Grammar!

June 7, 2011

I’ve noticed a trend in how I start these posts—I tend to start with some kind of a confession.  Well, here’s another: I love grammar.  I like to obsess about individual sentences.  I like to introduce students to the options they have (as opposed to the rules they should follow).  I’m surprised by all of this, though, because I have lived most of my life in fear of grammar.  I didn’t receive any solid grammar instruction until graduate school, and I was well aware of the weakness I had.  And while I do love grammar now, I have never let myself forget the fear, a fear that many of my students still have (and rightfully so).  I came across today’s article, and I chose it because I thought it was funny, and I was in need of a laugh.  Well, it wasn’t funny, but here it is anyway:

Article 12:

Lynch-Biniek, Amy.  “Bemoans, Belittles, and Leaves.” TETYC 33.1 (2005): 29-37. Print.

Lynch-Biniek’s article is a critique of Lynn Truss’s Eats, Shoots & Leaves.  But I suppose it’s also a little bit more than that as well; it’s a critique of the way we view grammar (and the larger “we,” not just the grammar-nerd “we”).  This article reminds me of all of the implications that is packed in language—power, authority, control.  Lynch-Biniek explains that the proper use of grammar is a “mark of education, a mark of money” (33).  The main problem she notes is how folks who are in the grammar-know make fun of the folks who aren’t (i.e.: pointing out misused apostrophes and the like).  When we make fun of the folks who don’t know formal grammar, we are inadvertently commenting on their social status—and that makes us assholes (my words, not hers).  I think that can be the case, even if it’s not intentional.  If we use our knowledge of grammar to hold ourselves in higher esteem than others, that would make us assholes (which, by the way, reminds me of the article about the Unabomber, and I don’t want to be an asshole like him—and not just for his bomb fetish, either).  Ultimately, I think we need to be cognizant of how personal of an issue grammar can be.

Better get back to my online class…

mk 

Dudes are loud, even in writing (sometimes)

My second year of teaching I was observed teaching my first English 90 class.  The class went well—students were engaged, and we had a great class conversation.  The class was loud and active, and I was glad—to me it’s a sign of a good day.  My observation letter was largely positive, but the veteran instructor noted that in one of the groups, she witnessed the men dominating the conversation while the two women remained fairly quiet.  She recommended that I pay attention to these dynamics in the future, so I would be sure to provide equal opportunity for the women to participate.  As young as I was in my teaching, I was not ready to wrap my head around that suggestion.  At that point, what I didn’t know about teaching far outweighed what I did know—as it does now.  I had spent a great deal of time contemplating gender issues, but I had relegated those to a concern about my gender as the instructor.  I hadn’t begun to consider the gender dynamics of the class itself.  Not that it’s any breaking news that men tend to dominate conversations, but it is breaking news to me that I need to consider ONE MORE THING.  I’m afraid of all of the things I’m not considering.  This has been one issue that has irked me since—how can I provide adequate opportunity to all of my students (especially when some of them don’t want it)?  Well, here it is folks, in honor of launching my first online class today, here’s an article about gender issues and online learning:

Article 11:

Sullivan, Patrick. “Gender and the Online Classroom.” TETYC 26.4 (1999): 361-371. Print.

As I said earlier, it’s no surprise that men often dominate classrooms, as their testosterone, or armpit hair, or Adam’s apples make them.  Sullivan remarks that many online teachers praised the level field that online classes offer (or at least seem to).  Sullivan warns against this—there are still ways for women and minorities to be marginalized and silenced online.  Sullivan admits, though, that there’s certainly the possibility of a more-level field, but it requires great effort on the instructor’s part.

Before I move on to the rest of the article, let’s first discuss the levelness of the online field.  I think it’s changing, and perhaps not in a good way.  Sullivan’s article came out in 1999 (and, wow—an article about online teaching that long ago—awesome!). All communication at that point would take place in written form, and it can be easy for a skilled writer to hide their identity behind their words.  I hide behind mine all the time (I can be super tall and super scary in writing, when I want to be).  The technology I’m using in my online class does not allow me to hide, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.  I’m using videos that I do voice-overs on, and my voice gives a lot away about me.  I’ve decided to embrace that—the benefit of the technology outweighs my need/want to hide.  I wonder how hidden my students feel.  The online environment offers some anonymity, sometimes too much (case in point: online cajones, when people instantly grow a pair as soon as they log on, leading to being outright jerks).  Many students take online classes because they prefer the anonymity of it.  I wonder how technology will change all of that.  Now back to the article…

Sullivan offers 6 key design features that instructors should incorporate in their online classes to help provide equal opportunity for all.  Twelve years after this article was written, the information is not revelatory—but in 1999, I’m sure it was.  Sullivan also describes the need to teach netiquette—something we do in our online classes (my students are reading an article about it tomorrow, actually!). 

