I say all of this only to emphasize my immense respect for Eric, because I’m going to disagree with him about a blog post he wrote earlier today. He writes to defend the 5 paragraph essay, and makes good points. I won’t say that writing any form, including the 5 paragraph essay, is likely to do lasting harm to a student, in and of itself. Many students simply don’t write at all, and that’s far worse that writing 5 paragraph essays. But what I question is the pervasiveness of this form, or of any similar formulaic “academic” essay. In fact, we were talking about this (and came to no consensus among participants) at the Northern California Writing Project‘s Summer Institute today. My major question is this: why does this form, which is rarely if ever used by actual writers (even academics), have such a privileged position in schooling? Originally, the essay (as begun by Montaigne) was (as its name indicated) an “attempt” at finding meaning through speculation and reflection. Now, it’s a form that frowns on speculation and reflection, instead requiring its writers to think narrowly and defend, at all costs, its thesis.

There’s a chapter in Bruce Pirie’s book Reinventing High School English called “‘Mind-Forged Manacles’: The Academic Essay” that I highly recommend; in it, he describes alternative ways to think about this thesis-centric approach to writing. In a nutshell, Pirie argues that the focus on one narrow aspect of a topic serves to blind the writer to a broader view of the issue at hand. Such a broader viewpoint could be useful in understanding the role of the topic in the political landscape, to the benefit of writer, reader, and community. It’s a little like what Freire, in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, calls “horizontal violence”–when people who have many more commonalities than differences argue among themselves rather than uniting. It serves particular political ends to have us look at things under a microscope rather than through a wide-angle lens.

The real source of my concerns about the 5 paragraph essay, or any other specified formula for writing academic prose, is that it removes from the student the responsibility of structuring the writing. Why should we believe that any topic we happen to want to write about is capable of being shoehorned into 5 paragraphs, rather than trust that as writers we will be able to determine how many paragraphs will serve the purpose? Figuring out where to break a paragraph isn’t an exact science; while I was drafting this, for instance, the second and third paragraphs were just one paragraph, and I decided to break it into two at the point when I start using Pirie’s chapter as an example. Is this the “right” place to break? I haven’t looked at many of my published articles or book chapters to see if I’ve “correctly” paragraphed them, or even to see if my paragraphs have topic sentences and/or the requisite number of supporting details and commentary. But none of the editors I’ve worked with have ever asked me to rework anything based on paragraphing, either–although I’ve been asked to revise every published piece except one. 

And now (as I begin my fifth, and, ironically, most likely final paragraph in this attempt to articulate my thoughts about formulaic writing), it seems that my point is to say that students need to be taught to structure, not taught a structure. They need to know that, if they write about an example of something (by inserting a quotation from a text, for instance, or by referencing an incident from their experience), they also need to inform their audience of the significance of that example to the point(s) they’re making. They need to know that, somewhere in the beginning of their writing (but not necessarily in the first paragraph), their readers will expect to learn about the topic and purpose of the writing. But why not learn that from reading real writers instead of from a lockstep formula?

As I’m waiting, I’m pondering a few different things. It’s dumping rain outside (an oddity in May in Chico), and I’m wondering how my friend Alicia‘s first century bike ride went yesterday. We had a break in the storm for most of the day here, but I’m not sure if the same was true in Redding, where the ride happened. I’m marveling that she can pedal for a hundred miles. I’ve been spending more time on the road with my new 36″-wheeled unicycle, but I think around 14 miles is the longest I’ve gone on it so far. That hardly compares to a 100 mile endeavor. My riding buddy, Gary, and I are mapping out some endurance rides in the Team Bigfoot series–mostly 8- and 12-hour races over the summer and into the fall. I’d like to see some improvement in my performance at these kinds of events. I seem to always lose it at around the 5-hour mark; I want to get some better results. Maybe if I continue to lose weight–I’m down below the 200 lb mark (from around 225), and would like to hit 185 ideally–I’ll see some improvement. I need to keep hill riding, too, just to get my legs into better shape. 

