Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Old dog, new (old) trick

My normally orderly home-office space
in pre-semester chaos mode
A colleague of mine is on maternity leave this coming semester, and I was asked to take one of her classes: a 300-level course titled "Methods of Teaching Composition," a requirement for our English-education majors.

It's a daunting prospect, since A) I'm by no means a rhet/comp scholar; B) any formal study I have done in that area is about twenty years old; and C) if I screw it up, I not only shortchange this class of students, but their future students as well.

No pressure.

While I've been reading up on the subject and thinking about the class all summer, I just this week actually started putting the syllabus together.  It's one of the hardest I've ever had to write.

I should say that my colleague very generously put not only her syllabus, but all her assignments and the course readings on Dropbox for me to steal, which has been a great help.  But what I've discovered is what every substitute teacher certainly already knows: having someone else's lesson plans doesn't mean you "get" what they're trying to do.  Ultimately, you're approaching from the outside a class that someone else has inhabited from the inside.

Well-designed classes have a deep context, I'm discovering--and you can't just borrow that context.  It has to be ingrained in your very way of thinking.  Disciplinarity matters, and it shapes everything we do as scholars and teachers.  Sure, I could give someone my folklore syllabus and the textbook and they could do the readings and teach the class, but that wouldn't make them a folklorist--any more than my upcoming stumble through the comp methods course will make me a compositionist.

I'll certainly know a lot more about it in three months--probably as much by virtue of the many mistakes I'll make as anything else.  But I still won't have that depth of knowledge that makes specialists able to answer complex questions, draw connections between ideas, and situate current approaches in a larger historical context.

Part of the purpose of my saying this is simply confessional: I'm very anxious about this class, and am trying to prepare myself--if not for outright failure, then, at least for serious imperfection.

But another intriguing discovery has been that because of my lack of context, I physically have not been able to put the course syllabus together the way I normally would.  Typically, I tend to write my syllabi in a linear fashion:  I have a sense of how much time we need to spend on each book/topic/time period, depending on the course, and also have a sense of how the course content should build as the weeks go by, and where we need to end up.  So, I just plug that sequence in, week by week, until I get to week 15.

I can't tell you how many times I sat down at the computer with my blank syllabus (Week 1, Day 1...Week 1, Day 2) and looked at it just as blankly.  So I resorted to the grids that I created long ago for mapping out classes.  I haven't used them in years, because my brain just doesn't need them to plot out a class anymore.

Until this one.

Not only did I use the grids, I eventually taped them all to the wall, side-by-side, so I could see the whole semester in one shot.  Then I started working backwards from the end of the semester, blocking out weeks for various topics, and then gradually filling in the readings and assignments for specific dates.  All in pencil, so that I could erase and revise as needed.  Which was often.




I was somewhat amazed at how much easier it was to get down to the nitty-gritty with this method.  And I'm glad I thought of it, because otherwise I might still be sitting in front of a screen with a bunch of empty spaces next to dates, and feeling increasingly panicked.

So, maybe the first lesson I've learned about Methods of Teaching Composition is that even old dogs like me need to try new invention techniques sometimes.  When your usual writing process fails you, it may be better to do something radically different than to keep trying to force your usual process to work.

* * * * * * 

This post is dedicated to my friend Jane, one of the most thoughtful, hard-working writing teachers I know, whose many blog posts about the difficulties of teaching writing (even to students at MIT!) have been a big influence on my thinking about how to put together this course.  Take this entry, for example.  



Friday, April 20, 2012

Endings and beginnings

Spring is the season that reminds us that each new beginning is the ending of something else.

When I'm walking to campus across the High Street bridge, seeing the trees on the banks of Decker's Creek leafing out and catching a glimpse of a moutainside painted in shades ranging from the palest green to russet, Robert Frost's lines "Nature's first green is gold/ Her hardest hue to hold" often run through my mind.  In April, every day brings the emergence of some new wonder even as yesterday's fades.

Can you tell I'm feeling sentimental lately?

I spent this afternoon at the annual conference the College of Education holds where the graduating class from the 5-year teacher education program presents on their classroom research projects.

I facilitated a couple of sessions for the English education soon-to-be grads, and realized while I was sitting there that this is really the first class of students that I've seen through their entire program, since I'm finishing my fifth year.