While I didn’t learn anything new from this article, it did bring my awareness back around to this issue—the same as my teaching observation a few years back.  If one thing is for certain, gender differences have always influenced our classes, and this is no different online—we need to be aware and work towards equal-opportunity classes.  So, again, it’s ONE MORE THING to think about. 

Okay, it’s time for me to get back to my online class.  First day is going well, so far!  I’m sure I’ll prattle on about it more in the upcoming days. 

mk

Meta, Meta, Meta...

WAC and WID have no doubt been on my mind over the past year because of the core reform that is currently taking place, a reform that includes the creation of writing and oral communication intensive courses in the disciplines (CID).  Clyde, Heidi, Erin (comm faculty member), and I are hosting workshops this summer for faculty who are planning to teach these CID courses.  The gang handled the first round of workshops while I was at Computers and Writing, so I haven’t had much of a chance yet to hear how it went, but I’m super curious.  One thing I’ve learned over the past year is that I can never anticipate exactly what people are going to have a problem with, but I know someone will have an issue with something.  All of this leads me to today’s article:

Article 10:

Carter, Michael. “Ways of Knowing, Doing, and Writing in the Disciplines.” College Composition and Communication 58.3 (2007): 385-418. Print.

Carter’s main point in this article is that WID folks can help other faculty understand that writing can be a way of introducing students to the “ways of knowing and doing in the discipline.”  Basically, writing isn’t just a skill that can be generalized over all circumstances—it needs to be taught conscientiously.

Carter suggests a few terms that were new to me: metagenre and metadiscourse (meta, meta, meta is starting to sound like Marcia, Marcia, Marcia to me…).  Metagenre “signifies a higher category, a genre or genres” (393), which “directs our attention to broader patterns of language as social action…” (393).  For example, different disciplines might use similar genres, like the variety of lab reports you might see across the sciences.  Why might we need to identify these metagenres?  Well, because Carter says that “looking at metagenres allows us to see similarities among ways of doing across disciplines that are traditionally considered distinct” (397).  If WID faculty were to teach other faculty about metagenres, Carter argues, the faculty could then show students the ways of doing in the discipline (403). 

Metadiscourse, according to Carter, builds from metagenres.  He explains, “Together the genres that compose a metagenre point to a social formation composed of individual disciplines that emphasize the way of doing defined by the metagenre” (393). 

I think Carter is ultimately arguing to move beyond our focus of individual disciplines, but instead we should focus on metadisciplines (and beyond—meta-metadiscipline?).  My work in the Writing Center (and now with WAC) has already led me to an interest in the ways different disciplines approach writing, but beyond that I have also recently become enamored by interdisciplinary writing.  This interest fell in my lap after I stumbled on a few books on Behavioral Economics, and now I can’t get enough of it—a mixture of psychology, sociology, anthropology, history, and economics?  Shoot—that’s nerd heaven as far as I can tell.  I was already planning on approaching my 201 class in the fall as an interdisciplinary writing class (so stay tuned for more about that!). 

It’s late, and I’ve got more work to do on my online class yet—it launches in a little over a day!  I’ll probably take the weekend off from this to wrap up my course site. 

Back on Monday!

mk

Creepy...Crawly...English Profs?

Confession up front: I was indeed influenced by a movie in my decision early on to want to teach at the college level—and to focus on English studies, to boot.  I’ve been well aware of it since it occurred, but have faithfully kept it to myself after harassing many of my blonde friends who promptly declared they want to be lawyers after Legally Blonde came out.  The movie that put the twinkle in my eye was The Mirror has Two Faces, a tale of a literature professor, Rose—played by Barbara Streisand, who was unlucky in love until she met and fell in love with Gregory, played by Jeff Bridges, a math professor who wanted to marry her because he was not attracted to her physically (he seemed to not be able to function on his math problems with all of his blood rushed elsewhere—idiot).  So—that sort of sounds depressing, right?  Well, so it would appear, except Rose was brilliant at lecturing about literature to a large hall of students (packed, by the way, and all of the students were—hanging—on—to—every—word—she—said).  The depressing part of her life didn’t even phase me; I was enamored by the way she taught and, of course, by the way her students responded.  I was hooked.  Why mention all of this, you ask?  Well, here it is folks:

Article 9:

Carens, Timothy L. “Serpents in the Garden: English Professors in Contemporary Film and Television.” College English 73.1 (2010): 9-27. Print.

Carens runs down a long list of recent (and not so recent) depictions of English professors in film and TV—and, holy cow, it was not a flattering picture!  The obvious picture rises to the surface: an older, male professor seduces a young, beautiful (and super naïve) student and ultimately takes her innocence.  The lovely image of a powerfully engaging female professor is not the dominant image.  Carens illustrates how this running narrative about English professors ultimately is about a power struggle over knowledge—the professor has it, and the young, female students wants it—but she has to pay a price for it. 