On the professional front, I received notice on Friday that, as of next school year, I’ll be promoted to Professor. For those not attuned to the ranks of academe, those hired in tenure-track jobs at colleges begin as Assistant Professors (and spend, usually, 6 years at that rank), then are reviewed for tenure and promotion to Associate Professor. After a period as Associate (generally another 5 or 6 years, depending on the institution), another review occurs, and promotion to Professor ensues (if one is successful). Particularly strong candidates–those who publish a ton, or who secure lots of big grants–get on a fast track. That wasn’t me. I was 6 years to tenure, and another 5 now to reaching full prof status. It’s a little odd to feel like, in a way, I’m done with all the little games that have to be played to help find success and surety in the academic world. It’s not that I feel like I no longer have to work hard–far from it, in fact–but I do feel that, to a greater degree, I can make decisions about where to direct my efforts without trying to simultaneously predict how those efforts will be interpreted by others at my university. That’s a pretty nice feeling. And it’s also not like I had to make strenuous efforts to make my colleagues see and/or value the work I’ve been doing, either. It’s cheesy, yes, but it feels a little like a Sally Field moment (“You like me! You really like me!” ). And when you’re an educator, you take as many of those moments as you can find.

And speaking of educators … and the Summer Institute (okay, that was a couple paragraphs ago, but hey, you’re paying attention, and that’s a good thing, right?) … the NCWP held the orientation for the 2009 Summer Institute this past Saturday. Taking a cue from the awesome advice given by Tracy Baisden of the MUWP, and Bruce Penniman of the WMWP, my colleague Amanda and I structured the day as a kind of Summer-Institute-in-a-nutshell, so that the new participants could get a sense of what they’ll be in for when the summer rolls around. I thought it was a great day, but that’s the kind of thing that happens when you get interesting, committed teachers together. Thank Jim Gray for figuring that out 35 years ago. 

Okay, so the download of my backup is all done, so I can proceed to mess with stuff. It may be that I’ll lose this entire post when I do the upgrade dance, but that’s all right. Worse things could happen.

1. During the first week of my first teaching job–fresh out of college, August 1987–one of my students brought a gun to class. While I was writing on the chalkboard, he took it out of his bag, showed it to his classmates, waved it around … and I was oblivious.

2. I lied like crazy in my job interview for that first teaching position. Well, stretched the truth. “Can you teach drama?” “Sure!” “How about speech?” “You bet!” “Newspaper? Yearbook?” “Absolutely!” Little did I think that I would, actually, have to teach those things.

3. I still feel like a big faker when I’m teaching sometimes. What on earth do I know about anything, anyway? That’s the little doubting voice I hear.

4. I absolutely hate the 5 paragraph essay. But I used to teach it to my high school students because I didn’t know how else to teach writing.

5. When I was in college, I started out as a chemical engineering major. I stuck with it for two years, too. I wasn’t bad at it; I made it through physical chemistry, physics, calculus, differential equations. When I sent my transcripts in to the state of Washington to get credentialed, they came back certifying me to teach English, Math, Biology, Chemistry, and Physics. I guess I should be grateful I was never assigned to teach anything out of the English realm.

6. I never coached a sport when I taught high school. I don’t think I was qualified.

7. After one of my students brought a paintball gun to school for a required speech about a hobby, he invited me to come play with a group in town. I accepted. I spent the next 4 years or so shooting students every few weekends. It was very cathartic. I suspect that those who shot me felt equally joyful. And the student who got me started? We’re Facebook friends now, and have kept in touch via email for years.

8. I acted in the play “Jabberwock,” taking the role of James Thurber’s father, when I was an English teacher at Kelso High School. It was a joint production of my school and the local 2-year college. It was great fun. I’d never before acted (formally).

9. When I took over the newspaper program at Kelso High, I got in big trouble for letting the students decide whether to run a couple of pieces that were, frankly, not in the best of taste. But I’d boned up on journalism laws as they applied to high schools, and it seemed that I couldn’t censor just because I disagreed with the editor. Well, my principal didn’t see things that way, and I was too chicken to fight him about it. It was just my second year of teaching, so maybe that’s an excuse for having no backbone.

10. Colleges pay lip service to teaching, but do little to foster it, or remedy it when it’s lacking/absent.

11. In graduate school, I experienced some of the worst teachers ever. The bad teachers were usually brilliant writers, though. This makes me wonder whether I really want to be a good writer, if it will turn me into a sucky teacher.

12. Even if I’m teaching a text I’ve taught 20 times before, I still have to reread it the night before I teach it.

13. In my big jumbo class of 100 students, I’m lucky if I know 30 of their names at the semester’s end. I’m not happy about that, but I don’t quite know what to do to fix the situation, either.