The students in the photo, Brent and Carrie, were both students in one of the best sections of the young-adult lit class I've taught thus far.  It was one of those classes full of amazing students who collectively create something even greater than the sum of their individual parts.

We initially bonded over our mutual disdain for Sharon Draper's Tears of a Tiger, a book I didn't really care for but had included because it's required reading at both of the high schools in town.  It was one of the first novels we read, and after about half an hour of discussing it, someone finally asked, in a tentative voice, "Why did you choose this book?"  Suddenly we all heaved a mutual sigh of relief, realizing that we all felt the same way about it.  From then on, there was no holding back.

That was in fall 2009, the semester my father died.  In fact, the only things I remember about that fall are Dad's illness, and specific moments from the young-adult lit class.  I missed a week of school right after Thanksgiving for the memorial service, and I was anxious about going back to work afterward.  But every one of the students in that class sent me an e-mail while I was gone to offer their condolences and to express their sympathy, and when I went back, I almost cried, I felt so much like I was back home.

(And then Emma played guitar and sang a very funny song she'd written about Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak [believe it or not], and I laughed until I almost cried again.)

A couple of the folks in that class have graduated already, but most of them will be graduating in May.  Brent, on the left, has been in at least three of my classes, starting in the fall of 2008.  Writing a letter of recommendation for him recently, I thought about how lucky I am to be able to be a part of some students' lives for these particular years.  A music-teacher friend of mine once remarked that middle-school students were her favorite to work with, because they were just starting to figure out who they are.  I love working with college students for the same reason--and because they're so full of potentials and possibilities for the future.

I never thought I'd be the kind of person to say this, but what the hell: it's true.  Not having any children of my own, some of these students truly come to feel like my kids.  The love and pride I feel for them is overwhelming at times.  And many of the WVU students I've grown to feel that way about were in that fall 2009 class:  Brent and Carrie, but also Emma and Jake and Paige and Rachel...you get the idea.

It's been a long, hard semester, and I'm not going to be remotely sorry to see it in my rearview mirror.  And I won't be sorry to see these students graduate and take their gifts into the world.  But I will be sorry not to see them around.


(As long you're reading such schmaltz, you might as well listen to some, too, right?)

Friday, September 9, 2011

Teaching 9/11

Today I was down at the local high school for which I'm the faculty liaison to observe three of our student teachers.

About five minutes into the first class, around 9:35 or so, the PA came on and a student's voice said, "At 9:37 a.m. on September 11, 2001, a plane crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, D. C.  At the same time, hijackers had taken over Flight 93 and turned around to head for Washington."  Similar announcements kept up throughout the period, recounting what was happening at that particular time on September 11th, and then asking for a moment of silence to remember the victims.

It was surreal to be sitting in a ninth-grade algebra class learning about the order of operations and then to periodically get these harrowing interruptions.

In the third class I observed, a ninth-grade below-level English class, the student teacher addressed the topic directly.  She grew up in New Jersey, and her school was directly across from the city, with a full view of the skyline and the Towers.  When the first plane hit, her teacher took all the kids outside to see it, telling them, "You're witnessing history right now."  And then the first Tower fell.  The student, who was twelve at the time, remembered that she was wearing a yellow shirt and jean shorts, and that she was standing next to a kid named Robert, and that she grabbed his arm when the Tower came down.

Immediately, the teacher whisked all the kids back into the school, where they spent the rest of the day scared and confused as the teachers debated whether to tell them what had happened or not, since so many of the kids had parents who worked in the city.

It was an incredibly moving story, and the students in the class--most of whom have some kind of intellectual or developmental disability--were totally tuned in.  What did she feel when she saw the Towers fall?  Did she cry?  Did she know anyone who died?

The student teacher followed up her presentation with a writing assignment, asking students to write ten sentences in response to several prompts she offered.  The last two were "Name something you're proud of about our country" and "Describe what you can do to show your patriotism."

I cringed.

I understand that she was close to the events.

I understand that she saw the Tower fall with her own, 12-year-old eyes.

I understand that this is an important anniversary, and probably even more so for her for reasons I can't fathom.


