reminisce they all recall having to read “the dreaded Young Goodman Brown.” She said she remembered nothing of the story or its meaning, only the dread of having to read the story. And she wondered—should she read the story again, perhaps with the maturity of some life experiences that would make “the dreaded” story more meaningful.
That got me to thinking—there are many classics that we could revisit and appreciate now with some life experience informing us of deeper meaning.
And then I thought—why not help you revisit the classics. Starting with “Young Goodman Brown.” If you still think this story might fall into the dreaded category—go ahead, skip the rest of this post.
“Young Goodman Brown” is one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short stories. Written in 1835, it is widely regarded as his best-known short story. The primary characters are Young Goodman Brown himself, his wife Faith, and sundry characters who appear during the course of the story.
A quick interjected comment about the character’s name—Young Goodman Brown. Obviously, young is an adjective describing his youth. The family name of Brown is somewhat universal. And Goodman—well, that’s an honorific title that would have been used during Puritan times, one step below “gentleman.”
The story begins with young Goodman Brown taking leave of his wife to set out on an unspecified errand as night falls. They are newly weds, having only been married three months, and she somewhat petulantly begs him not to go. He tells her he must go—and so he leaves his sweet wife Faith, who is the picture of innocence with pink ribbons in her hair.
Ah—foreshadowing. The wife’s name is Faith.
Not long after setting out, young Goodman Brown encounters an unnamed character who upbraids him for being late. Goodman Brown replies “Faith kept me back a while.” The two begin to walk along, deeper into a darkening woods, and Goodman Brown begins to hang back complaining that his father never went so far into the woods. But, he is urged on by his traveling companion, who tells him:
``Well said, Goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip's war. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake.''
The traveling companion is now identified as “he of the serpent.” So, clearly young Goodman Brown is on a dodgy errand and has met up with the devil, or at least the devil’s emissary. The quoted speech (above) clearly links historical events within the Puritan community with the forces of evil: the Salem witch trials, and the so-called King Philip’s war, where wholesale slaughter of American Indians was carried out by the settlers.
Young Goodman Brown is astonished to learn that his traveling companion is well acquainted with church leaders, the governor, and members of the council. As he digests this information, he sees a woman ahead of them on the path. She is Goody* Cloyse, who taught him catechism. Not wanting to be seen by her, Goodman Brown ducks into the woods, while his traveling companion stays on the path. When he encounters Goody Cloyse, she screams “the Devil” but they soon fall into friendly banter so it is clear they too are well acquainted. When she disappears, and young Goodman Brown is once again walking with his traveling companion, Brown demurs:
``Friend,'' said he, stubbornly, ``my mind is made up. Not another step will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil when I thought she was going to heaven: is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?''
His traveling companion suddenly disappears, leaving Goodman Brown sitting puzzled and contemplating what to do next. He then hears voices of two approaching travelers, who turn out to be the other people who instructed Brown in catechism—the minister and Deacon Gookin. They too are on their way to the same gathering as the devil, and Goody Cloyse. Goodman Brown cries out: ``With heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!''
As he cries out this plaintive declaration, he hears a young woman’s voice. And looking up to the sky, he sees something fluttering down, which catches on a branch—a pink ribbon.
``My Faith is gone!'' cried he, after one stupefied moment. ``There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given.''
He finally gives himself over to the forces of evil, and joins the gathered worshippers. Someone calls for the converts to be brought forward, and Goodman Brown steps forth. He hears the words of welcome:
``Welcome, my children,'' said the dark figure, ``to the communion of your race. Ye have found thus young your nature and your destiny. My children, look behind you!''
Goodman Brown beholds Faith in the gathering, and in a final desperate plea tries to save her: ``Faith! Faith!'' cried the husband, ``look up to heaven, and resist the wicked one.'' The story solemnly informs the reader “whether Faith obeyed he knew not.”
The next morning, young Goodman Brown returns to his village, a changed man. He sees all the familiar loved figures—the minister, Deacon Gookin, Goody Cloyse, and finally his wife Faith who greets him happily.
The story wonders whether or not Brown had fallen asleep and only dreamed the witch-meeting.
Sorry, no answer to that question.
The ending informs us:
“And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom.”
After that summary, do you really need an interpretation? For myself, I like the thought that what Goodman Brown discovers in the darkened woods is that we are all mortal—we are not perfect, we are flawed. And the knowledge—the coming of age, if you will—overwhelms him. He cannot live a carefree satisfied life with that knowledge.
What do YOU think the story is telling the reader?
Now, I am taking requests. What classic would you like to see revisited? If I have read it, and can remember it, I will “teach” a class on it.
-------------------------------
*Goody—a shortened version of Goodwife, corollary to Goodman
Friday, July 01, 2011
Goodbye, Mr. Chips
The other day I was suddenly seized with the urge to clean out my office--not the one in our home, but the one at the community college where I had taught for the last several years. I have not taught a course for three semesters, and I have no thoughts of asking for a course. With my husband retired, my not having a course frees us up to travel. So perhaps my teaching days have drawn to a close.
But, the office that I shared with two full time faculty and one other adjunct still held some of my personal items as well as student information and text books.
I loaded books into boxes, and then went through several file drawers where I had accumulated worksheets, quizzes, exams, and even student papers. With abandon, I tossed the papers into recycle bins. I wondered what to do with some of the textbooks--composition books which I had no use for if I weren't teaching.
As if by design, a man appeared at the door. He was one of those textbook buyers who circulate at the end of each semester, looking for used textbooks for which they pay money. Well--sure, go right ahead, look through my books. And he did, and found a fair number for which he offered me $17 total. Done and done. The first time such a buyer appeared at my door, I agonized over what to do. Many of the books that I had collected had been sent unsolicited as tryout texts. So, I was in a quandary. When I asked a colleague, she was frankly puzzled at my ethical pause.
The task of cleaning out the office was a necessity, but it also set me to musing--and thus the real inspiration for this post. I have loved teaching. Nothing I have done in my varied work career has been so rewarding as teaching. And I am grateful to all the links along the way that led me into teaching.
Fresh out of college, with my degree in English literature in hand, I had no clue what I might do. So, off to grad school for me. I realized that I had been privileged to have excellent professors at my alma mater, so I wrote a note of thanks to one of my favorite profs. He promptly wrote back and asked--did I want to return to my alma mater, after my master's degree program was concluded? It was for a one-year fill in for someone on sabbatical. Did I?
Well, I surely did. So, after one year away for grad school, I returned as a very young newly minted instructor in English. I was all of two or three years older than my students. I had no trouble asserting my classroom authority with students, but some of my former professors, now colleagues, didn't exactly help me. Some students told me that one prof was reminding students that they had to read their assignments if they wanted to discuss intelligently the issues. Only one person that he knew could discuss intelligently without having read the assignment--that was me.
So, I asked my former prof, now colleague--please, don't tell students such stories about me! (I think I might have been secretly pleased at being identified as discussing intelligently.) That was then--now I realize that I no doubt short-changed myself but not reading thoroughly the assignments.
After eight years of teaching, I moved on to other work. Make that three other jobs. The last full time job came to an abrupt end when the company I was with merged with another, and I was "made redundant" (that wonderful British term). Facing the prospect of sudden and unplanned retirement, I wondered what to do. Well, there was teaching. So I applied to our local community college for adjunct status teaching English composition. Thus I returned to teaching to conclude my working career.