14. At a homecoming assembly at Kelso High, I once dressed as Franz (my friend, math teacher Chuck Scheiwiller, was Hans) and used my best Ahnold accent to whip the kids into a frenzy. This was when the whole Hans and Franz thing (with Dana Carvey and Kevin Nealon) was a big deal on SNL.

15. When I started teaching at Chico State, I was completely shocked by the state of dress of young women on campus. I still am, sometimes, but mostly it’s just become part of the landscape of this region to me.

16. Once, I had to miss a class and asked Tom Fox and Rochelle Ramay to teach the class for me. That was the day one of my students decided he’d wear a t-shirt that proclaimed “I have a small penis” on it. I wish I’d been able to see Rochelle’s face when he walked in, late, as she was talking to the class. I would have, for once, seen her at a loss for words.

17. I’ve mostly learned about teaching through trial by fire. Sometimes it’s worked well; sometimes, not so much. I keep Rochelle’s little aphorism in my head: Even if you fall flat on your face, at least you’re moving forward.

18. My cooperating teacher, when I student taught back in 1986, was a great guy named Ken Bolf. He taught me to own whatever I was teaching. I was terrified when I decided not to teach a sci-fi story he loved, because I thought he’d be upset, but he just agreed with my choice because I’d said I thought it would work better for my way of teaching. I appreciated his support and flexibility.

19. Working on inservice projects with Rochelle has been one of the craziest, but most rewarding, things I’ve done professionally. Man, can we figure stuff out on the fly.

20. Sometimes, teaching seems like an unbearable burden. Like now, when I’m behind 200 1-page reading responses.

21. Sometimes, teaching seems like an unbelievable gift. Like now, when I can sit with my colleagues, talking and reflecting and writing. Or when I’m reading something amazing that a student has written. Or when a class is marveling over how cool a poem, or essay, or video, or even just a word, is.

22. The English teacher voice in me tells me that the last sentence in #21 got away from me, and ended in a way it shouldn’t have. I’m doing my best to ignore that voice and leave the sentence the hell alone.

23. One of my students told me, back in 1990, about this amazing technology that would make teaching and learning really cool. You would be able to read words on a computer screen, and “click” on some of them, and things like pictures, or even videos, of the thing you clicked would show up. I scoffed. He went on to be the sixth person hired by Amazon.com, and is now retired and wealthy. And barely even in his mid-30s. Guess I should have listened.

24. I have a real love-hate relationship with teachers on tv shows and movies. Maybe it’s more of a train-wreck relationship. I can’t seem to look away, but I hate what I see.

25. The thing about teaching that keeps me doing it is the fact that I have to keep learning in order to do it well. That’s a pretty cool job parameter, I think.

I’m going to just hit “Post” without going back and even looking to see if it needs editing. So there.

And he came back with one I’d never seen before, wherein we see how Hamlet ended up with its famous “To be” soliloquy and those gravedigging clowns (this time with Hugh Laurie as “Bill”):

After lunch, the whole crew drove to Oroville to help Lisa get her class ready for tomorrow’s first day of the school year. I felt bad because Lisa seemed a little overwhelmed and had a hard time prioritizing the to-do lists, and we weren’t really able to help until she gave us directions. But we eventually got things put on the walls, or put away, or otherwise managed, so I think we didn’t waste her time. 

When we got home, I fixed the flat tire on my bike and did a couple small modifications to the brakes on two of my munis. I’ll be ready to bike commute this week. I think I’ll accompany Tyler on his bike commute tomorrow, as we’ve been giving him rides to school the last two weeks, and I don’t want to throw him to the wolves, as it were. There can be some scary drivers out there at half seven in the morning in Chico. 

Chico State starts classes tomorrow, but I don’t teach until Tuesday. I’ll be meeting with Suzanne about some NCWP business tomorrow, and (I hope, anyway) will also get things settled for the first day of teaching, too. I haven’t had any “naked dreams” yet, and have actually felt pretty calm about the start of the school year. I hope that the calmness carries through the week, but I’m a little doubtful. 

I still have some things I’d like to do. Such as … doing a quick little video that shows how to find my office (most students don’t know the Research Foundation building exists, much less how to find it!), and getting a couple of extra copies of the course texts that I can give away on the first day just for fun. I’ll get done what get’s done, I suppose.