I Get By With a Little Help

Around this time of year, I hear a number of professors begin complaining about their students and their excuses as major projects coming due.  I have to admit that I sometimes share in these complaints, as it seems as if students have not planned well and have procrastinated, which leads to their not having assignments finished on time.  Some professors pride themselves on being “tough,” but what they mean by that is inflexible.  They stick to their rules, no matter if the rules make sense in a situation or not.  They also refer to themselves as “fair,” as they argue that they apply the rules equally.  My least favorite is when they talk about “teaching the students a lesson” (it seems that phrase is an obsession of mine, as I’ve written about it here and here already).

I used to talk about how hard I worked to get where I am today, and, more importantly, about how I never asked a professor for a deadline extension, turned in an assignment late, nor pulled an all-nighter, all of which is true.  As is rather obvious, my comments were intended to convey to students that I, who worked 35-45 hours a week, managed my workload perfectly well, so they should be able to do the same (by the way, we don’t really know what’s going on in our students’ lives, as I wrote about last year).

However, when I think about my college career, I can point to three rather important events where faculty or staff helped me in a significant way, one of which probably made a difference in the course of my life.  Without these two people, my path would certainly have been more difficult.

The first two happened in or around the same semester: the fall of my sophomore year.  I’ve long since decided that the second or third semester of students’ careers are the most challenging, not because of the workload, necessarily, but because of an adjustment in attitude.  Most students come to college with some sort of healthy fear that it will be more challenging than what they experienced in high school.  Thus, they are much more dedicated to their classes in their first semester or year.  Once they get to the second semester or year, though, they believe they’ve got college figured out, and they often stumble.  I’ve seen it happen to many students, and it certainly happened to me.

I had an easy second semester, even landing on the Dean’s list for the only time in my college career.  My first semester of my sophomore year, though, ended with my having earned a 2.5, bringing my total GPA down to a 2.975.  One of the problems was a Humanities class I had that semester.  The professor was challenging, but, more importantly, the writing part of that class (which was separate, but connected–too long of an explanation to go into here, so just roll with it) hammered me.

I turned in a research paper on W.E.B. DuBois only to get a note telling me to come to the writing professor’s office.  At that time, the MLA was moving from the old footnote style to the in-text citation we still use.  Our professors were kind enough to allow us to use either system.  I chose the footnotes, not because I knew it better, but because I thought it would make my paper appear longer (this should tell you that the paper wasn’t going well).  When I went to her office, she handed me the paper and asked, “Kevin, what is this?”  I responded, as many students before and after me have, “I don’t know.”  She let me revise the paper, and I did, bringing my grade up to a D.

Also at the end of that semester, my car insurance was up for renewal, and I needed the Good Student Discount to make it much cheaper.  The problem was that I needed a 3.0 in order to receive that discount.  I went to see the Registrar, and I explained my situation, even pointing out that my overall GPA was 2.975.  She pointed out in return that that wasn’t a 3.0, and, more importantly, they went by the most recent semester.  And then she signed the form, saying simply, “I’m sure you’ll pull it back up next semester” (for the record, I still didn’t hit a 3.0 the next semester, but I did get a 2.95, so I was at least on the way back up).

The most important moment comes from a scholarship that enabled me to attend college at all.  I don’t know who made this decision, so I really have no idea who to thank, but this decision is the one that might have changed my life.  I took the ACT three times and the SAT once in order to get this scholarship.  I was one point away (on the ACT) from moving from a 10% off tuition scholarship to one that would give me 25% off.  I finally got there, and I’m not sure I would have been able to even attend if I wouldn’t have gotten it.  I was required to carry a 2.9 every semester, and I clearly had just missed that.  I wasn’t the most attentive student, if that’s not obvious yet, so I didn’t think about the effects of losing that scholarship.  I do know that I received a letter notifying me that I had not kept that GPA, but that the college would give me one semester to pull it back up.

I obviously did, and I was able to finish the rest of my time there with every semester my junior and senior years hitting above the 3.0 mark (even coming .01 away from the Dean’s list in the spring of my junior year).  More importantly, I encountered the professor who changed my major and my life the second semester of my sophomore year.  Without that scholarship, I would have had to switch schools, and I never would have taken his class.  I don’t know what would have happened, of course, but I do know what did happen, and I’m grateful someone somewhere gave me grace.

Last, along the same lines, I received a scholarship at the end of my sophomore year for Bible majors.  It was $1000, and I received the news while sitting in what we called honors chapel.  Over the summer, though, I changed my major from Bible to English (after that class that spring semester).  I hadn’t even thought about what that would do to the scholarship.  When I came back to campus that fall, the professor in charge of scholarships (also the writing professor, I should note) told me that I had lost the $1000 scholarship because of my change of major, but she found an $800 scholarship for general majors.  She didn’t have to do that for me, but she did.