And why is there such a focus over English professors (as opposed to faculty from other disciplines)?  Well, Carens states that “we preside over a discipline that seems to have abandoned epistemological certainty for the borderless freedom of interpretation” (17).  In other words, we live foot loose and fancy free—not in the realm of facts and reality, like other disciplines.  This “borderless freedom” is prime ground for ridiculous behavior, apparently.  Carens concludes by taking the position that he is encouraged by the amount of times English profs appear in movies and TV because “the broad viewing public shares our enthusiasm for literature” (24).  I think Carens is a little deluded here.  The films and TV shows he describes don’t show an enthusiasm for literature—they show a bunch of old dudes in tweed jackets acting like douchebags.  That’s not all that encouraging in my eyes.  All of the films about high school English teachers are—to my recollection—encouraging (if not crippling inspiring).  I’d like to see the public image of college teachers move in that direction (but maybe that makes me deluded).

This brings me back to yesterday’s article and the perceptions and expectations that students bring with them.  God help us if they’re bringing any expectations from these movies!  Though I suppose it would explain the looks I get on the first day of class when I walk in and they were expecting an old dude with elbow patches on his jacket.

If nothing else, I have a long list of movies to watch now!  And, after watching all of that smut, I’ll definitely need to re-watch my Streisand movie.

More tomorrow!

mk

Bored yet?

I’ve been exposed to many boring classes in my life (all at the undergrad level—I was blessed to not have any boring grad classes, which is probably why I enjoyed grad school about a zillion times more).  And since I’ve been teaching, boredom is something I have come to fear: I worry that I’ll get bored with this whole gig; I worry that my students will be bored by my classes; I worry that my colleagues will describe me as a bore.  All of this worry led me to today’s article:

Baker, Tracey.  “Boredom in the First-Year Composition Classroom.” TETYC 30.4 (2003): 404-15. Print.

Baker explores the concept of boredom from the eyes of her FYW students.  She identifies three issues with determining boredom:

1.       First-year students don’t have a fair comparison—they haven’t taken enough college classes to get a clear sense of what to even expect (405).  (And on the occasion that I look across my classroom and see someone with glazed-over eyes, I find myself thinking “Oh, yeah?  You think this is boring?  Just wait, buddy, just wait…”)

2.       Different students are bored for different reasons (405).  If I lit myself on fire while juggling chainsaws, someone would no doubt yawn (especially since YouTube has come about). This makes it quite difficult for teachers to address the boredom issue—making changes will suite some students but not others.  Pesky kids.

3.       The word “boredom” doesn’t mean the same thing to all people, and in fact, what students often describe as boredom might actually be confusion, intimidation, or the feeling of being lost (406-07). 

The issue of boredom definitely comes down to expectations: ours (teachers’) and theirs (students’).  Baker recognizes that for teachers this becomes an identity issue—if we identify ourselves as teachers (and we do…), and if our students identify us as boring, does that make us boring people?  I’d like to think that I’m not a boring teacher or person, but I’ve definitely seen some boring teachers out there, but I wouldn’t go so far to say that they must be boring people (perhaps they do more than a wine and cheese tasting for an adventure?).  I think the tricky thing here is the fact that we do tie our identities to our professional lives, so how our students view us affects how we view ourselves (or at least it does for me—I don’t want to generalize here).  For me this is a positive thing—I am my very best self in the classroom, and students respond well to that.  When I get home, though, I’m honestly kind of a dud, but I can rely on my “awesome teacher” identity to carry me through.  That can’t possibly be healthy.  Back to expectations…I expect my students to not be bored.  I work hard to create an engaging class, and the least they can do is reciprocate, right?

Student expectations are equally as tricky.  Baker notes that students are basically looking for a performance, and they use our teacher evals as a place to rank our performances (407-08).  That’s a tricky issue, too—on one hand, I recognize that sometimes I am putting on a bit of a show (it is my best self after all), but because I’m working with first-year students, I tell myself that I will do what it takes to get their assess in the class.  If they don’t like me, they’re less likely to come; if they’re less likely to come, their A LOT less likely to learn something.  So, I assure myself that it’s for a good cause.  And, it is fun after all.  On the other hand, though, my job is not to entertain them.  I’ve had some entertaining teachers that I didn’t learn a damn thing from.  It was a good time, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not what I needed. 

To get at a better understanding of boredom, Baker surveyed her students.  One of her interesting findings was that “students do appear to react more to the person in front of the class than to the class, course materials, and other students” (411).  I suppose I knew that all along—and banked on it with my own students.  I absolutely use my personality to carry me through my classes, and students are very forgiving of me because of it.  I may challenge them fiercely, but as long as I do it with a smile and a smart-ass joke, they stick with me. 

Baker also asked her students how comp classes could be more interesting.  Here’s what they had to say:

                “Let us write about topics that interest us.”

                “Instructors should stop talking so much.”

