When I was teaching Rhetoric and Composition at WVU, I actually believed at the time that I was pretty good at it. My young charges weren't complaining or throwing rocks at me, and they consistently gave me high scores on the teacher evaluations at the end of each semester. I'd had some difficult days, to be sure, but I figured I'd had all the kinks pretty well worked out by the end my last semester.
Then I started learning about proper teaching from the leading experts in the field... and yours truly received a swift education in just how pathetic his English 101 class had been.
In reading the research on effective teaching strategies for my certification program, I've come to realize that just about everything they highlight as being a piss poor teaching strategy is something that I implemented with alarming regularity at WVU. Class discussions following a shared inquiry model serve as the best way for students to work through difficult readings. I dismissed them as worthless exercises in babbling that made me uncomfortable. More and shorter writing assignments help students. JP, in his infinite wisdom, deleted existing papers from the curriculum and lengthened the remaining ones. Grammar lessons should be integrated into literature and writing lessons so as to encourage practical application. Guess who tossed out worksheets with rote lists and examples on them?
Speaking of grammar: marking up every grammar mistake on a paper does NOTHING for student learning... yeah, I went red-pen happy with reckless abandon too.
The worst blow to my ego was realizing that my goddamn coordinator at WVU was right about quite a lot. My swelling sense of superiority allowed me to simply say, "Bah, my stupid boss, you don't know what you're talking about." Then I'd throw out his ridiculous ideas as condescending and pointless. Well, it turns out that my former boss, despite his childish and condescending demeanor, actually knew a few things about teaching. It seems that all the current research indicates that multiple drafts, portfolios, feedback without grades (holistic style, if you will), and structured peer review workshops really
are necessary to proper writing instruction.
Lest you think I'm being too hard on myself, I should point out that I had an entire course at WVU called "College Composition Pedagogy," wherein I was supposed to learn most of this stuff. In my automatic assumption of my own superiority, I dismissed the articles we read in class as the dribblings of pompous academics who knew nothing of real teaching. I badmouthed the professor of that class and the English 101 coordinator (behind their backs, of course, because I'm a classy like that) for their ridiculous strategies.
In retrospect, I think I spent far too much time worrying about how well their four major papers met my obviously arbitrary grading requirements instead of determing whether they were actually
learning something about writing. When I would wonder why my students never came to see me during office hours while Virgil and Batmite had visitors constantly, I used to think that they just didn't like me... or were intimidated by my sheer awesomeness. But now I know the real reason: they knew I wouldn't provide one bit of genuine help. An office visit with old Mr. P would be akin to an appointment with a doctor who treats you with leeches: it's supposed to help but you end up leaving woozy and bleeding from odd places.
My students probably gave me high reviews because they didn't know that they weren't learning. As far as they were concerned, my class was a cakewalk. I never challenged them to do better because that would lead to mistakes and problems, which take longer to grade. Goddammit, we couldn't have that!
Did they learn how to predict what JP wanted? Most definitely.
Did they actually learn something useful about writing? I highly doubt it.
All of this wallowing and self pity seems especially bitter after I returned to my apartment today to find a sizable envelope from the Praxis Testing program (The Praxis is the test that all teachers must take to prove their mettle). The Praxis I is a complete joke, but last month I took the Praxis II (which tests the prospective teacher's subject matter), and it was reasonably difficult. In the envelope, I found a certificate with my name on it that reads:
"In acknowledgement of your outstanding score on the Praxis Series
English Language, Literature, and Composition: Content Knowledge
Your exceptional performance earned a score that ranks within the top 15% of all test takes who took this assessment in previous years. This achievement indicates a high level of proficiency in an area critical for professional educators."
The attached letter had the following addendum:
"This honor will be indicated on all of your score reports. It formally acknowledges your personal effort and commitment to learning and to teaching... Your performance on the Praxis II assessment shows your dedication to high standards in education."
I'm not telling you this to impress you. And really, it was a standardized test that proves next to nothing of my teaching ability. Still, after reading the letter, only one word kept flashing through my mind: FRAUD. Yeah, I know my content, but is that really such an indicator of a great teacher? Shouldn't "Doesn't automatically assume he's smarter than every education expert in the country" be somewhere on the checklist of teacher quality?
There are roughly 175 students at West Virginia University right now who have me to thank for their piss poor writing skills. At the time, I was more concerned with grading quickly so that I could waste my evening watching
Justice League episodes
and eating goldfish crackers. That is some commitment to learning and teaching right there.
Well, here's hoping I've actually learned my lesson, because it looks like this program is actually going to award me a certification that will allow me to teach the youth of America how to read and write. Given the cracker jack job I did at the college level, maybe I should hire some of you to come kick me in the face periodically and tell me to keep my ego in check.
Okay, enough of this self-loathing. The next post will feature my glorious return to unabashed self-aggrandizement!
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"Dammit, Fry! I can't teach. I'm a professor!"
He came into your house... through the chimney. He ate your cookies and left you with toys made through slave labor with materials not approved by the Consumer Product Safety Commission. I hear the bastard even uses lead paint to cut costs. He left hoof prints on your roof, too.