As with anyone involved in teaching, I have my cache of student stories. There was one student who was furious at me for "giving" him an F. I calmly informed him that he had earned that F. There was another student who gleefully told me, when I returned a paper to her on which she had earned a B, that she only began writing the paper the night before it was due. My comment to her--imagine if you had done more preparation; you might have gotten an A.
Encountering students after a 20 plus year absence from teaching had a completely different dynamic. Add to the time factor the difference between students attending a four-year residential college and students attending a two year non-residential community college. Students at community colleges frequently carry full class loads and work full-time. That leaves little time for engaging enthusiastically in the academic riches of college education.
At the community college some students' stories nearly broke my heart. I would always give students an initial assignment in class--write a diagnostic essay in response to a prompt. That way, I could see how they wrote and have a base-line sample of their writing skills. Sometimes I used the prompt--what was a problem you had, and a way that you solved it. I had quite a few young women who wrote about getting pregnant while in high school, and their decision to keep and raise the baby as a single mom.
In one class, I had a young woman named Brooke. She sat in the back, and never talked. I could tell she was friends with one of the young men. One day, she missed class. I had a fairly strict attendance policy, so I noted the absence. Then she missed again, and again. I finally asked the young man--and he said he thought she was dropping out. It turns out that she had quarreled with her mother, who turned her out. Brooke, at age 18, was living in her car. She never did return to class, and I often wondered what happened to her.
So, as I cleaned out drawers and files, packed up books and personal items, I thought. I thought back on a career in teaching, and again silently thanked the professor who tossed me a one-year teaching position. Of course, it lasted more than one year. The professor on sabbatical who I replaced never returned.
Friday, September 03, 2010
The Graduate
When we got Ziva, our new dog, we determined to "do things right" with this sweet puppy. We vowed to be good people parents, not succumbing to some of the bad habits we had previously given in to with Tipper.
Among other things, we thought it would be a good idea to take her to obedience class. So, we signed up at our local P*t Sm*rt store for classes. The instructor was a kindly older German woman named (Re)gina. She told us to call her Gina. She spoke with something of an accent, which only gave her instructions the sound of COMMAND as she put us through our paces.
The first week, there were about ten dogs and owners in attendance. One dog was a small pit bull who could not/would not stop barking. Gina took a metal water dish and kept dropping it next to the dog--clang, clang. The dog would startle, stop barking for a bit, then resume barking. There was a sweet looking border collie named Dakota that was so shy and freaked by all the people that she would not look at anyone. She kept her head tucked in next to her person.
Then there were Murphy, a labradoodle who looked for all the world like a big doofy puppy, and Brook, a sweet retriever mix. And of course Ziva. These three dogs were the "big" dogs of the group.
Among other things, we thought it would be a good idea to take her to obedience class. So, we signed up at our local P*t Sm*rt store for classes. The instructor was a kindly older German woman named (Re)gina. She told us to call her Gina. She spoke with something of an accent, which only gave her instructions the sound of COMMAND as she put us through our paces.
The first week, there were about ten dogs and owners in attendance. One dog was a small pit bull who could not/would not stop barking. Gina took a metal water dish and kept dropping it next to the dog--clang, clang. The dog would startle, stop barking for a bit, then resume barking. There was a sweet looking border collie named Dakota that was so shy and freaked by all the people that she would not look at anyone. She kept her head tucked in next to her person.
Then there were Murphy, a labradoodle who looked for all the world like a big doofy puppy, and Brook, a sweet retriever mix. And of course Ziva. These three dogs were the "big" dogs of the group.
Brook and MurphyThe second week of class we missed because of Ziva's little medical episode. When I called Gina to tell her we would not be there, she said, no problem. Also, she was dividing the class into two groups; would we come next week at 8 p.m. Sure.
So the third week, we went, and found that it was just the three big dogs. Actually, the pit bull was supposed to be there too, but the owner never came back. Maybe he liked having recalcitrant perpetually barking dog.
Each week, the class would begin with a mad tumble of dogs. All three mixing it up, with Brook and Ziva especially liking (and licking) each other. Ziva and Brook seemed to be best friends. Then it was down to business--sort of.
The training focused on SIT, DOWN, STAY, COME, puppy push ups (sit, down, sit again), and WAIT. The difference between "stay" and "wait" is basically that "stay" requires duration, distance, and distraction. You get your dog to sit or lie, you back up to put some distance between you; then you hold for 15 seconds or so, then go back and release the dog. Distraction means you should be able to have the dog stay, even if you walk around it or some other distraction. "Wait" is you walking away from the dog, then calling her to come to you. Frankly, a fine distinction, but maybe there is a point to it.
Finally, there was one magic command that Gina wanted everyone to learn and practice. TOUCH. When you are some distance from the dog, and you want her to come to you, raise your hand overhead, waving, and yell ZIVA, TOUCH. The dog comes running, you grab her collar or leash, say "good touch" and give a food reward. If you imprint this sequence enough, you should be able to use it to bring your dog back to you, if for some reason she is getting away from you, or about to be in danger.
So the third week, we went, and found that it was just the three big dogs. Actually, the pit bull was supposed to be there too, but the owner never came back. Maybe he liked having recalcitrant perpetually barking dog.
Each week, the class would begin with a mad tumble of dogs. All three mixing it up, with Brook and Ziva especially liking (and licking) each other. Ziva and Brook seemed to be best friends. Then it was down to business--sort of.
The training focused on SIT, DOWN, STAY, COME, puppy push ups (sit, down, sit again), and WAIT. The difference between "stay" and "wait" is basically that "stay" requires duration, distance, and distraction. You get your dog to sit or lie, you back up to put some distance between you; then you hold for 15 seconds or so, then go back and release the dog. Distraction means you should be able to have the dog stay, even if you walk around it or some other distraction. "Wait" is you walking away from the dog, then calling her to come to you. Frankly, a fine distinction, but maybe there is a point to it.
Finally, there was one magic command that Gina wanted everyone to learn and practice. TOUCH. When you are some distance from the dog, and you want her to come to you, raise your hand overhead, waving, and yell ZIVA, TOUCH. The dog comes running, you grab her collar or leash, say "good touch" and give a food reward. If you imprint this sequence enough, you should be able to use it to bring your dog back to you, if for some reason she is getting away from you, or about to be in danger.
Ziva receiving instructionsLet's just say that Ziva was an easily distracted pupil. Oh, look, there are bunnies in the cage over there. Oh, there's a customer, maybe he wants to pet me. Oh, another dog, I should go say hello. She reminded me of the dog in the movie UP--squirrel! If you have seen it, you know what I mean.
We would go through the paces, she would sort of do each step. She got very good at SIT, and DOWN. OK with puppy push-ups. STAY--well, sort of. For a few seconds. COME--no problem. WAIT--forget it. TOUCH--she was great with that, and we have even used it a few times at home.
The next to last class, when she was supposed to go through ALL the steps, she would not do it. She basically refused every command. Gina was very understanding. Oh, it's the border collie in her. RIGHT. All I see in Ziva is retriever. Her mother was reputed to be a golden retriever., But my suspicion is her mother was a yellow labrador retriever. And, labs can be rascals--loving, yes, but rascals.