                “Instructors should show that they love what they’re doing.” (412)

She notes that of the suggestions she received, most of them were directed at the teacher—not the class subject or materials.  Because of this, Baker suggests that we talk to our students about how they shouldn’t focus on their instructors but rather on the content of their courses.  I think what she is getting at, really, is about helping students develop intrinsic motivation—they shouldn’t need a dog and pony show to get them to want to come to class.  I suppose that’s true, but I’ll probably stick with my routine because my goal is to get them to come—they already have so many factors that are pulling them away from the class, but I hope to be one more cog that helps them get to the place in their lives where they’re ready to be intrinsically motivated.  

Well, I suppose that should be it for now—I don’t want to bore you.  J  In the meantime, I’ll leave you with another set of lyrics, Harvey Danger’s “Flagpole Sitta” (if you don’t know it, you should look it up!):

If you’re bored then you’re boring…

Maybe that would be an appropriate response to a student’s claim of boredom?

More tomorrow!

mk

Online Teaching on the Brain

I ran out of journals that I had brought home with me, but after a quick jaunt to campus today, I’m back in business.  I’m going to get right to it since there’s still a ton of work to do for my online class, and since I’ve got online classes on the brain, here’s another article to add to that stack:

Stine, Linda. “Basically Unheard: Developmental Writers and the Conversation on Online Learning.”

TETYC 38.2 (2010): 132-148. Print.

This is a timely article because there have been recent talks in our department about whether or not Basic Writing should be offered online.  Most people tend to immediately shake their head—BW students need a lot of one-on-one attention, and they already have a lot of obstacles working against them.  And, BW students tend to not be as tech savvy, so tossing them into a fully online course seems like a cruel trick.  Even though the majority of our faculty are leery about having online BW classes, there does seem to be a need (or rather a desire) from students, and some faculty support that—if students want to sign up for an online class, they should have the option.  My interest in both teaching online and teaching basic writing has left me puzzled; I can’t say whether or not it’s a good idea.  I see technology being the biggest barrier (as it is for most online students) and motivation as the next biggest (as it often is for BW students—mostly traditionally aged ones).

Stine brings up a solid point early on in her article—there isn’t all that much scholarship or discussion out there about this issue.  The little there is, she notes, doesn’t seem to describe her students who are mostly non-traditional.  She pulls scholarship from Adult Learning Theory and Online Learning Theory to come to some basic concerns about how and why adult learners (who are basic writers) would benefit and/or falter in an online environment.  Some of the usual suspects she mentions are technology issues, academic skill level issues, and issues in persistence.  She also describes, though, the affective dimension of learning, which would of course come back to the discussion of community.  Stine writes, “Establishing this sense of community when students are interacting from different locations and at different times is perhaps the online basic writing teacher’s most important, and most difficult, task” (138).  This is not a new sentiment when it comes to teaching writing—online or face-to-face.  What I’ve yet to really hear much about, on the other hand, is how to go about establishing this community.  At Computers and Writing, Jill and I went to one presentation that focused on the necessity of community, and they described a graduate-level, synchronous class—these students would be highly motivated, might likely already know each other from their program, and were meeting synchronously.  Like Stine, I felt that scenario did not represent our students (let alone BW ones). 

I really want to dig further into the idea of building community in online classes, but I doubt it’s something I’ll accomplish before I start teaching next week.  Also, my pessimistic self already doubts the possibility of developing a strong community in five weeks anyhow (online or face-to-face). 

Before I forget to mention, though, I do think I’m leaning towards thinking that offering online BW classes is not a good idea.  Stine mentioned something I hadn’t yet considered:

In the online environment, students encounter added opportunity for error.  Even speaking becomes a high-risk situation when it occurs online in the form of writing, with the ever-present possibility of being silenced by equipment failure or by misunderstanding resulting from feedback both delayed and limited by the constraints of the written word. (139)

That makes total sense—where would the low-risk situations be in an online class for developmental writers?  Good, good question.  Ultimately, I think even though students may want to take this class online, it’s not likely the best way to actually suit their needs.  As the Stones would say:

You can't always get what you want 

But if you try sometimes you might find

you get what you need

Song stuck in your head now?  Mine too. 

Okay, that’s enough for tonight!  More tomorrow…

mk

Vets...just in time for Memorial Day

May 29, 2011

I made it back from the coast last night, and while my brain and nerves are telling me I should be working on planning my upcoming online class, I am here ready to read and write about another article.  Even though I know I should be working on other things, I’m secretly—and not so secretly—glad that this project is itching my brain.  I think it has taken hold.  So, here it is folks:

Article 6:

Leonhardy, Galen. “Transformations: Working with Veterans in the Composition Classroom.” TETYC 36.4

(2009): 339-52.

