Philosophy of Teaching

A position has opened up at the college where I work, and I've applied for it. Part of the application is a philosophy of teaching (or teaching statement). I've written 4 or 5 over the last decade, as I've had to submit a philosophy every time I apply for a job, but I've lost every one I have written. Here's my latest — hopefully I can hold on to this one! I'd love to hear feedback from you, my readers; I'm certain to revise this as I either apply for other positions or as I move through the ranks where I am.

Teaching Statement

I teach because I enjoy expanding students’ minds by introducing them to new ways of thinking. I also see teaching English as a means to improve quality of life. Those students who can read not only the content, but the implications of a piece of literature, those who can express their ideas clearly and effectively, are more capable of using those skills in a variety of ways. English is the best discipline to teach the skills of communication and critical thinking, though it’s a double-edged sword: people who think critically about things are more likely to be frustrated by the status quo, though they are also more likely to try to improve it. Teaching for an English program, especially composition, allows me to focus on helping students identify problems and read critically, then offer solutions. It is this opportunity to inspire students with my passion for literature and the humanities in general that I value most in teaching.

As a discipline, English offers me a challenge that I greatly enjoy. I like the variety of students that come through composition, often the only course required of all students. I have studied the Middle Ages because it combined my interests in a variety of areas, especially literature, history, and philosophy; I gravitated to literature because it seemed the most flexible in terms of making arguments. English critics read a text and find some point to make, connecting the text to modern readers’ lives. Composition adds another dimension of complexity, as the students are not unified in any quantifiable way; composition classes are often chosen based on time and location, rather than instructor or content. This allows for incredibly diverse groups, making the teaching experience more challenging and rewarding.

Despite that challenge of diversity, I find a number of ways to reach my students. Responding to some poor experiences of my own, I understand the importance of structure and preparedness. I offer a carefully crafted syllabus in the first class, and the course information sheet outlines my policies. The semester proceeds according to the syllabus, to allow the students a chance to anticipate and prepare for class. I, too, am prepared for each class, having read the assignments and prepared whatever homework I ask my students to; that is, I do everything I ask of my students. One of my greatest learning experiences as a teacher happened in my first year teaching. I did not prepare the reading I had assigned, instead relying on prior knowledge of the tale. My students asked me insightful questions for which I was utterly unprepared, and I left the classroom full of shame. I resolved to never let that happen again. My primary goal in a class is to be a coordinator. I generally open with a brief lecture, asking my students to outline the main points of the days’ topic or reading, and then filling out their list with whatever other pertinent information I wish to include. I then ask my students to respond, opening the floor for discussion, though I always have a few discussion questions of my own, should the students not be sure where to take the discussion. I rely on my students’ input for direction, to allow them to get what they need from the class. In such a way, I find my students to be more engaged and interested in my courses, since they feel they have some real sense of ownership. The students have a clear voice in the classroom, and in connecting the content with their own lives and interests, they are more likely to retain the deeper lessons regarding expression that are, in my opinion, at the core of an English degree.

One concrete method I’ve used in my entire teaching career is to prepare written assignments with a scenario that grounds the assignment in real life. In a course on comic books, I asked my students to defend the use of a comic book in their discipline; I had one student write a great paper on using the Flash, whose main power is super speed, to discuss issues in a physics class. I also try to engage my students’ interests, especially in composition, by challenging them to connect their majors to the class, especially as material for their research papers. After reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I have had students write papers on absentee parents, social pressures to fit in, and one enterprising political science student who compared Yugoslavia to the creature, both beings made of disparate parts and bound for a tragic end. I like to make literature live by challenging my students not to interpret its meaning in some general, grandiose way, but in a way that holds meaning for them.

As a student, I always did best when I knew my professors; this is often not feasible in a large lecture-style science class, but was often fostered in smaller, discussion-based literature and philosophy courses. Accordingly, I make an effort to learn all of my students’ names as soon as possible, and I am very generous with my time. Some of my most exciting moments have been when my students speak to me long after the course has ended, and they let me know how much they enjoyed my class or how much they learned in my classroom. I don’t expect my students to retain everything I offer to them in a semester, but I do hope that the content of my classes will inspire my students to approach life and learning in a new way. I firmly believe studying English is about processes, not facts. I don’t think anyone has been enriched by knowing that Geoffrey Chaucer died around the year 1400. However, I do know many people who have been surprised and amused by many of his tales, such as the group of senior citizens who agreed with the statement that women desire sovereignty, as Chaucer’s Wife of Bath discusses in her tale. Teaching English classes, be they centered on some specific theme or the often-dreaded composition, allows me the opportunity to not only challenge my students to think more broadly, but also to interrogate their own assumptions about what matters, and how to present their ideas. That is what I try to teach in my classroom: processes to better read and relay information.

Teaching Troubles

I know why some instructors have really strict standards for submitting work. I’m not persuaded to join their ranks, but I really get it.

At the end of the term, two of my students came up to me and asked for extensions on the final paper. The first to ask essentially said “I had two other projects, and just didn’t have time to put into yours what I should have.” The second rode the coattails of the first, nodding and offering little of her own situation. Noting that both were generally good students, and should pass the class (given the quality of their work), I offered them a deal. They had until our next class meeting would have been to email me their completed work. They both accepted the deal. Student 1 just left (after thanking me), and Student 2 handed in her draft “Just in case” along with a SASE for me to return the work to her with some comments and a grade.

Fast forward a few days. The semester ended on a high note, and I did, indeed, receive a full draft from Student 2. (Student 1 submitted nothing. At all.) I responded, acknowledging I’d gotten the draft, and that I’d print off a copy to grade and return to her.

Move forward a couple more days. In a frenzy of grading, I found the partial draft and graded it with a heavy heart. “But wait,” you may say, “You got her complete draft!”

Received, yes. Graded, no.

I don’t know if I never printed it, if the printed copy never got to the table for grading, or what happened. All I know is that she did pass, despite a poor showing on the final paper, and I moved forward, enjoying Christmas with the knowledge that my grades were done, and I’d only have to tell the grouchy students why they failed... and that not until the spring term begins.

Until today. When I checked my email today, I had two letters about this. First arrived some email from Student 2 pointing out that she got the paper back, but I graded the wrong draft, and an hour later came some email from our fabulous department secretary saying that Student 2 and her mother had called the department. Seems to me that they’re circling the wagons for a fight... when the error was entirely mine, something to which I admitted in responding to both Student 2 and Fabulous Secretary. I'll grade the full draft tomorrow, and work out a grade change on Monday.

Now – having admitted it’s my fault, I can see why other instructors accept no late work, especially at the end of the semester. I really do. But Student 2 really made an effort, and she showed great improvement and engagement with writing, and I couldn’t just ignore that. On the other hand, it’s making my life more difficult now, and I really don’t need the distraction. Would I do something differently, given the opportunity? Yes – I’d still offer the extension, but I’d be more careful to grade the right thing.

I’m sure there’s something here about my being a good, caring instructor, but right now, I just want to watch a horribly violent, scary movie so I can root for the monster disemboweling people. Anyone have anything to raise my spirits?

bleh.

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!