So this week was graduation. But, first, there was the final exam. Gina walked around dropping a label on the floor with each step. My heart sank--she (Ziva) had been so bad the previous week. But, like some human students I have known, Ziva seemed to be absorbing even when she wasn't performing.
We would go through the paces, she would sort of do each step. She got very good at SIT, and DOWN. OK with puppy push-ups. STAY--well, sort of. For a few seconds. COME--no problem. WAIT--forget it. TOUCH--she was great with that, and we have even used it a few times at home.
The next to last class, when she was supposed to go through ALL the steps, she would not do it. She basically refused every command. Gina was very understanding. Oh, it's the border collie in her. RIGHT. All I see in Ziva is retriever. Her mother was reputed to be a golden retriever., But my suspicion is her mother was a yellow labrador retriever. And, labs can be rascals--loving, yes, but rascals.
So this week was graduation. But, first, there was the final exam. Gina walked around dropping a label on the floor with each step. My heart sank--she (Ziva) had been so bad the previous week. But, like some human students I have known, Ziva seemed to be absorbing even when she wasn't performing.
The final exam
She went from SIT, to DOWN,STAY, and COME. She even did puppy push-ups. Then WAIT--a bit of trouble with that. But she enthusiastically ran to me for TOUCH. In fact, as each dog owner would say TOUCH, Ziva was ready to run to them.
She passed. And got her certificate to prove it. I don't think she's a natural student, but at least we both survived our training.
The graduate!
----------------------
P. S. Dakota, the sweet border collie, completely came out of her shell, and was very friendly. Another successful graduate.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Reflections on a Teaching Career
Classes at my community college start up again next week. But, for the first time in the last 8 years, I won't be in the classroom. I am taking a break this semester--with my husband's recent retirement, we are both trying out being fully retired.
I have the option to return to teaching next fall. While I certainly have not made that decision yet, it is possible that I have spent my last hours in the classroom. That prospect has me reflecting on a teaching career.
I first began teaching fresh out of graduate school. I headed off to graduate school immediately after college. While working on my master's degree, I wrote a note of appreciation to one of my favorite professors at my alma mater. I said--if there is anything I can do to repay you, let me know. His quick response--how would you like to come and teach for a year. As it happened, one of the English professors was going on sabbatical, and the English department needed someone to fill in for a year. That one year turned into my first teaching career of 8 years.
When I initially went into teaching, I was a young, green English instructor--all of 22 years old to my students' 18, 19, or 20 years old. Some of them had been just two years behind me in schooling. I had that wonderful combination of youth: audacity and blissful ignorance. It never occurred to me that I didn't know as much as I thought I knew. The first few months in the classroom, reading student papers, taught me more about grammar than anything else I had learned to that point. Nothing like reading papers that you have to correct to teach you proper writing.
Since the college where I was teaching had a small English department, I had the opportunity to teach a wide array of courses. In addition to composition, I taught American literature survey, the development of the English novel, Shakespeare, creative writing, and literary criticism. I was the first instructor to teach the latter two courses. You can see I had lots of room for academic creativity.
One of the high points of my first teaching career was participation in a grand educational experiment. The college faculty had decided to try to do integrated studies to meet the general education requirements. The resulting course was an amalgamation of literature, history, art, religion and culture. To prepare for the course, a faculty team worked during the summer to select content, plan the lecture sequence, determine who would deliver which lectures, and generally attend to the details for making the general education course work.
I loved this course. As faculty, we decided to focus on several key cultural periods in human history, and gather around those points the various emphases we wanted to convey. So, for example, we selected the Indus Valley civilization or the Tang dynasty, and then used those focal points to cover the history of the particular time, introduce students to elements of religion, as well as select some representative art and literature.
Variously referred to as Gen Ed, or Integrated Studies, the course lasted for about a decade. While the professors loved teaching the course, many students hated it. For a variety of reasons, the Gen Ed course was eventually terminated, and the traditional approach to teaching the basic course was reinstated.
Thus, my first reflection on a teaching career: I love learning and teaching afforded me a front seat opportunity to learn continually.
More reflections to come.
I have the option to return to teaching next fall. While I certainly have not made that decision yet, it is possible that I have spent my last hours in the classroom. That prospect has me reflecting on a teaching career.
I first began teaching fresh out of graduate school. I headed off to graduate school immediately after college. While working on my master's degree, I wrote a note of appreciation to one of my favorite professors at my alma mater. I said--if there is anything I can do to repay you, let me know. His quick response--how would you like to come and teach for a year. As it happened, one of the English professors was going on sabbatical, and the English department needed someone to fill in for a year. That one year turned into my first teaching career of 8 years.
When I initially went into teaching, I was a young, green English instructor--all of 22 years old to my students' 18, 19, or 20 years old. Some of them had been just two years behind me in schooling. I had that wonderful combination of youth: audacity and blissful ignorance. It never occurred to me that I didn't know as much as I thought I knew. The first few months in the classroom, reading student papers, taught me more about grammar than anything else I had learned to that point. Nothing like reading papers that you have to correct to teach you proper writing.
Since the college where I was teaching had a small English department, I had the opportunity to teach a wide array of courses. In addition to composition, I taught American literature survey, the development of the English novel, Shakespeare, creative writing, and literary criticism. I was the first instructor to teach the latter two courses. You can see I had lots of room for academic creativity.
One of the high points of my first teaching career was participation in a grand educational experiment. The college faculty had decided to try to do integrated studies to meet the general education requirements. The resulting course was an amalgamation of literature, history, art, religion and culture. To prepare for the course, a faculty team worked during the summer to select content, plan the lecture sequence, determine who would deliver which lectures, and generally attend to the details for making the general education course work.
I loved this course. As faculty, we decided to focus on several key cultural periods in human history, and gather around those points the various emphases we wanted to convey. So, for example, we selected the Indus Valley civilization or the Tang dynasty, and then used those focal points to cover the history of the particular time, introduce students to elements of religion, as well as select some representative art and literature.
Variously referred to as Gen Ed, or Integrated Studies, the course lasted for about a decade. While the professors loved teaching the course, many students hated it. For a variety of reasons, the Gen Ed course was eventually terminated, and the traditional approach to teaching the basic course was reinstated.
Thus, my first reflection on a teaching career: I love learning and teaching afforded me a front seat opportunity to learn continually.
More reflections to come.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Winding Down
I have officially requested to take the coming semester off. I think I might have mentioned this passingly before. I had a brief talk with the writing coordinator and asked to have no assignment in the spring. Besides, she had already suggested maybe I wanted to teach the same course (introductory writing) instead of argumentative writing, which is what I usually teach in spring. I don't think she knew this was a change--she is somewhat new at the coordinating and not always attentive. Beyond that, she suggested a Monday/ Wednesday/ Friday schedule. Nothing worse than driving to campus THREE days a week for one hour long class. Waste of gas, and almost a waste of time.
I have graded all but one remaining laggard research paper, and have only the final exam to give. Could it be I am actually winding down my teaching career? Too soon to know, but it just might be.
This possibility calls to mind one of my personal favorite symbols--the last robin of summer. We all mark the arrival of the first robin in spring. But who among us notes the last robin? I used this concept once before in writing. Of course, we all do have a time when we do something for the last time: the last time we speak with someone, or see someone; the last of time we go to a business place before it closes. The point is we don't know it's the last time because we lack foreknowledge of what will come.
