Don’t tell me!

I have noticed a strange trend lately in my students’ papers. I’ not sure if I’m just more sensitive to it, or if it’s a change in the writing that’s coming in, but here it is: students like to use “you.” Now this doesn’t sound like a serious issue, and it certainly sounds silly when just sated that way. But here’s my issue: composition teachers have long asked (demanded?) that we be shown, not told, the evidence and conclusions. Focus on the ideas and details that support them. We’ve also tried to kill “I” in essays. When I ask them to use “I,”especially to indicate their experiences, my students often look at me askance, and say “Oh, I just can’t say ‘I’ in a formal paper! It’s just not right!” I always reassure them that yes, in the most formal academic discourse, “I” is usually shunned (as is the five-paragraph essay, but that’s another rant), but we’re writing more low-key, personal pieces at the beginning of the term, and their experiences are important — and can be “owned” with the pronoun.

So what does all this mean for “you”? I think it’s a common substitute. That is, students think “I have to show my logic, so I’ll tell my readers what to see.” And this quickly becomes “I’ll force audience agreement by proscribing reactions — what to feel, how to think.” It’s really difficult sometimes, especially when my students’ arguments are limited — or they don’t take into any account multiple opinions, different experiences, or simply different conclusions based on the same information. Too often, my students will say something like “You will remember from Romeo and Juliet...” Um, hate to rain on your parade, but I’ve never read that play. (Nor have I seen a whole production, be it on stage or screen.... about the closest I’ve come is West Side Story — unless sitting through Twilight counts, too.) Or better yet, “In 15 years, when you get married [I am already married], you will receive a box from your mother with your diaries in it, with a note that says ‘Remember these when you’re expecting.’” [I already have a child — and my students know both facts from casual conversation.] I pointed out to the student who set up this hypothetical situation that it’s at odds with my experience, and as such, it indicates that I’m not the target audience. I asked her to revise, removing “you,” as to allow other people to read and follow the point she’s making, rather than excluding readers because she expects her audience to be exactly like her.*

So I ask my fellow instructors — have you noticed an encroachment of “you” in papers? What do you do about it? I’ve given over some time in my writing course to explain why this is bad, as it disrupts the relationship between the author, who is supposed to show, not dictate, the ideas, and this reader, who wants to be led, not commanded, who wants to discover ideas, not have to manufacture knowledge to meet the demands of the author. It's only a couple of minutes, but I wonder if I should be more proactive, and introduce it before the first paper, rather than after the first draft, in response to my students. What do you think?

*Incidentally, she did not revise this page between drafts, and the demanding scenario remained.

Knowing Enough

At the beginning of this semester, I covered a humanities class for a colleague who was out on medical leave. One of the icebreakers she assigned was a list of questions, and the purpose was to find people who know the answers. Since the class was fairly small, and the icebreaker is supposed to get students to meet many people, I told the students that I’d be happy to sign for one answer.

The students started circulating, and I answered a few different questions. One student walked up, with my colleague’s list in hand, and asked if I could answer any questions she hadn’t filled yet. Looking at her list, I saw that I could answer any of the questions, but I wanted to be a little cagier, perhaps to make a point about assumptions, as I had in my writing course. So I said “Yes, I can answer some. What question do you think I can answer?"

“I think you know the name of Alexander the Great’s tutor” was her reply.

Noting some conviction in her voice, I said “Yes, I do — why did you think so?”

Her reply? “Because you’re the teacher. You just know these things.”

I was rather humbled by her faith in teachers — and at the same time, I was glad I didn’t let her down. It got me wondering, though, just how much we’re expected to know, especially in the humanities. I chose my discipline, and my period, in part because they are hard — there’s nothing that can’t help illuminate readings, so everything is fair for academic consideration. But I also wonder when we’re (theoretically) ready to teach. When do we know enough to step in front of a classroom? I don’t think there’s a good answer, or a right answer, in terms of quantity of knowledge. I think the best answer is individual — you know enough when you feel comfortable, when you feel competent, to teach that subject, be it composition, introduction to literature, or something more specific. I look forward to hearing your thoughts!