Is it, therefore, petty and selfish and insensitive of me to critique her lesson, or at the very least, the focus of the writing assignment that followed it?

We need to talk about, and teach 9/11.  But must we do so, even ten years on, in a way that romanticizes the events of that day, ignores all that has followed, and paints a portrait of national unity that frankly wasn't true even at the time?  She said, in her presentation, that 9/11 brought Americans closer together and created unity.  Not for everyone, everywhere.

I couldn't help but feel like I had just witnessed the way history gets flattened for K-12 consumption.

In my observation report, I focused on her interaction with students and said I was glad to hear her story.  And I suggested that if she were to teach the lesson again, she might want to consider other points of view--especially if she has students in the class who are Muslim, or of middle-eastern heritage.

It was all I could say without going crazy.  Unfortunately, she had a class the very next period, so all I could do was hand her the paperwork and tell her to e-mail me if she had questions or wanted to meet to discuss things more fully.

"Was it OK?" she asked, looking a little anxious.  She was only concerned with how the lesson had gone, whether she was going to be a good teacher.  I learned from the lead teacher later that this particular student has had some problems with asertiveness and self confidence.  I worried that the fact that I'd critiqued her lesson and then dumped the paperwork on her and ran from the room would do more harm than good.

I came home and wrote her an e-mail, which I'll probably never send.  She doesn't need to know all of this, but I need to say it, so you--my dear, long-suffering blog readers--get to be the audience for it.  So I'll apologize to you, too:

Hi [Student]--

I wanted to send a follow-up e-mail about the observation sheet...I wish we'd had time to discuss it in person, and I felt bad about just leaving it there with you without putting things in context.

The story about your own 9/11 experience was, as I wrote, riveting, and meant a lot to me and to those students to hear. I was living in Colorado at the time, so the events were still horrifying, but seemed distant in a way, too.  One of the things that's been interesting (and scary) about being back east is learning how much more directly people here were affected by the events. 

So--I don't want you to think that I had a problem with the topic or how you handled it.  I guess my concern had more to do with the issue of balance.  To be sure, we need to remember the victims (who were from 100+ different countries, as one of the FSHS announcements said!), and we need to honor the heroes.  But I think it's also important not to forget the ugliness and divisiveness that followed.  Muslims, and people who looked "Arabic" generally, were attacked in the streets.  People sent hate- and vengeance-filled e-mails.  Some people were rallying for war, others for peace.  Rather than using this experience to empathize with others in the world who live and have lived with terrorism on a much more regular basis, some people became insular and reactionary.

As I wrote, I know this is an important anniversary and that you may never have the opportunity (or desire!) to teach it again, which is why I hesitated to say anything about it.  But in a larger sense, I do feel like--as educators--we're especially obligated to present all sides of an issue, especially one that's so potentially controversial and divisive.

Did you see the audio stories that WVU posted for the anniversary?  The one at the very bottom, by a student from Pakistan who was in Morgantown on 9/11, is especially moving, and gives a different side of the story.

Anyway, I apologize for harping on this.  I guess, on some level, I'm trying to make sense of what the anniversary means, too.  I had to teach on the afternoon of 9/11, and I remember struggling to know how to handle the situation. In the end, I went into class and just asked the students what they wanted to do:  talk about it, or just press on with the lesson for that day?  Overwhelmingly, they said to press on--so I did.  I guess I've spent the last decade trying to figure out whether I did the right thing, and where my own reaction to such an event ends and my responsibilities as a teacher begin. 

Again, I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk about this in person.  And I apologize if this seems like I'm unloading on you--I don't mean to; I just wanted to to explain why my comments may have seemed weird or cryptic!  The lesson itself was fine, and you did a great job of drawing the students in and then helping them individually with their work.

Don't you wish you'd been teaching Algebra today, too???  :)

Sigh.  I guess this proves one of the maxims of WVU's teacher-education program, which is that "the teacher is a self-reflective practitioner."   What it doesn't say is how uncomfortable and complicated being self-reflective is.

One of the ways I myself have taught 9/11 over the years is with the "e-lore" that I collected at the time and archived.  I often have students in my folklore classes look at the archive so we can talk about how folklore has adapted for electronic transmission.  But it also provides a disturbing insight into the informal ways that people were channeling the fear and uncertainty they felt at the time.