That scholarship wouldn’t have changed my life, certainly, but it saved my parents $1600, and they certainly could use that money.  It was people like her making decisions like this one that helped me through college.  I chose to attend a private college instead of the state university that would have been free (or almost free), and that decision changed who I am in so many ways.  I couldn’t have done so without the help I received along the way.

It’s a hard decision we professors have to make when students come to us (or even when they don’t) as to whether to give some sort of grace or not.  There have been times I haven’t done so for a wide variety of reasons.  I hope, though, that when I make those decisions, I can at least honestly admit where I came from and who helped me along the way.


Late Bloomers

We had what we call our Majors Fair this past week where every department on campus has a booth (of sorts), and students come around to learn about the various majors.  Out intro. to college class requires their students to come and talk to at least two different areas, just to find out what there is, as far as majors and minors go, on campus.

While I was there, I had a conversation with two of my colleagues about students in our first-year writing class.  One of them had a student who had already declared an English major come up and talk to us, which is what provoked the conversation.  I pointed out that, oddly enough, English majors in my first-year writing classes are usually not the strongest students, a trend that has puzzled me for years.  My other colleague responded that many students are simply late bloomers, that we need to give them time to develop.

She’s right, and her comment reminded me of my own path, as no one would have expected me to end up where I am today.  I came to college after not having worked very hard in high school, and my first two years in college illustrated that lack of preparation and work ethic.  I was a mediocre student, at best, in my freshman classes, often not completing the assigned reading, though I always went to class and turned in assignments, which is the only way I was able to keep my scholarship (also, my second semester was loaded with the easiest teachers, completely by chance, so I actually made the Dean’s list without much effort).

Sophomore year, though, is where everything fell apart.  Oddly enough, the year began with our matriculation service for first-year students.  That service was where the incoming students signed their name in the official roll (for lack of a better term) and became members in our community.  The faculty wore their regalia, and we all took the service rather seriously.  I was sitting next to my roommate, one of the strongest students in our class, as the faculty members walked in.  When he saw them in their regalia, he commented, “I’m going to wear those one day.”  I might have agreed; I’m not really sure.  Regardless, I didn’t have plans nearly as clear as his.

Our Sophomore humanities core was, as one of my professors put it, “designed to weed people out,” and it came quite close to doing so with me.  When we had to turn in our major paper, I was called into a meeting with the writing professor who asked me (honestly), “What is this?”  She let me revise the paper, and I did, moving my grade all the way up to a D.  That fall semester should have caused me to lose my scholarship (which would have led to my having to leave the school and go elsewhere), but the college gave me a semester to pull my grades back up, which I did.

In fact, it was only in that spring semester that I began making any real progress as far as my education was concerned.  That summer, I switched my major to English, and I began enjoying learning and participating in the discipline.  I still struggled due to my lack of any real preparation in English, often earning Bs and Cs on papers, only hitting As (or A-minuses, which I was pleased enough with) in one or two classes.  There were only a couple of moments in my senior year where I actually felt like I was really an English major.

I don’t know what my professors thought when I asked them for letters of recommendation for graduate school, especially given that I was so clueless about the process that I applied to Duke and Emory, with the University of Tennessee as my backup school (needless to say, I didn’t get in any of them).  I assume they thought that the system would work itself out, that I wouldn’t get in to the programs and I would figure out something else to do with my life.  Maybe, though, they saw me as a late bloomer; maybe they believed that I was hitting my stride and that graduate school would be just the right place for me.

If they did believe that, they would have been right.  I ended up in just the right graduate school for me, and I thrived over the next couple of years.  Of course, I also ended up in a doctoral program where I didn’t, but I managed through it, despite never really learning how to write an academic paper on that level.  I wouldn’t learn that until I was actually teaching at the college level.  I truly was a late bloomer.

I have to remind myself of my story on a regular basis, especially when I see students in my first-year writing classes or even in a sophomore-level survey I teach.  I have no idea who will end up going to graduate school or becoming doctors or lawyers or engineers or screenwriters or whatever else they want to do.  I might not believe they have what it takes to get to that level, whether in ability or in work ethic.  I should remember that my roommate (who wanted to wear the regalia) never graduated college and I ended up teaching it, something no one would have predicted, certainly not either one of us.  We never know how our students are going to turn out, so perhaps we should treat them all as if they could achieve whatever dreams they have, pushing them to get there, supporting them along the way.

Not Hearing What Students Have to Say

Last week, I wrote about two lists that a professor had her undergraduates put together, one about what students could do to help learning, the other about what instructors could do.  One interesting result was that students wanted professors to respect them, to get to know their names and something about them.  They wanted what most of us want in this life, some sort of recognition of our humanity.