However, since I have broached the subject of not teaching in the spring, I know this may be my last semester in the classroom. I think I will save for future musings reflections on this portion of my career.
Suffice it for today to reflect on winding down a semester. In many ways, this particular group of students is one of the liveliest I had teaching at the community college. There were days I almost could not get them to stop general talking to focus on the content at hand. This group had the usual array of varying student types you encounter in a community college class.
One startling example of varying student types was the young man who gave a never before given answer. We were talking about the differences between men and women (for compare/ contrast). He offered that women have one more rib than men. I looked at him, and said--NO. He look positively startled. Why, it's in the Bible, he said. The metaphoric nature of the creation story simply eluded him. I almost challenged him to count the number of ribs. But I figured even that would not convince him.
There were non-traditional students--usually somewhat older, heading back to school because life circumstances have changed (lost jobs, failed marriages, whatever)--always scared of wading back into the academic pool. There were students who have gone off to a four year residential campus and bombed. Frequently these students had difficulty balancing the total freedom of being in a four year college WITHOUT THE PARENTS and they simply failed academically. Too much beer? Too many parties? Too little time management? Too bad grades? Whatever the reason, they often do not know how to study. There were also one or two international students.
And, as always, as the semester went along, the ranks dwindled. I sometimes think before a semester gets underway, that I should look at the class the first day and set up a betting pool (with myself only, of course) as to who will be there at the end of the semester. The first semester I taught at the community college, I was stunned at how many students just quit attending class. The earliest a student stops is day two. Yes, I have had some students attend day one, and then never show up again. The students who really puzzle me are those who do almost all the work, almost all semester--and then, within a week or two of the semester's end, stop attending. I always send such students an email reminding them that they MUST inform me if they are dropping the course. Otherwise, I will keep them on the roll, and calculate a final grade--which will be a failing grade.
The highest dropout rate in any semester I taught was 50%. With the class registration capped at 26, one semester I ended with 13 students who completed the course. This semester, the combined drop-out/ stopped attending number is 6. I had one student over-enrollment, so 6 out of 27 isn't that bad. But among the students who dropped, I had some interesting variations.
I had one of those one day attendees--what was unusual about him is an email I got from his MOTHER several weeks into the semester. She was inquiring about his attendance. I thought to myself--WHAT attendance? But I responded that, because the relationship is between ME and the student, I am not permitted (by law) to reveal to her his attendance. I suggested she ask HIM.
Then there was a student who was about 3 years older than the average 18 year old in class. I don't know if she had previously tried college somewhere else. She wrote in her first paper about being the youngest in a four child family, and about her father being the head of a very large worldwide known corporation. So, I checked out that fact--turns out she was telling the truth. She attended spottily for about a month, and then at mid-semester just dropped off the class radar screen. Disappeared from class. Not a word. I confess to wondering if this approach to education is a pattern for her. And I wonder if she was a bit spoiled, a bit coddled.
Finally, there was a young man who seemed quite bright. He was totally silent in class--I am sure he would rather have been somewhere with computer games or computer generated music. He indicated a high interest in these subjects. On paper number two, I caught him plagiarizing. On the off chance he really didn't understand that one does NOT do that, I gave him the chance to rewrite the paper. Of course, I carefully checked each succeeding paper as he turned it in. Everything was fine--original even--until the research paper. I had required they use primarily print sources (the Internet being too great a temptation). As I read his paper, I thought--hmmmm. I wonder. So I used Google books, and voilà --plagiarized again. I was all set to give him a big F on his paper, when he appeared in class, drop slip in hand. I signed it, then said--let's talk out in the hall. I told him that I had caught him again. I also told him to knock it off--stop messing up your life by cheating. I also said--you're a bright guy. Don't do this to yourself. (Just now, with NPR on in the background, I hear an announcement about Tiger Woods. . .wonder if anyone gave HIM that advice?)
What always makes a semester worthwhile is this kind of comment: a student sent me this email--thank you very much. This is my first time back in class in almost 8 years and you have made it a great experience. It is a comment such as this one that has given me far more satisfaction than any paycheck ever could.
Well, for winding down, this has been a rather long post. And to think, I intended to post a Saturday soup. Huh! Well, next week.
I have graded all but one remaining laggard research paper, and have only the final exam to give. Could it be I am actually winding down my teaching career? Too soon to know, but it just might be.
This possibility calls to mind one of my personal favorite symbols--the last robin of summer. We all mark the arrival of the first robin in spring. But who among us notes the last robin? I used this concept once before in writing. Of course, we all do have a time when we do something for the last time: the last time we speak with someone, or see someone; the last of time we go to a business place before it closes. The point is we don't know it's the last time because we lack foreknowledge of what will come.
However, since I have broached the subject of not teaching in the spring, I know this may be my last semester in the classroom. I think I will save for future musings reflections on this portion of my career.
Suffice it for today to reflect on winding down a semester. In many ways, this particular group of students is one of the liveliest I had teaching at the community college. There were days I almost could not get them to stop general talking to focus on the content at hand. This group had the usual array of varying student types you encounter in a community college class.
One startling example of varying student types was the young man who gave a never before given answer. We were talking about the differences between men and women (for compare/ contrast). He offered that women have one more rib than men. I looked at him, and said--NO. He look positively startled. Why, it's in the Bible, he said. The metaphoric nature of the creation story simply eluded him. I almost challenged him to count the number of ribs. But I figured even that would not convince him.
There were non-traditional students--usually somewhat older, heading back to school because life circumstances have changed (lost jobs, failed marriages, whatever)--always scared of wading back into the academic pool. There were students who have gone off to a four year residential campus and bombed. Frequently these students had difficulty balancing the total freedom of being in a four year college WITHOUT THE PARENTS and they simply failed academically. Too much beer? Too many parties? Too little time management? Too bad grades? Whatever the reason, they often do not know how to study. There were also one or two international students.
And, as always, as the semester went along, the ranks dwindled. I sometimes think before a semester gets underway, that I should look at the class the first day and set up a betting pool (with myself only, of course) as to who will be there at the end of the semester. The first semester I taught at the community college, I was stunned at how many students just quit attending class. The earliest a student stops is day two. Yes, I have had some students attend day one, and then never show up again. The students who really puzzle me are those who do almost all the work, almost all semester--and then, within a week or two of the semester's end, stop attending. I always send such students an email reminding them that they MUST inform me if they are dropping the course. Otherwise, I will keep them on the roll, and calculate a final grade--which will be a failing grade.
The highest dropout rate in any semester I taught was 50%. With the class registration capped at 26, one semester I ended with 13 students who completed the course. This semester, the combined drop-out/ stopped attending number is 6. I had one student over-enrollment, so 6 out of 27 isn't that bad. But among the students who dropped, I had some interesting variations.
I had one of those one day attendees--what was unusual about him is an email I got from his MOTHER several weeks into the semester. She was inquiring about his attendance. I thought to myself--WHAT attendance? But I responded that, because the relationship is between ME and the student, I am not permitted (by law) to reveal to her his attendance. I suggested she ask HIM.