Today, I thought:  thank god I kept that stuff, because otherwise, maybe no one would believe that's part of the history, too.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Teacher Appreciation Day 2011

Colson Hall, home of the WVU English Department
True confession:  when I first started working with English-education majors years ago,  I openly scoffed at those who said they wanted to be teachers because they just loved kids so much! 

(Although not as much as I scoffed at those who said they wanted to be teachers so they could be home when their kids got back from school, or because they wanted to have their summers off.  Dream on, folks!)

This semester I've heard a lot of buzz about "teacher dispositions" in meetings at the college of education.  That's a fancy, euphemistic way of describing whether a student in the teacher-ed program has the personality, perseverance, sensitivity, tolerance, and sheer nerve that it takes to survive and thrive in the classroom. 

A few days after my first-grade teacher died in March, I ran into a friend from the college of ed, and we talked about how some people are just born to teach.  Even if they didn't have the official title "teacher," that's what they'd be doing in whatever setting they found themselves in.  Malayna and I agreed that in many ways, the idea of "training" teachers seems absurd.

Sure, anyone wanting to teach needs as much content knowledge in their discipline as they can get, and also needs to love learning generally in order to convey that enthusiasm to others and to keep up-to-date in their field.  In terms of practice, though, while there may be specific tools and skills to be learned and refined, the idea of "training" teachers renders what is at its best an art into something numbingly mechanical.

And my own reaction to the passing of Molly Davis made me reconsider whether "love" really is all you need to be a good teacher.

While I recall some of the knowledge I acquired in her classroom, what I remember most is how she made me and all her other students feel:  Noticed.  Cherished. Nurtured.  And yes, loved.  As I told several folks, after hearing of her death, I felt like I'd lost another of those very few adults who loved you unconditionally as a child.  Without that deep feeling of acceptance, would I have learned as much?  Of course not.  And for sure, having an adult who was passionate and excited about what she was teaching, and who never doubted that we'd be just as excited about it, was the best incentive for learning imaginable.

Now, I'm still enough of a realist (or a snob, depending on your perspective) to know that love ain't all that teachers need to succeed.  Teachers still need "training," but there is, undoubtedly, an intangible, essential quality that the best ones bring to the job.

So maybe what we need is a different, more specific term than "love."

Jane calls it "school love."

For lack of a better term, I might call it faith.  I really think that to be a successful teacher, you have to have a core belief that what you do matters, that all students can learn, and that education is the key to enlightenment and opportunity.  Which is not to say that teachers won't have crises of that faith.  And certainly, there will be many experiences, and students, and administrators (especially administrators!) that will regularly challenge that faith. 

In the weeks after Molly's death, I heard a couple of songs that seemed apt, not just for her, but for all the other hardworking teachers out there. This one by Earth, Wind and Fire especially caught my ear with its opening lyrics:
Through devotion, blessed are the children
Praise the teachers that bring true love to many.
Your devotion opens all life's treasures
and deliverance from the fruits of evil.
So on this Teacher Appreciation Day, let's praise our devoted teachers, and help them keep the faith.

(Oh, and if you're in Ohio, you might consider signing the petition against Senate Bill 5 being circulated by the group We Are Ohio.)


Sunday, March 20, 2011

Her price is far above rubies

Lavish salaries and benefit packages, work days that end at 2:30, summers off...man, those teachers sure are living the good life, at least according to some conservative pundits.

But this is not a blog about them.

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, in September of 1971, a beautiful fairy princess walked into a first-grade classroom in Bexley, Ohio.  She spent a full year working her magic on the twenty-nine children in the class.

Years later they would be astonished at how much they remembered about that magical year:  Amos pounding out the opening chords of Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World" on the classroom piano and belting the opening line, "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog!". Singing "Sweet Gingerbread Man" for a holiday program and receiving personalized styrofoam gingerbread men as gifts. Mounting a presidential campaign for classmate Michael Meckler. 

Here's the non-fairytale part of the story:  our princess was killed in a car accident last week, just a couple months shy of retiring after forty years of teaching.

Even the collective wish-making of those former first-graders and of the hundreds of other students who'd been touched by her magic couldn't bring the fairy princess back to life.