I’ve found, though a series of recent events, that we’re not very good at actually hearing our students.  That’s partly because we’re busy, juggling committee work and service and research and all of the other demands we have that go beyond the classes we teach, and it’s partly because we think we know so much more than they do that we don’t need to listen to them.  We’re the experts, after all, and we get paid to profess.

In this case, though, I’m not talking about what happens in class, but in how we go about the work of the university, whether in our departments or on a global scale.  I’ll give an example, with a certain amount of vagueness to protect the student.  I was at a book discussion about a month or so ago, and we were talking about Miroslav Volf’s book A Public Faith: How Followers of Christ Should Serve the Common Good.  Volf was coming to our campus, so we were having a variety of ways people could interact with his work.

Essentially, he’s arguing that Christians who live in a pluralistic world (i.e. our world) tend to react in one of two ways: 1) silence or 2) coercion.  He’s arguing that there should be a third way, a way in which Christians can enter into the public discussions without coercion.  Near the end of the discussion, I asked what I thought was an innocent question (which always gets me into trouble):  Aren’t Christian colleges by their nature coercive?  It seems one should not ask this question at a Christian college.

I don’t need to go into detail here beyond the fact that, when I was trying to clarify my point, I quoted a student email I had received the week before that (I thought) fairly clearly illustrated that this student felt coerced.  What bothered me was not that the other faculty disagreed with me, but that they didn’t hear what the student was saying.  They said that they wouldn’t take the student’s comment to mean what I was saying it meant.  Essentially, they didn’t hear what the student was saying at all, as they were too invested in defending who we are.

I have a more positive example.  A few years ago, I suggested to the department that we start an optional Senior Thesis.  We were doing the preparatory work to start it up, and I added a couple of students to the group talking about how we should structure it.  One question we had was whether it should be a one-hour course or a three-hour course.  I was leaning toward the one-hour option, as it would enable students to fit it in their schedules more easily.  A student pointed out, though, that such an approach would encourage students to think of the class as only requiring a few hours of work a week, which would easily lead to their overcommitting.  The class needed to be three hours to make it clear how much work would be involved.  We went with her suggestion, and it has helped that class be successful, while the one-hour approach seems now that it couldn’t have been anything other than a disaster.

We need to hear students when they talk to us, whether in class or out of class.  We have to hear what’s behind what they’re saying when they talk about assignments or their lives, certainly, but, most importantly, we need to respect them enough to hear what they say about our classes and our universities.  Their experiences are so different from ours, but they are the ones that matter most.  If we want to teach them, we first have to hear them.

Helping Students Learn

We talk a good deal about how we can better help students learn material or learn how to think or learn whatever it is we think is important (if you’re curious, you can see what I really try to teach here).  We spend our time going to conferences to learn about how students learn or we read articles that give us new teaching techniques (or how to apply techniques we already know in new ways) or we read books about how to better structure our classes.  You get the point.

Now, I’m not disparaging those approaches.  I do spend my time doing those things, and I write about teaching here, often mentioning ideas I’ve gleaned from those resources, so I’m clearly invested in them as ways to improve our teaching.  However, there might be another area that we often overlook when we’re trying to become better teachers.

This past week, over at the Lingua Franca blog (it’s a blog largely about language, but, as you’ll see, if you’re not familiar with it, not solely about language; their thoughts about language are worth your time, as well, by the way) at The Chronicle of Higher Education, Anne Curzan shared some quite helpful information.  She and her graduate student asked her undergraduate students to help put together two lists, one gives ten things students can do to promote good learning, the other ten things instructors can do.  The two lists are quite interesting.

First, the student list shows students who want to take responsibility for their learning; they want the opportunity to be involved in creating that learning.  It emphasizes coming to class prepared, participating, asking questions, interacting with others (not just the professor), and getting help when they need it.  For all of the talk about student entitlement, for most students, I’ve found these ideas to be true.  Students might not always know how to do these things, and they might not have the opportunity in a 100-person lecture class where they’re talked at for an hour, but I mostly find them willing to try to act according to this list, when given the chance.

Next, the professor list focuses almost exclusively on classroom environment and relationships with students; teaching techniques don’t get much of a mention (though they’re implied in numbers 8 and 9, which talk about discussion, implying that students would like to have them).  Instead, they talk about respect and getting to know students and showing that we’re human, too.  They want us to treat them like human beings and see us as the same.  As with the student list, I’ve found these ideas to be true, as well.  As I’ve spent more time in teaching and become less concerned with trying to impress students with my knowledge and more interested in hearing what they have to say, my classes tend to be much better.  Students are more engaged, which makes our class time more enjoyable for all of us.