Then there was a student who was about 3 years older than the average 18 year old in class. I don't know if she had previously tried college somewhere else. She wrote in her first paper about being the youngest in a four child family, and about her father being the head of a very large worldwide known corporation. So, I checked out that fact--turns out she was telling the truth. She attended spottily for about a month, and then at mid-semester just dropped off the class radar screen. Disappeared from class. Not a word. I confess to wondering if this approach to education is a pattern for her. And I wonder if she was a bit spoiled, a bit coddled.
Finally, there was a young man who seemed quite bright. He was totally silent in class--I am sure he would rather have been somewhere with computer games or computer generated music. He indicated a high interest in these subjects. On paper number two, I caught him plagiarizing. On the off chance he really didn't understand that one does NOT do that, I gave him the chance to rewrite the paper. Of course, I carefully checked each succeeding paper as he turned it in. Everything was fine--original even--until the research paper. I had required they use primarily print sources (the Internet being too great a temptation). As I read his paper, I thought--hmmmm. I wonder. So I used Google books, and voilà --plagiarized again. I was all set to give him a big F on his paper, when he appeared in class, drop slip in hand. I signed it, then said--let's talk out in the hall. I told him that I had caught him again. I also told him to knock it off--stop messing up your life by cheating. I also said--you're a bright guy. Don't do this to yourself. (Just now, with NPR on in the background, I hear an announcement about Tiger Woods. . .wonder if anyone gave HIM that advice?)
What always makes a semester worthwhile is this kind of comment: a student sent me this email--thank you very much. This is my first time back in class in almost 8 years and you have made it a great experience. It is a comment such as this one that has given me far more satisfaction than any paycheck ever could.
Well, for winding down, this has been a rather long post. And to think, I intended to post a Saturday soup. Huh! Well, next week.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Round 1...
We are now 2 weeks into late fall semester. Things move at a fast pace when the class begins at the end of September, yet ends mid-December, along with all the other classes.
Students turned in their first paper, which I returned to them today, all green pen marked and graded.
I gave them my usual--here's what the various marks mean, and here is where you look in the handbook to fix the types of mistakes commonly being made--speech.
Before, I even got to that review, one student called out--what does WW mean. Continuing with the paper returns, I said--it means wrong word. There are various words in the English language--wonderful rich language that it is--that sound like other words, yet mean something completely different.
I find that using wrong words is one of the most frequent errors students make. And the tendency is catching. I was using a PowerPoint to highlight the important content that I wanted students to get from today's lecture--and there it was up on the screen. A MISTAKE. Glaring. Winking at me. Arrgghhhh! I have been corrupted by my students.
I had written DUEL, when I clearly meant DUAL. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sadly, no student caught it.
Here are three of my favorite wrong word errors from this round of papers.
Fronds. . .meaning friends
Sauna gram. . .meaning sonogram
And spur attic. . .meaning sporadic.
With all the papers returned, I gave students time to review their marks. And, I answered as students said--what is this that you wrote.
All along, I could hear one woman in the front of the class muttering--I am not liking this at all.
I dismissed class a bit early, saying--any of you who have questions, and want to take 5 minutes to go over your paper, I will stay right here.
I expected the muttering student to stay and ask something--but she was out the door in a flash. SIGH. And to think, at the beginning of the semester, she had loudly announced how much she loves to write. What she probably means is that if she gets to write, journal fashion, unedited, unevaluated thoughts, then she loves to write. But let me review her work and offer constructive criticism--well, that she is NOT liking at all.
Students turned in their first paper, which I returned to them today, all green pen marked and graded.
I gave them my usual--here's what the various marks mean, and here is where you look in the handbook to fix the types of mistakes commonly being made--speech.
Before, I even got to that review, one student called out--what does WW mean. Continuing with the paper returns, I said--it means wrong word. There are various words in the English language--wonderful rich language that it is--that sound like other words, yet mean something completely different.
I find that using wrong words is one of the most frequent errors students make. And the tendency is catching. I was using a PowerPoint to highlight the important content that I wanted students to get from today's lecture--and there it was up on the screen. A MISTAKE. Glaring. Winking at me. Arrgghhhh! I have been corrupted by my students.
I had written DUEL, when I clearly meant DUAL. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sadly, no student caught it.
Here are three of my favorite wrong word errors from this round of papers.
Fronds. . .meaning friends
Sauna gram. . .meaning sonogram
And spur attic. . .meaning sporadic.
With all the papers returned, I gave students time to review their marks. And, I answered as students said--what is this that you wrote.
All along, I could hear one woman in the front of the class muttering--I am not liking this at all.
I dismissed class a bit early, saying--any of you who have questions, and want to take 5 minutes to go over your paper, I will stay right here.
I expected the muttering student to stay and ask something--but she was out the door in a flash. SIGH. And to think, at the beginning of the semester, she had loudly announced how much she loves to write. What she probably means is that if she gets to write, journal fashion, unedited, unevaluated thoughts, then she loves to write. But let me review her work and offer constructive criticism--well, that she is NOT liking at all.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A Season of Reunions
October is (almost) here--one of my favorite months of the year. I love the changing seasons, and autumn shows us such a bright and colorful face. Add to the lush color the bite in the air, and a touch of wood smoke, and I am in heaven.
I signed up to teach a late start class this fall--and class started yesterday. We are a month behind all the other classes, but end at the same time. Consequently, course content is greatly compressed. Each class is 2 hours long, and obviously we are moving at a breakneck speed to cover all the material.
I always use a portion of the first class to cover the contents of the syllabus. I point out those things that I think are most critical for students to know about the class. I also confess to being as tough sounding as possible--that way the hangers-on (and there are always some) will shake lose and decide not to return. Partly to engage the students, and partly to keep them attending to the task at hand, I ask them what questions THEY have about the course. After I gather about a half a dozen questions, I then hand out the syllabus and tell them to start looking for answers.
Yesterday, one student asked one of the predictable questions. She asked--will there be a lot of reading. Another confession here--I wait for such questions. So, then I can stop, peer over my glasses and scrunch up my face and say --This is a reading and writing class, what do you think? OF COURSE we will do a lot of reading.
I have actually had students ask--will we have to write a lot in this class. Much hangs on the definition of "a lot." To me, writing four papers, each 4 pages in length, and one research paper of 10 pages is NOT a lot of writing. To students, that is the equivalent of having been sentenced to Siberia to work in the salt mines for the rest of their lives. They invariable groan and squirm.
The other favorite interaction for me is when I ask them to write on the spot an initial essay--that way, I have in hand an example of their writing without any assistance from any outside source. Not always, but frequently, a student will look around and say--does anyone have a pen or a pencil I can borrow. Another pause from me--and then I saw, this is a WRITING class and you came without a pen or a pencil.
I have just too much fun.
Anyway, the start of class reminds me that this is also the time of year that colleges begin to send out notices for homecomings and class reunions. My own alma mater is actually celebrating its 100th year of existence this fall.
Several years ago, I attended my college class 40th reunion. Thinking that 40 plus years has passed since I graduated from college always makes me feel--well, old. After that reunion, I came back home and sat down and penned a poem.
Herewith:
Class Reunion
At the fortieth gathering of the class of ‘66
The talk is less of remembering
Than it is of surviving.
We are done with warmed over reprises
Of night raids,
Of whatever happened to. . .
