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.

• Writing Project budgets and reports. These are so flippin’ complicated for someone with good financial sense that they leave me–with only a passing understanding–bewildered. I’m lucky that Rachael and Michele are keeping a pretty good handle on it, but I’m still the bottom-line responsible one, so it worries me that we may not dot-and-cross those essentials.
• English department work. I’ve had to make trips to Sacramento and Redding on business for the English department. While neither was a task that was unpleasant in any way, they just sucked up some hours that I wish I could have put to better use. Windshield time, I guess it’s called. I think if I had a long commute, I’d go crazy. Anyway, the Redding trip was to observe and write a report on a colleague teaching a course at our satellite campus, and it was great to watch his class–wonderful teacher. So that’s off my task list. But the Sacramento trip was for technical assistance in getting our English Ed program approved, and the work behind that is still pending–loads of revisions to make to our document, which to start with was over 1,000 pages. Urgh.
• Promotion portfolio. I found out about 4 weeks ago that I’m eligible for promotion to full professor this year. I don’t know why, but I had it in my head that it was next year–I was thinking a six-year cycle, just like the normal term for assistant-to-associate term. But it’s five years. Okay. So I hadn’t done any of the things I was planning to do this year to prepare for that promotion review, like get nice letters from other academics from across the country with whom I’ve worked over the past 11 years, or testimonials from the great leaders I work with in the Writing Project, or anything like that. But I do have 3 new book chapters/articles just this past year, plus more than a dozen conference presentations and over $300,000 in grant money since tenure. I’ve decided to (try to) take the zen approach my friend and colleague Thia recommended (from when she was in the same position): ask for the review, and if you get it, be happy. If you don’t, you’re no worse off than you were before, and you simply ask to be reviewed again the next year. Repeat until promoted! Anyway, all the materials for my portfolio are due on Monday, and then it’s just a waiting game of review by department, chair, college, dean, and provost, with results coming in mid-May. I’ll just be happy once it’s off my plate.
• Observations. I had to be observed while teaching twice in a row, by colleagues. This is really kind of silly that I get worked up about it, as I’ve never received any bad reviews (not even lukewarm), but I had trouble sleeping the night before each of the observations. I think in part it’s because both of the people observing me are people I respect deeply and know are amazing teachers themselves, so I wanted to make sure all went well. I haven’t received the write-ups yet, so don’t know what they thought of the classes they saw. Oh, yeah. I’d never before been observed teaching this particular class format (it’s a hybrid face-to-face/online class, with 100 students), and it’s not always easy to manage a big group. I bet that was part of the anxiety.
• NCWP reunion retreat. Thursday and Friday of next week the NCWP’s Summer Institute participants will re-unite at a resort up in Lake Almanor. This is always a wonderful event, both relaxing and stimulating (does that make it oxymoronic?), but prepping for it is stressful. I generally do the shopping and food preparation duties, and while I enjoy it, it’s still something more to think about and keep track of that adds to the confusion.
• Grading. Keeping up with 2 (approx.) 1-page assignments per week from 100 students is tough. I’ve been trying to comment on almost each one, as well, and it’s pretty engaging to do, but takes a flippin’ long time.
• Whiskeytown 9 to 5. I just paid my registration fee for this endurance mountain bike event, which my riding buddy Gary and I are riding solo on our unicycles again this year. Last year, despite the 8 hour nature of the event, we discovered we had only four and a half hours of endurance in us before we both started getting some serious leg cramps. We completed two laps (about 20 miles, with 1600′ climbing per lap) last year, and are shooting for three laps this year. I’m worried about it, though, in that I feel like I’m in worse shape than I was last year (or at least have had less practice, I’m pretty certain), while Gary’s lost something like 40 pounds and ran a “casual” 16 miles on Sunday. I know he’s approaching the race with a “we’ll just go out and have fun” attitude, and won’t care about our times or anything, but I don’t want to be an anchor in our effort.

So that’s it. I’m really hopeful that by mid-October I’ll feel sorted out. But I won’t hold my breath for it. There’s always more work to come!

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. 

A Vision of Students Today

What do you think?

I spent a few hours on the article Rochelle and I are writing, and it’s almost a complete first draft. I’m guessing another couple hours will finish it. I think Rochelle and I are going to have to do a little Skype tomorrow (she’s in Chile, poor thing …) to get it all sorted. I want to send a draft of some type off to the editors before I head to Oregon on Wednesday. 

We’ll be picking the children up in Oregon, too; they’ve been staying at Lisa’s parents’ lake cabin,four-wheelering, jetskiing, pedal-boating, lake swimming, inner-tubing, and other gerunds that are far more interesting than what I’ve been doing. It will be good to see the boys again, but it has been very peaceful here lately, too. 

American higher education reflects the values of American society and those values are largely consumerist. Which is to say, anti-intellectual. On the other hand, most professors in the sciences, humanities, and social sciences value intellectual effort, if not always for its own sake, for reasons that go beyond the consumerist model of education. We think ideas and knowledge are important, not just because one can turn a profit with them, but because one can use ideas and knowledge to think about the world and understand it. But the whole purpose of consumer culture is to anesthetize one to ideas.

Although I generally disagree with much of that site’s posts (which typically excoriate students; I’d be identified as a Pollyanna), I often nod in agreement about the observations of higher education. The quote above seems very much on track, from my own experiences, and brought to mind a presentation at the NCWP‘s Summer Institute a few weeks back. Heather, one of the participants, was using corporate accountability publications (from places like Starbucks) as a way to facilitate her community college students’ critical thinking about consumer culture. I hate it when students suggest that an idea in class is being “over analyzed,” when we’re really only beginning to analyze something. But I suspect that their resistance is not so much powered by a (perceived) desire to shirk hard thinking, but rather comes from the discomfort associated with questioning the consumerist dogma we’re raised to embrace in the US.