I’m going to continue trying to find ways to improve my classes through reading articles and hearing what other professors have done, and I’ll revamp syllabi and assignments and daily activities, all in an effort to improve my classes.  More than anything, though, I’m going to try to interact with my students, to learn more about them, to get to know them as people who want to learn.  I’m looking forward to hearing what they have to say.


Why I Teach

I’ve been thinking about curriculum a good deal lately, partly because our department has been doing a program review, but also just because I read about and hear about what other colleges and universities are doing.  The university where I teach has a rather regimented curriculum both in terms of the general education requirements and within our major.  We don’t give our students all that much flexibility.

I looked back at one of our catalogs from the mid-1990s, and I see that the curriculum really hasn’t changed all that much.  In fact, what we seem to have done in most cases is simply add more requirements on.  The classes are largely the same, though there have been some minor name changes along the way (Intro. to Chaucer became simply Chaucer, for example).

There are two things that worry me about this march through required classes that students have to do. Continue reading

My Students Are Better Than Me

We have a tendency (and I mean every professor I know when I saw we) to sit around and complain about students, talking, especially, about the ways they don’t measure up to how we were when we were students.  We’ve obviously romanticized our past selves, but, even when we’re more honest about how we were, we still believe our students just can’t measure up.  Perhaps because I wasn’t that great of a student, I spend more time thinking about the ways students are better than I was, not only as a student, but as a citizen and general person.

They’re smarter.  More and more of my students come to college already having taken AP or dual enrollment classes, already having read so much more than I had when I went to college.  I hear people bemoan the high school curriculum, but it’s more a shift from a traditional canon of high school readings to a wider variety; they don’t read less than we once did, but differently.  These are students who are doing advanced math and engineering and writing and art that I and my peers just couldn’t imagine.  That doesn’t stop once they get to college, as we have students present original work at national conferences (and that work is good: I once saw one of our alumni present a paper he wrote in his Master’s program, and it was on a subject I wrote on in my doctoral program; I told him, honestly, that his work was better than mine, and he was at a lower level).

They’re more involved.  We often bemoan their lack of political knowledge, trying to catch them out by asking them who the Speaker of the House is, showing how much smarter than we are/were when they don’t know (for the record, I would never have known the Speaker of the House’s name when I was in college; it’s Paul Ryan right now, if you’ve forgotten, as I honestly had when writing this post).  However, these students, probably through the advent of social media, know so much more about what is going on in the world than I ever did at their age.  They talk about wars and unrest across the world, and they work to try to end the -isms that oppress people here in our country.

Not only are they political engaged in a way my peers and I weren’t, they also are more involved in their communities.  I hear my students talk about their weekends where they were delivering food to the elderly or working with a program like Big Pal Little Pal or finding new needs and trying to meet them.  Granted, I work at a faith-based university, so that inclination would be higher here, but I also attended a similar college, and I spent my weekends (when I wasn’t working) sleeping late, hanging out with friends, and doing whatever work for school I needed to do for the coming week.

They’re more globally conscious.  Again, a change in technology might be responsible for part of this improvement, as they simply know much more about what’s going on around the world, but they’re also more curious about peoples different than they are.  They’re more willing to take risks and travel to places where they know no one.  They want to meet people different than they are and learn as much as they can about others and the places those people come from.  They know their view of the world is limited, and they want to change that through direct experience, not just reading or watching shows/movies.

Our students have their faults, as well, and I can certainly complain about students spending too much time on their phones or other devices, watching Netflix when they should be reading or talking to each other, but I also know that they are so much better than I was at so many aspects of life.  We need to acknowledge those parts of their lives, too, not just the ones that annoy us.

My Real Student Learning Outcomes

Pretty much anyone involved with higher education knows about Student Learning Outcomes (SLOs).  If you teach in the public middle or high school system, you know about state standards.  In both cases, these are essentially descriptions of what students will either know or be able to do once they have finished a particular class.  They can range from something related to content knowledge (Students will be able to recite Pi to 83 places) to a particular skill (Students will be able to add two pages of meaningless writing to a ten page paper without anyone being able to tell).

It’s not difficult to make fun of SLOs, as they’re often terribly specific and, despite the assertions to the contrary, almost impossible to truly measure.  Even when we can measure them, we don’t check in with students a year after the class to see if they can still recall the content knowledge they supposedly learned.  And I’ve read enough papers from students I taught in a first-year writing class to see that, two years later, they’ve completely forgotten to use an actual thesis sentence, despite their having done so for every paper for my class (note that our SLOs don’t measure students’ ability to transfer knowledge/skills to different situations).

Thus, when I’m honest with myself and my students, I admit that I really only have two goals for my students, maybe three, depending on the class I’m teaching. Continue reading