Our conversation now turns somber
As round we go with a catching up.
—Two years ago I suffered a cerebral
Hemorrhage, bleeding out in my brain
Relieved only by the surgeon’s skill
Drilling to relieve the pressure
I’m OK now but I have returned
To the church and God—
—I found out last summer that
I had colon cancer. I am
Done with chemo now and the doctors
Say I have a good chance of
Living five more years—
We all sit there stunned into
Silence—afraid to speak lest
We too be struck by malady.
We drift away with vague murmurs
To come back in five years.
The next day word comes that the
Class president who walked us
Through our survivor stories
Suffered a coronary and
Required quadruple bypass surgery.
Five years? I’ll be glad to live
Until tomorrow.
By Donna F. W. © 2008
Anyone out there attending a class reunion this fall? 'Tis the season.
I signed up to teach a late start class this fall--and class started yesterday. We are a month behind all the other classes, but end at the same time. Consequently, course content is greatly compressed. Each class is 2 hours long, and obviously we are moving at a breakneck speed to cover all the material.
I always use a portion of the first class to cover the contents of the syllabus. I point out those things that I think are most critical for students to know about the class. I also confess to being as tough sounding as possible--that way the hangers-on (and there are always some) will shake lose and decide not to return. Partly to engage the students, and partly to keep them attending to the task at hand, I ask them what questions THEY have about the course. After I gather about a half a dozen questions, I then hand out the syllabus and tell them to start looking for answers.
Yesterday, one student asked one of the predictable questions. She asked--will there be a lot of reading. Another confession here--I wait for such questions. So, then I can stop, peer over my glasses and scrunch up my face and say --This is a reading and writing class, what do you think? OF COURSE we will do a lot of reading.
I have actually had students ask--will we have to write a lot in this class. Much hangs on the definition of "a lot." To me, writing four papers, each 4 pages in length, and one research paper of 10 pages is NOT a lot of writing. To students, that is the equivalent of having been sentenced to Siberia to work in the salt mines for the rest of their lives. They invariable groan and squirm.
The other favorite interaction for me is when I ask them to write on the spot an initial essay--that way, I have in hand an example of their writing without any assistance from any outside source. Not always, but frequently, a student will look around and say--does anyone have a pen or a pencil I can borrow. Another pause from me--and then I saw, this is a WRITING class and you came without a pen or a pencil.
I have just too much fun.
Anyway, the start of class reminds me that this is also the time of year that colleges begin to send out notices for homecomings and class reunions. My own alma mater is actually celebrating its 100th year of existence this fall.
Several years ago, I attended my college class 40th reunion. Thinking that 40 plus years has passed since I graduated from college always makes me feel--well, old. After that reunion, I came back home and sat down and penned a poem.
Herewith:
Class Reunion
At the fortieth gathering of the class of ‘66
The talk is less of remembering
Than it is of surviving.
We are done with warmed over reprises
Of night raids,
Of whatever happened to. . .
Our conversation now turns somber
As round we go with a catching up.
—Two years ago I suffered a cerebral
Hemorrhage, bleeding out in my brain
Relieved only by the surgeon’s skill
Drilling to relieve the pressure
I’m OK now but I have returned
To the church and God—
—I found out last summer that
I had colon cancer. I am
Done with chemo now and the doctors
Say I have a good chance of
Living five more years—
We all sit there stunned into
Silence—afraid to speak lest
We too be struck by malady.
We drift away with vague murmurs
To come back in five years.
The next day word comes that the
Class president who walked us
Through our survivor stories
Suffered a coronary and
Required quadruple bypass surgery.
Five years? I’ll be glad to live
Until tomorrow.
By Donna F. W. © 2008
Anyone out there attending a class reunion this fall? 'Tis the season.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Changing Tastes in Poetry Part 2
I promised to write a bit explaining how modern poetry works. Since poetry is one of my links (along the right side here), I checked to see some of what I have previously written about poetry. You know, I don't want to repeat myself too much.
I found that I had outlined some of the principles of modern poetry in an earlier post, Tie a Poem to a Chair. (The title of that post comes from the first line of the wonderful poem by Billy Collins entitled Introduction to Poetry.)
Since I made the point that older poetry uses external elements to hold a poem together, to give it cohesion (rhythm, meter and rhyme), you will anticipate that something must hold modern poetry together. The cohesion for modern poetry moves to the interior of the poem.
Instead of the ends of line ALWAYS rhyming, a modern poem uses internal repetion at times. Simply repeating a word, or even using alliteration (repetition of consonant sounds) or assonance (repetition of vowel sounds) can help hold a poem together.
Modern poetry tends to be very spare in expression. Where a poem such as "The Raven" can go on (and on), a modern poet seems to pluck just one or two words to say exactly what the poet wants. Or a single image stands in for a host of meaning.
Let's take a poem by the poet Barbara Crooker . Her poems have been featured several times on Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac (which I have mention before). You can find more of her poems on the link provided to her name. And, I found at least one other blogger who analyzed a poem of hers called Ordinary Life.
Let's read the poem first.
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton,
'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
"Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'" by Barbara Crooker, from Line Dance. © Word Press, 2008.
I would venture to say that for some of you, reading this poem for the first time, it will seem to be a series of disconnected thoughts. But, in fact, the poem links idea after idea after idea by repetition of a word or a thought, each time in a new context.
When this poem was featured on The Writer's Almanac, I loved it so much that I sent it off to a friend of mine who also listens to the Almanac. After a couple of weeks, she sent back to me this analysis below which shows how the poem ties everything together by internal repetition.
I found that I had outlined some of the principles of modern poetry in an earlier post, Tie a Poem to a Chair. (The title of that post comes from the first line of the wonderful poem by Billy Collins entitled Introduction to Poetry.)
Since I made the point that older poetry uses external elements to hold a poem together, to give it cohesion (rhythm, meter and rhyme), you will anticipate that something must hold modern poetry together. The cohesion for modern poetry moves to the interior of the poem.
Instead of the ends of line ALWAYS rhyming, a modern poem uses internal repetion at times. Simply repeating a word, or even using alliteration (repetition of consonant sounds) or assonance (repetition of vowel sounds) can help hold a poem together.
Modern poetry tends to be very spare in expression. Where a poem such as "The Raven" can go on (and on), a modern poet seems to pluck just one or two words to say exactly what the poet wants. Or a single image stands in for a host of meaning.
Let's take a poem by the poet Barbara Crooker . Her poems have been featured several times on Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac (which I have mention before). You can find more of her poems on the link provided to her name. And, I found at least one other blogger who analyzed a poem of hers called Ordinary Life.
Let's read the poem first.
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton,
'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
"Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'" by Barbara Crooker, from Line Dance. © Word Press, 2008.
I would venture to say that for some of you, reading this poem for the first time, it will seem to be a series of disconnected thoughts. But, in fact, the poem links idea after idea after idea by repetition of a word or a thought, each time in a new context.
When this poem was featured on The Writer's Almanac, I loved it so much that I sent it off to a friend of mine who also listens to the Almanac. After a couple of weeks, she sent back to me this analysis below which shows how the poem ties everything together by internal repetition.
So, let's look at it again, with the help of colored text that I will italicize to help make it evident.