I was pleased to find this article today because I’ve been interested in working with vets for a few years now.  I encountered my first vet student my second semester teaching, and he scared the hell out of me.  He came to me after our first class meeting to inform me that he had anger and authority issues and had a hard time controlling his temper in heated discussions.  He wanted to know if we would be having heated discussions in my class.  I honestly couldn’t answer—I didn’t know…I hadn’t ever taught the class before.  He certainly had authority issues, as he warned me, but the issues weren’t directed at me, but rather at some other unseen figure.  This guy unnerved me for several reasons.  First, our initial meeting gave me the willies.  Second, he referred to himself in the third person, AND by his last name (and, his last name was really, really funny, but he had no humor about it).  Third, he wore a trench coat.  Fourth, he came to class early every day and sat in the hall.  My office was near our classroom, so I saw him there every morning, but he never made eye contact with me outside of class.  We worked pretty closely over the course of the semester, and the semester ended peacefully: his writing improved; his anxiety seemed lessened; and, we went our separate ways—I haven’t seen him since.  This first experience left me unhinged a bit—would working with vets always be this unsettling?  The answer, of course, was no, and the remainder of my interactions with vet students have been remarkable.  (I have a vet that was in my E90 class two years ago, and he still visits me once a week.  I even keep a bag of doggie treats in my desk drawer for his service dog.  It’s a highlight of my week every time he comes by!)

Leonhardy confirmed for me some things I already believed—vets are students like any other; they bring their life experiences with them.  Leonhardy reminds us that vets aren’t the ones to bring traumatic experiences with them to our classes. 

Leonhardy is able to offer a fairly unique experience for his students—he is a vet himself and is able to share narratives with them.  Like many instructors at Leonhardy’s institution, I find myself asking, “How can I best work with vets?”  Leonhardy offers a couple tips to folks like me:

1.       “Good pedagogy in the compositionclassroom is good pedagogy for all students” (344).  He also suggests leading by example; instructors could/should complete assignments alongside their students and share their work.

2.       Instructors should have empathy (345).  (This seems to line up with “good pedagogy is good pedagogy,” no?)

Ultimately, Leonhardy seems to suggest that we treat vets like any other students, and I agree with that.  Good pedagogy is good pedagogy for all is a philosophy I have always subscribed to, and my basic writing students appreciate that, acknowledging in my evaluations that I don’t talk down to them.  The advice I always give folks who are teaching basic writing for the first time is this: treat them with respect, and treat them as individuals. That’s it, and it goes a long way. 

After reading Leonhardy’s article, I am questioning whether or not I provide enough opportunities for my students to do personal writing.  I moved away from personal essays early on, trying to focus on “academic writing.”  Leohardy argues that instructors should use assignments to help vets (and all students) move from the personal to the public, starting with freewriting and narratives and eventually moving on to research-based writing.  I have been long thinking about trying to find ways to encourage my students to incorporate themselves back into their writing, and I’ll really be focusing on that in 201 in the fall.  I suppose it all comes down to teaching students to be able to examine the rhetorical situation, so they can determine when it is and when it is not appropriate to bring themselves into the writing. 

Okay, I’m going to try and cut it short today—I really need to start working on my online class! 

More tomorrow,

mk

Countdown to My First Online Class

Still here from the Oregon coast, and I’m happily returning to my blogging duties as the beach here is more fog and rocks than sun and sand.  I must admit that I’m feeling incredibly guilty and somewhat nervous on vacation right now since I’m supposed to begin teaching my very first online class here in a little over a week (and, it’s a five-week summer class, which has never been taught before at our university—so I suppose that’s adding to my twitchiness about the subject).  On the trip over I managed to sketch out a rough plan of due dates and assignments, so I do feel fairly confident now that I can actually cover the material I had hoped to.  But, I’m still left with the task of building my online classroom.  The article that came my way today, I suppose, was either meant to alleviate or possibly aggravate my concerns about this upcoming class.  Someone sure is screwing with me…, so, here it is folks:

Article 5:

Darrington, Anjanette. “Six Lessons in e-Learning: Strategies and Support for Teachers New to Online Environments.” TETYC 35.4 (2008): 416-421. Print.

The title says it all: Darrington offers six pointers of things she learned after teaching her online class for the first time.  This isn’t the first article like this that I’ve read—it seems that after teaching online for the first time, it’s common for teachers to want or need to share their experiences as to make the first experience of others less painful (a running narrative, really, in the field of Online Writing Instruction).  In fact, my team (Jen, Steph, and Jill) and I just returned from the Computers and Writing Conference, and we presented about our online writing instruction training program that we developed through a SBOE Technology Incentive Grant, and the program was designed to better prepare new and experienced online writing instructors (that goes above and beyond the training provided by the university).  I was very fortunate to be a member of this team with Jen, Steph, and Jill because they did in fact have many years of experience teaching online.  I, in fact, have none.  I became a member of our team in an earlier iteration of our grant plan, which eventually shifted over time, leaving the duties I was originally planned for irrelevant.  I stayed on the team, though, as the “technology person” (which, by the way, is absurd in about a hundred different ways as I find myself frequently shaking my fist at my computer, swearing at it for its misgivings).  Anyhow, I stayed on the team, and we just wrapped up our year-long training program.  And, now I’m planning to teach my first online class, and even with all of the training I’ve had (and provided) and with the support I have (which many online teachers, I’ve come to find out, have little to none), I’m still incredibly nervous.