On the other hand, the tributes to Molly Palsgrove Davis that have poured forth since are a testimony to the paradox that even in death, she lives on.  Here are just a few examples gleaned from comments on Facebook and entries in the Columbus Dispatch's online guest book:
She was as inspirational a teacher as I have ever encountered, from "Dick and Jane" to the 5th grade Soul Train parade around the room with Michael Kaplan on the pencil microphone. How lucky some of us were to have her twice! I still hang my gingerbread man on the tree every Christmas. 

I had her for a couple of classes in fifth grade, and would've sworn I was one of her favorite students.  Reading other people's comments, though, it's clear she made every child feel that way.
One of my favorite memories of her class was when she brought in a basketball with these huge hand prints outlined in black marker. Those hand prints were from none other than Dr. J. She was a terrific teacher and person, and I am saddened, as are many of my classmates, to learn of her passing.

Miss Palsgrove was my 5th grade teacher in 1983. She will be deeply missed by all of us and especially for her great laugh, loving smile and her huge hugs of encouragement. I still have the Palsgrove Cookbook that we made and smile every time I read it to my children!

Miss Palsgrove was the finest teacher I met. She was also one of the finest persons I've ever met. She came into my life when I was a fourth grader (1974) and deeply encouraged me to higher heights. She was one of those persons who are simply indispensible. God doesn't create enough Mollys. Thank God for her. All my love and sympathy to the family--she is being missed by whoever knew her. 

Miss Palsgrove was the teacher one never forgets. Her enthusiasm for education and life was infectious. Fond memories of her striped knee socks, and learning “the Hustle” in her classroom will always be cherished. She inspired me when I was 11 and has continued to do so for another 34 years.

Miss Palsgrove was one of my favorite teachers ever. I remember her argyle kneesocks, sunny disposition, and genuine interest in her students.
I entered her classroom a painfully shy child who was struggling with a learning disability, and she took me under her wing. She encouraged me to speak up in class, even if I didn't know the answers. And she created a special "secret" signal for me: I'd tickle my nose when I needed something repeated, and she would happily oblige.
Molly Davis was a gift to all of us. My daughter, Haley, is in her 2010-2011 5th Grade class. Haley has truly blossomed in Molly's classroom and under Molly's care. Molly was a wonderfully bright light that touched all of us. Her smile, her warmth and her one-of-a-kind hugs will always be remembered. 

I, too, remember the wild socks (toe socks, with each toe a different color), the dancing (to the Osmonds' "Down By the Lazy River"), and the music (I can't hear that Three Dog Night song without thinking of her...and Amos).

Like all well-crafted stories, this one has a couple of ironic and bittersweet twists.  On March 15, the day she died, Molly hosted her annual luncheon for her former 5th grade students who are currently high-school seniors.  And on that same day, the Superintendent of the Bexley City Schools received her official resignation letter, which he was to read at a special school board meeting on March 17th.  Instead, it ended up being read the following evening at a candlelight vigil in Molly's honor.

I wasn't there, but a friend forwarded the text of the letter to me.  It is so quintessentially "Miss Palsgrove," and I am so happy that she was able to leave us these words:
March 17, 2011

Dear Bexley Board of Education, Dr. Johnson, and Barb Heisel,

It is with a fulfilling sense of accomplishment and completion that I write this letter.

1971:  Having completed all my college course work, I was "waiting around" to graduate from Capital University.  Bexley City Schools hired me as a "teacher aide" for Cassingham School and Bexley Junior High.  I was hired with the understanding that in "the fall" I would begin my career as a teacher.  That's right.  Bexley hired me before I graduated from college. I graduated that spring with my Bachelor of Science Degree in Education, Summa Cum Laude.

I taught twenty-nine first graders my first year of teaching.  I loved my boys and girls.  It was such a special, magical year, even though I had student taught in fourth grade and had wanted an intermediate teaching position.  At the end of that school year, my sister, who was also a Cassingham teacher, and I did the unthinkable.  We left the Bexley City Schools. I treasure my three years at Edwards Elementary in the Groveport-Madison School District. I taught fourth grade and had thirteen students my first year there. It had a Little House on the Prairie feel to it.