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton,
'We are All Writing God's Poem'
by Barbara Crooker
Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've DRIVEN into spring, as the woods REVIVE
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of PHLOX curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
LAVENDER, THISTLE, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
------------------------------
See how the poem holds together with all the links?
Beyond all these internal links are wonderful lines.
--"The sky's the soft blue of a work shirt"
--"their gaudy scarves flung over bark's bare limbs"
--"a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,/and aren't we just"
--"the moon spills its milk"
Those images are just delicious.
I am struck with how many times she uses clothing as description. And I am struck by the ordinariness made wonderfully special--opening a window, making coffee, steam rising.
My favorite portion is the image of the tractor trailer called Glory Bound that inspires the poet to say "and aren't we just."
I tell my students that the poet takes the ordinary events in life and transforms them into something extraordinary. The poet is inspired by everyday circumstances that those of us who are not poets would simply shrug off. The poet, however, mulls these events and ponders the meaning of it all.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Changing Tastes in Poetry Part 1
Ahhh poetry--some folk love it; others can't abide it.
Me--I'm in the "love it" camp.
But I do recognize that part of what pushes people into the "can't abide it" camp has to do with not understanding how it works.
So, I'd like to do two things in this post: explore the changing taste in poetry, and begin to explain how modern poetry works.
There may be some of you who remember memorizing poetry in school. If you did memorize, you have identified yourself with an older generation. Such memorization has gone by the wayside. In part, that may be due to the fact that the poems you memorized are no longer fashionable. You memorized poetry that had used external patterns as the means to achieve poetic cohesion: it had distinct rhythm, meter and rhyme.
Even if you don't know what those words mean, you recognize them when you say a poem, and allow it to fall into the sing-song measures. Here's an example:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
(From Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Kubla Khan)
Let "da" represent an unstressed syllable, and "dum" represent a stressed syllable.
So, here's how a line in the verse sounds rhythmically:
Da dum da dum da dum da dum
That is rhythm. And counting each da dum is meter. And the sound of words matching at the end of the line--that is rhyme.
Older poetry uses these tools quite a lot to bind the poem together. In fact, many people feel as though they are not reading a poem unless they can identify these elements. And when they read the poem, likely these elements are exaggerated, so the sing-song effect is magnified. In fairness, the external elements DO aid in memorizing.
You can look to some of the 19th century poets to begin to see this shift in poetic form. Someone such as William Butler Yeats, who lived in both the 19th and 20th century, embodies the shift. You have a wonderfully traditional poem in his When You Are Old, and the beginnings of a modern poem in Sailing to Byzantium. Sailing to Byzantium observes the conventions of rhythm, meter and rhyme, but each line pushes the content over into the next line, so that the effect of the external element disappears.
Read the poem out loud. First, read it stopping at the end of each line. Then read it out loud, reading with the sentence--so that "the young in one another's arms" becomes the spoken line, not where the external break occurs.
THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
(Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats)
Here endeth the lesson. Next time, I will show how modern poetry uses internal elements to achieve cohesion in a poem.
Me--I'm in the "love it" camp.
But I do recognize that part of what pushes people into the "can't abide it" camp has to do with not understanding how it works.
So, I'd like to do two things in this post: explore the changing taste in poetry, and begin to explain how modern poetry works.
There may be some of you who remember memorizing poetry in school. If you did memorize, you have identified yourself with an older generation. Such memorization has gone by the wayside. In part, that may be due to the fact that the poems you memorized are no longer fashionable. You memorized poetry that had used external patterns as the means to achieve poetic cohesion: it had distinct rhythm, meter and rhyme.
Even if you don't know what those words mean, you recognize them when you say a poem, and allow it to fall into the sing-song measures. Here's an example:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
(From Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Kubla Khan)
Let "da" represent an unstressed syllable, and "dum" represent a stressed syllable.
So, here's how a line in the verse sounds rhythmically:
Da dum da dum da dum da dum
That is rhythm. And counting each da dum is meter. And the sound of words matching at the end of the line--that is rhyme.
Older poetry uses these tools quite a lot to bind the poem together. In fact, many people feel as though they are not reading a poem unless they can identify these elements. And when they read the poem, likely these elements are exaggerated, so the sing-song effect is magnified. In fairness, the external elements DO aid in memorizing.
I have never been fond of this type of poetry. Sometimes the external elements so overpower the internal meaning of the poem. A prime example of this would be Poe's The Raven. I mean, you all remember the line "Quoth the raven nevermore"--but, honestly, do you remember anything else about the poem?
Around the end of the 19th century, some poets began to experiment more with poetic form. Some dispensed with the external cohesive elements altogether--think Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson. Other poets could use the external elements of rhythm, meter and rhyme, but they began to push the form.You can look to some of the 19th century poets to begin to see this shift in poetic form. Someone such as William Butler Yeats, who lived in both the 19th and 20th century, embodies the shift. You have a wonderfully traditional poem in his When You Are Old, and the beginnings of a modern poem in Sailing to Byzantium. Sailing to Byzantium observes the conventions of rhythm, meter and rhyme, but each line pushes the content over into the next line, so that the effect of the external element disappears.
Read the poem out loud. First, read it stopping at the end of each line. Then read it out loud, reading with the sentence--so that "the young in one another's arms" becomes the spoken line, not where the external break occurs.
THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
(Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats)
Here endeth the lesson. Next time, I will show how modern poetry uses internal elements to achieve cohesion in a poem.
Monday, May 04, 2009
DISCOURAGED!
I just finished grading two (TWO!!)** sets of research papers. The papers are to be 10 pages long, arguing a position, using appropriate sources, etc. etc.Well, I am done! So , why would I be discouraged?
Because in each of the sections of papers I graded, I found two instances of outright plagiarism. My policy is the student gets a zero (0) on a paper where there has been plagiarism. There is no excuse, absolutely none, for academic dishonesty.
But it makes me very sad--and discouraged--to find those instances. I know, I know--I know students are busy. I know they are balancing many different proverbial balls in their lives. But, cheat to get work done? No. I neither can nor will ever condone cheating.
'Nuff said.
------------
** to my brother--no smart remarks about "only two sets"? Remember, I am supposed to be retired!
Monday, April 06, 2009
Generations Redux
Though the previous post did not generate as many comments as some of my posts have, we have a thoughtful conversation going on.
Climenheise commented: "As some of your post-ers have noted, there are still young people who defy this image. They go to New Orleans and help out. They spend years in the Middle East living in a conflict situation for the sake of conscience. But as a society we have spent generations creating what you describe in your classroom. I would be interested in your own further analysis of what's going on."
For the uninitiated, Climenheise is the nom-de-plume of my brother. He and I have had pieces of this conversation on generations before. He, too, is a professor--in fact, he teaches students at an advanced level in a seminary in Manitoba.
In a prior post, some time back, I wrote about making a reference (to Wayne Newton) in class and getting blank stares from my students. Always a humbling experience--that. It makes one feel. . .old. After writing that post, my brother sent me a link for the Beloit College Mindset list. For eleven years, Beloit College has been assembling a list of things the new class entering college would have as a common frame of reference. You can go here to read more about this list, and even see prior years.
This list helps me know what I can expect in terms of student reactions to events or people I may refer to in class discussion. Here's what Beloit observes about the current freshmen class--the class of 2012:
Maybe that description helps to form an answer my "what generation is this" question.