Darrington’s six pointers didn’t offer any new bits of wisdom for me because of this recent year-long experience I’ve had, but I’ll lay them out here for you here just in case:

1.       Students aren’t as tech savvy as some people think.  (I already know this of course, but the one thing I’ve learned about teaching online is that students sign up for these classes for a zillion reasons, and one of these reasons is that they lead hectic, complicated lives—they don’t often even consider the technological requirements necessary for taking an online class.)

2.       Teachers have to work harder at building community. (This has been of recent discussion between me and my grant team, so I’ll come back to it below.)

3.       Teaching online takes more time.  (I’ll also discuss this below.)

4.       J doesn’t replace real smiles.  (True-ish.  In our training program we’ve spent a great deal of time training our participants on how to create an online presence, so that our students can recognize that we are living, breathing human beings—something we do take for granted in our f2f classes.  Better technology and web applications that have come out since this article was written can make a huge difference.)

5.       Student satisfaction is key.  (Is this really a point that is specific to online learning?  I don’t think so.)

6.       Because teaching online takes more time (as Darrington claims earlier), contingent faculty are more vulnerable to exploitation because even though it takes more time, they are not paid more.   (I’ll come back to this below, as well.)

Back to the issue of community, we’ve talked about this a lot because it was much discussed at the conference we just returned from.  Writing instructors tend to emphasize the necessity of community, and I’m one of them.  My go-to line is, “If they won’t talk to each other about the movie they saw over the weekend, they sure as hell won’t talk to each other about their essays.”  I spend a great deal of time in many of my classes to actively build community, particularly in English 90 because I often get to work with the same students for 101 and 102 as well, so they need to know me and each other really well.  The time I spend is super valuable, and by the time 101 begins, they are comfortable with each other and me, and it pays off in really big ways.  After the conference, I posed a question to my team:  “how much community does an online student need?”  After all, they’re not in the class to discover their latest and greatest BFF; in fact, their hectic lives probably couldn’t even accommodate another obligation such as that.  The reality is, the majority of our online students are there to complete their core credits (as I’m only addressing the classes that I’ll be teaching—first-year writing classes), and being that my upcoming summer class is only five-weeks long, I’m assuming my students are trying to complete these core credits as fast as they can.  I know that a certain amount of community is necessary, and we discussed how to accomplish this in our training program, but we also decided this is one area that we can improve on, as instructors and as trainers.  I’ll keep thinking on it…

Another point that needs a bit of discussion is that Darrington states that online teaching takes more time.  This is a tricky subject.  Teaching online for the first time takes a considerable amount of time, no doubt, but so does any class that you’re teaching for the first time.  The first time I taught English 303: The Theory and Practice of Tutoring Writing, I poured myself into that task (and, this was one of the last tasks that I really tackled—see my first post for more info).  I’m teaching 303 again in the fall, and it won’t take a fraction of the time I spent the first round.  That’s just how it goes.  I do think teaching online takes a different kind of time.  There is definitely more front loading, and it is a really bad idea to try and build a class one day at a time (which many people are able to do well f2f).  The more you teach online, the better you get at it—the better you get at it, the less time it’ll take.  We recommend that our students block out time for their online classes, just as they would their f2f classes.  Online learning cannot happen on coffee breaks at work.  I would argue the same goes for teaching these classes.

Last point: adjuncts are exploited.  That’s not new, now is it?  I will say that online teaching does align nicely in some ways for contingent folks—the flexibility of online teaching is quite appealing.  I’ve thought a lot over the past year about the differences between being a full-time, benefit-earning member of the department versus being an adjunct.  Being full-time is wonderful, and I am thankful every day for my job—it really is the best job in the world.  But it does come at a cost.  More stress, more meetings, more responsibilities, more meetings, more, more, more (and definitely more meetings).  I don’t mean to romanticize the life of an adjunct—it’s just different.  I suppose it’s kind of like being a hobo teacher, riding the rails from class to class, or school to school—not tied down.  Online teaching is just another rail to jump on.  Of course these hobo teachers have to pay a price, too—like frostbite and scurvy. 

Ultimately, teaching online can take as much or as little time as someone wants to devote—no different than a face-to-face class. 

Enough for now—I better go spend some time planning my class instead of whining about it.  More tomorrow!

mk

Cage Fight: Research Writing v. Creative Writing

Greetings from the Oregon coast!  I’m here on a fairly impromptu vacation, and I’ve decided to not wimp out my first week into this project.  For today’s article, I’ve returned to TETYC, hoping for a brief article that I can respond briefly to. Here it is, folks, a la article roulette:

Article 4:

Blue, Tim. “A Creative Approach to the Research Paper: Combining Creative Writing with Academic Research.” TETYC 34.2 (2006):  179-84. Print.