At the end of my third year at Edwards, I received a call from Mrs. Beebe, Cassingham's Assistant Principal.  She wanted me back.  My sister had been rehired, and now it was my turn.  Did I want a fourth grade or a fifth grade?  I chose fifth because it would be a new experience for me.  I loved American history and could now teach it, and I would get to teach my first graders again in fifth grade after having been gone for three years!  That was 1975, and grade five was the perfect fit.  I had found my niche.  For thirty-six years I would be teaching fifth graders at Cassingham Elementary School.

After working hard at The Ohio State University, I received my Masters Degree in Early and Middle Childhood. (After that I continued my education, earning forty-nine more semester hours.) In 1983 my first/fifth graders graduated from Bexley High School. That started my "reunions." In 1983, with braces on my teeth, I got married and was honored by being named Bexley's "Outstanding Young Educator of the Year" and the 1984 "Ohio Teacher of the Year."

In reflecting upon my years of teaching fifth grade at Cassingham, I feel blessed. Because of teaching in departmentalized and team-teaching situations as well as the self-contained classroom, I have taught over fifteen hundred students. For the students in my homerooms, I will forever call them my own.

Now it is time to close this chapter of my life. There will be tears of sadness and tears of joy.   One of my favorite celebrations is sure to be on June 12th of this year when my first/fifth graders are throwing a reunion party for me.  How perfect.  How heart-warming. They were there from the beginning--and now the end.

Again I say it is with a fulfilling sense of accomplishment and completion that I write this letter.  (And did I mention the smile on my face?), I, Molly Lou (Palsgrove) Davis, do hereby give notification of my resignation as a Bexley school teacher to take effect at the end of this school year, 2010-2011. My first official day of retirement will be July 1, 2011. Thank you so much, and may God bless you.

Truly yours,
Molly Davis
I was moved to tears to read Molly's words about the specialness of our first-grade class, and her observation about how our June gathering would provide the perfect matching "bookend" to her long and distinguished career.

And it made me realize how she, too, had "bookended" my entire elementary school experience.  I had her as my teacher in first grade, then again in fifth grade, and in sixth grade one of my teachers was Molly's equally gifted and loving sister, Mary McMullen.   How blessed I was, and am, to have had that warm, enveloping web of connection and compassion throughout my primary years.   

To those who say that public-school teachers are underworked and overpaid:  I pity you, because you clearly never felt the deep caring of a teacher as beloved and inspirational as Molly Palsgrove Davis or Mary McMullen.  You never knew the unconditional love of a teacher who nurtured you not just as a learner, but as a human being. 

There are many other gifted teachers out there who are up before dawn, working well beyond 2:30, earning a fraction of the salary of CEOs and bankers.  Those teachers earn every penny of their "lavish salaries."  Their real price is far above rubies.


See an earlier post about Miss Palsgrove, and other memorable teachers, here.  And yes, the photo at the top was taken earlier this school year, when she was 60.  Clearly, teaching was good to her, too.

Friday, February 25, 2011

So much for the Commonwealth


So, there I was, teaching Thomas More's Utopia today in my BritLit Survey--probably the longest work of the semester and a pretty tough sell to college students, unfortunately. But it's really a fascinating book in a lot of ways.

But anyhow, there I am wrapping up class, asking them all to think about how More claims that there can be no justice as long as there is private property, and how Utopia takes literally the notion that the best path to a true commonwealth is to make all the wealth common.

And I tie it all together by saying something like this: "More wants us to ask ourselves whether our self interest, our desire to own our own things, comes at the cost of impoverishing our fellow men, and at the cost of justice. He wants us to think about what we do for our own gain, and what we do for the good of us all. And I find that kind of philanthropic thought really wonderful--but I still like the things I own, and I don't want to have to switch houses every ten years by lottery. So I work for a salary--but I work cheap, and I try to do good work for the world by being a teacher."

I told them to go, packed up my bag, and headed for the door. In front of the door to the very next classroom, I saw a dollar lying on the ground. I picked it up, waved it around for a few seconds to see if anyone would claim it, and no one did. So I looked around one more time, shrugged my shoulders, and stuffed it in my pocket.

So much for the commonwealth.