I also recall reading that a generation is shaped by the events when people were coming of age--also a topic of a previous post for me. So, take the birth years, then add about 20 years and examine the events of that time span. Those are the events that will shape that generation.
That doesn't really give me an answer to "what generation is this" but it's a beginning. I agree--the selfishness that the response my students gave in class is NOT a universal trait of this generation. For example, students use their spring break weeks to work in place like the Gulf Coast striken with multiple hurricanes.
Well, for now, I will leave the rumination of generational identity aside. You all can keep answering, and giving me suggestions. Every little bit helps.
Climenheise commented: "As some of your post-ers have noted, there are still young people who defy this image. They go to New Orleans and help out. They spend years in the Middle East living in a conflict situation for the sake of conscience. But as a society we have spent generations creating what you describe in your classroom. I would be interested in your own further analysis of what's going on."
For the uninitiated, Climenheise is the nom-de-plume of my brother. He and I have had pieces of this conversation on generations before. He, too, is a professor--in fact, he teaches students at an advanced level in a seminary in Manitoba.
In a prior post, some time back, I wrote about making a reference (to Wayne Newton) in class and getting blank stares from my students. Always a humbling experience--that. It makes one feel. . .old. After writing that post, my brother sent me a link for the Beloit College Mindset list. For eleven years, Beloit College has been assembling a list of things the new class entering college would have as a common frame of reference. You can go here to read more about this list, and even see prior years.
This list helps me know what I can expect in terms of student reactions to events or people I may refer to in class discussion. Here's what Beloit observes about the current freshmen class--the class of 2012:
The class of 2012 has grown up in an era where computers and rapid communication are the norm, and colleges no longer trumpet the fact that residence halls are “wired” and equipped with the latest hardware. These students will hardly recognize the availability of telephones in their rooms since they have seldom utilized landlines during their adolescence. They will continue to live on their cell phones and communicate via texting. Roommates, few of whom have ever shared a bedroom, have already checked out each other on Facebook where they have shared their most personal thoughts with the whole world.
It is a multicultural, politically correct and “green” generation that has hardly noticed the threats to their privacy and has never feared the Russians and the Warsaw Pact.
Maybe that description helps to form an answer my "what generation is this" question.
I also recall reading that a generation is shaped by the events when people were coming of age--also a topic of a previous post for me. So, take the birth years, then add about 20 years and examine the events of that time span. Those are the events that will shape that generation.
That doesn't really give me an answer to "what generation is this" but it's a beginning. I agree--the selfishness that the response my students gave in class is NOT a universal trait of this generation. For example, students use their spring break weeks to work in place like the Gulf Coast striken with multiple hurricanes.
Well, for now, I will leave the rumination of generational identity aside. You all can keep answering, and giving me suggestions. Every little bit helps.
Friday, April 03, 2009
What Generation is this?
I was reading Newsweek last evening, and came upon a most disturbing article: Generation Divas it was called. The gist of the article is that we are so external beauty obsessed that a whole generation of young girls (especially) is being groomed to the hilt. The sub-title of the article says it all: how obsession with beauty is changing our kids. The article refers to a show I had never heard of—“Toddlers and Tiaras” on TLC. It is called “a reality show.” Some reality.
This article got me to thinking—what generation is this?
In my husband’s work capacity, he has participated in discussions on how to attract and retain members. One of the approaches his work place has used is to consider what appeals to the various generations, and the characteristics that typify each generation. We all know the Boomer generation (of which I am sort of a member—I was born just a tad before the official beginning in 1946). This generation followed the Greatest Generation—enshrined in Tom Brokaw’s eponymous book.
Does this symbol register with you?
If these events and names strike a familiar note with you—Vietnam, Woodstock, assassinations of JFK, Malcolm X, Martin, and Bobby, sexual revolution and drugs—chances are you are part of the Boomer generation.
After the Boomers, we had Generation X—this grouping includes those born between the years 1964-1980. This generation saw the Berlin wall come down, and the beginnings of computers. (Note—the events might not occur during the inclusive years, which are birth years, but rather occur as the generation comes of age.)
In keeping with the alphabetical appellation, Gen X was followed by Gen Y–birth years of 1981 to 1995. Tracking these cycles is the work of sociologists and observers of popular culture. Here’s a piece on the 20th and 21st century cycles.
So, why my rather lengthy journey into the characteristics of generations? Because those who study these generational cycles tend to assign behavioral attributes to the people born during
the bracket years. So, I am wondering—what generation is this one? The given designation of Generation Z is not really helpful.
A discussion in class yesterday brought me up short—and did nothing to answer my wondering “what generation is this?” The final assignment that I have for students is for them to work in collaborative groups. They are to do research on a “third world” country and a problem that country has. Then, they are to propose a solution to that problem, focusing particularly on whether or not “first world” countries have an ethical obligation to help. To prime the students for this project, we had a discussion on several essays they were assigned to read. One of the discussion questions I posed was: do rich countries have an obligation to help poor countries. From my students I received an unequivocal NO. We have NO obligation to help any other country.
I confess—I shuddered. And I could not help but conjure up images of French peasants storming the Bastille, and marching on Versailles.
What generation is this, indeed?
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Image of illustration on Storming the Bastille--from Encyclopedia Britannica online
This article got me to thinking—what generation is this?
In my husband’s work capacity, he has participated in discussions on how to attract and retain members. One of the approaches his work place has used is to consider what appeals to the various generations, and the characteristics that typify each generation. We all know the Boomer generation (of which I am sort of a member—I was born just a tad before the official beginning in 1946). This generation followed the Greatest Generation—enshrined in Tom Brokaw’s eponymous book.
Does this symbol register with you?
If these events and names strike a familiar note with you—Vietnam, Woodstock, assassinations of JFK, Malcolm X, Martin, and Bobby, sexual revolution and drugs—chances are you are part of the Boomer generation.
After the Boomers, we had Generation X—this grouping includes those born between the years 1964-1980. This generation saw the Berlin wall come down, and the beginnings of computers. (Note—the events might not occur during the inclusive years, which are birth years, but rather occur as the generation comes of age.)
In keeping with the alphabetical appellation, Gen X was followed by Gen Y–birth years of 1981 to 1995. Tracking these cycles is the work of sociologists and observers of popular culture. Here’s a piece on the 20th and 21st century cycles.
So, why my rather lengthy journey into the characteristics of generations? Because those who study these generational cycles tend to assign behavioral attributes to the people born during
the bracket years. So, I am wondering—what generation is this one? The given designation of Generation Z is not really helpful.A discussion in class yesterday brought me up short—and did nothing to answer my wondering “what generation is this?” The final assignment that I have for students is for them to work in collaborative groups. They are to do research on a “third world” country and a problem that country has. Then, they are to propose a solution to that problem, focusing particularly on whether or not “first world” countries have an ethical obligation to help. To prime the students for this project, we had a discussion on several essays they were assigned to read. One of the discussion questions I posed was: do rich countries have an obligation to help poor countries. From my students I received an unequivocal NO. We have NO obligation to help any other country.
I confess—I shuddered. And I could not help but conjure up images of French peasants storming the Bastille, and marching on Versailles.
What generation is this, indeed?
-----------------
Image of illustration on Storming the Bastille--from Encyclopedia Britannica online
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