As usual, I was drawn to this article because of the title—I have long looked for ways to make academic research writing more interesting for students to write (and for me to read, of course).  Blue’s article offers a detailed explanation of one assignment he’s used, what he calls a “creative research story,” in which students are asked to imitate a fiction story after researching the author.  Blue uses this assignment with his basic composition students (though it’s not clear to me whether or not this class would be equivalent to our English 90: Developmental Writing or English 101: Introduction to College Writing course—I suspect it’s more of an E101 class because of the emphasis on research, but that’s just a hunch).

As I was cruising along through this reading, my gut reaction was to dislike Blue’s assignment, or I at least had the sense that I would not assign it in any of my classes.  This is not because Blue has his students imitate a published writer’s style and story—I believe imitation can be an effective way for students to learn new moves, and I frequently pull from They Say, I Say, which offers templates for students to borrow, and these templates show students the writer-ly moves that can help them agree and counter other people’s ideas, and students love being shown how to write this way (which of course brings me back to Devan’s article from yesterday where the students asked why they hadn’t previously been taught to write that way—the want explicit instruction: osmosis doesn’t always work). 

By the end of the article I was able to solidify to major premises of Blue’s assignment and approach that I strongly disagree with.  (And, for the record, I much prefer to play the “believing game” over the “doubting game,” but I just couldn’t get myself there with this article.) The first element I disagreed with is the way Blue instructs his students about the endings of their stories.  He explains:

I insist that students have a clear idea of how to end their stories. To convey the importance of knowing this from the beginning, I ask them how they are able to get driving directions off the Internet . . . what do they need to know, in other words? Of course, the answer is that they have to know where they are going before they can know how to get there. I had one student this year, long before I assigned this project, say to me, “Mr. Blue, it seems like these authors start out with an ending in mind and then write the rest of the story leading up to it.” “Bingo!” I replied. (182)

               

First, from a fiction-writing standpoint, Blue is instructing his students to work from a plot-driven perspective as opposed to a character-driven one.  I’m not a fiction teacher or writer, but that just seems like bad advice (though, I’ll be sure to double-check with fiction-writing friends).  From an academic-writing perspective, this is surely bad advice.  To me, this is the equivalent of saying to a student, “Okay, decide what you believe on a topic, THEN go to the library or online to research it, so you can find some research to support what you already think.”  Yuck.  I ask: Where’s the inquiry?  Where’s the discovery?  Where’s the surprise that occurs when students get to figure out what they think as opposed to merely confirming their already-held beliefs?  Yuck.  The greatest teachable moments that have happened in my research-based assignments are when students come to me to ask if it’s okay to change their opinion.  “YES,” I say. “YES, YES, YES.”  And it happens more often than I would have expected because even though I ask students to try to not have an opinion to begin with, they often do—but, then they change their minds.  Awesome. 

The second element I disagree with is also a bit philosophical when it comes to teaching research-based writing—Blue has seemingly separated the research from the writing.  Let me explain: the students’ major project is the fiction story, but the research they do is then compiled into a smaller, separate piece (which seems more like a reflection about the process of writing the fiction piece).  Here’s how Blue describes it:

I ask them to go back to their research (now that they know their story’s plot more clearly) and write a short paper discussing how they will take what they have learned from the process they have undergone to tell their particular story. This step provides the chance to cover any elements of research paper writing that have been missed by the initial research and writing. It reinforces the selection and integration of quotations, in-text citations, works cited pages, and so on, allowing them to focus on how the research is related to their own creative stories. In this piece, students must cite multiple scholarly articles as well as the two stories they have now read. Also, as it is more traditional, this step gives students a chance to learn appropriate documentation and provides teachers with an opportunity to discuss plagiarism issues. (184)

Wow, he’s clearly done his research-instruction duty then: quotes, citations, works cited pages, and plagiarism!  All in one short piece—not incorporated into the larger piece at all.  And maybe this does work for him and his students as an introduction to research, but there’s a larger issue here.  Blue describes the creative writing aspect of the project: “While the creative writing can present difficulty for some students, it should be the enjoyable part, the icing on the cake of the deep thinking they have done” (183).  He later concludes the article with an aside: “One way or another, this assignment will have pushed them in ways both academic and creative (I don’t mean to imply that the two are entirely distinct!) […]” (184).  So, he says he doesn’t mean to separate the two, BUT he does.  He clearly separates the fun (creative writing) from the work (the research), which does imply that academic writing is separate from creative writing.  This, of course, brings about the theoretical question, “What constitutes “creative” writing?”  I would argue that good research-based writing is creative, full of life and voice and interest and intrigue—the same as fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction.  Whether Blue realizes it or not, he has set up a dichotomy here—academic versus creative writing—not broken one down.  In our department, Steph Cox teaches an assignment she calls “historical fiction” (which might have originally been a Devan assignment, if I recall), and this assignment weds creative and academic writing well, and students love it. 

Well, I don’t think I’ll be borrowing any of Blue’s ideas for any of my classes, but thinking about his work has helped me solidify what I believe to be important (or not) in teaching research-based writing.  And, while I meant to keep this short, I’ve rambled for far too long (as usual). 

Alright, I might go take a look at the beach now.  More tomorrow!

mk 

Article of Destiny...

After two articles that I specifically chose from College English, I decided that today’s installment should come about via article roulette, as originally intended.  So, for this round I decided to pull a random journal off the shelf, and I opted to go for a little TETYC this time. TETYC may very well be my favorite journal—I appreciate the practical, and often immediate, application it offers my teaching.  So, I went to the shelf and grabbed a journal.  I skimmed the titles and laughed at loud (and loudly at that) at what was within.  So, here it is folks:

Article 3:

Cook, Devan. “Revising Editing.” TETYC 29.2 (2001): 155-61.Print.

I, of course, appreciated the luck of selecting Devan’s article off a shelf of well over a hundred journals, but it became quite clear to me why I had to read this particular article right now.  Kismet, fate, or just dumb luck paid off!  Here’s the context as to why I needed this article right now: this fall I’ll be teaching English 201: Nonfiction Writing for the first time, and I have spent a great deal of time over the past few weeks trying to pinpoint the purpose of this class (and the obvious question is, “why plan your summer class that starts in a little over a week when you can obsess over the class you’ll be teaching in the fall?”). E201 has garnered a bit of attention lately—I’m not the only one who isn’t quite sure how this class functions in the grand scheme of the curriculum.  After reviewing the outcomes for the course, my question has been, “how is this class different from 102?”  Based on the outcomes, there are two differences I can tell:

1.       We’re supposed to teach a formal argument model. (I do teach argument in 102, but not a formal model.)

2.       There’s a greater emphasis on style. (In 102 we get so focused on teaching the basics of conducting and writing about research that there’s often little room for discussing the flare of how to go about it with style.)

I am probably the most excited about the opportunity to really focus on style in 201, but this has left me with the question about exactly how to go about doing it.  How would I fold that in with everything else we’d do in class?  Would there be “style days” (and, would I require students to where their most stylish outfits on these days—best shoes or hat winning a prize)?  I’ve been digging through style manuals (as I mentioned in my last post) and have to find the answer about how to teach style.  Enter: Devan’s awesome article.

Devan describes how she goes about teaching editing AS revision, as opposed to being two separate activities.  She highlights a few awesome texts early on: Dawkins’ “Teaching Punctuation as a Rhetorical Tool” (awesome article that Devan assigned to us in our grad class on grammar), Kolln’s Rhetorical Grammar (super awesome book that I’ve read at least seven times—by necessity because the awesomeness was too much to gather on one, two, or six reads), and the Hoffmans’ Adios, Strunk and White (which definitely solidified for me that I MUST read this book!).  After a little theoretical grounding, Devan digs into the practical application of this information—her attempt at teaching editing as revision in one of her FYW classes. 

What I appreciate most about Devan’s approach to this (and everything, really) is that she selected a few key bits to focus on: she wanted her students to learn to use the semicolon, colon, dash, and dash skewer.  This seems super manageable to me, and I have a similar approach in my teaching.  Here are the three grammatical bits I teach in all of my comp classes

1.       Independent clause (the basis for everything else I teach when it comes to grammar)

2.       Coordinating conjunctions (FANBOYS—holler!)

3.       Conjunctive adverbs

Devan required her students to go to the library to read random periodicals and analyze their styles.  After this activity, her students asked a damned good question: “If people write this way every day, why didn’t someone teach us how?” (156)  I often ask myself that same question, wishing someone would have taught me how to write before I made it to grad school. I thank God every day I had the teachers I did in grad school, or I still might not know how to write.  (Related tangent: I learned how to really use a dash in Devan’s class, and it freed my writing.  I remember saying as much to Devan in class once, and she said that made sense—she couldn’t picture me not using dashes since I spoke in dashes.)  Back to the students’ question, I’ve often wondered the same thing, but decided that many teachers expect students to absorb style through reading a lot, and I do think that works to some extent, but a conscious teaching of style would sure work a hell of a lot better. 

Devan created an assignment (which she also provided in the article—another reason why I love TETYC) in which she required students to revise their punctuation for rhetorical effect.  She later reflects: “Being asked to make purposeful punctuation choices introduced purpose as a viable personal concept to some students for the first time; before, their purpose for writing may have been limited to the fact that it was required” (157-58).  Some students resist this, of course, because it’s hard (which makes it even more necessary for a style guide to be interesting and perhaps even entertaining at times—like a spoonful of sugar). 

I am excited to use this assignment in 201 in the fall.  It clearly answers my question: no, you do not need to have “style days”—divorcing style for content is antithetical to good writing (and good writing instruction, at that).  I still hope to find a way to require all of my students to wear their most awesome shoes on the same day, though.

Off for now,

mk