Teaching Level: 4
Experience: 3.5 Semesters
Spells: 3
Charisma: 16
Wisdom: 10
Intelligence: 12
I tell my students every term they’re a guinea pig class. My first class I told straight – I’m a new teacher, this is my first semester, take it easy on me – and thank everything holy they were good people. Some new students, some fresh freshmen, but enough experienced, worldly students in an evening class that we could all be “straight” with one another. They were open enough to tell me when they didn’t understand because I was open enough to tell them how fresh I was, myself.
Things could’ve gone better. I could’ve remembered to introduce myself, that first day. I could’ve worked harder to teach them, figure out the material, help them understand that attendance was the best way to a passing grade. I could’ve graded a little harder, scaffolded my assignments better – explained them better, taught them better. I could’ve spent more time on argument, on research, on analysis.
My summer term, I tried to do better. I had twenty-five this time around, to the seventeen before. Grading was tougher, assignments were inflexible, time was shorter. Success Academy had already convinced these students this was their last chance, and some of them – too many of them – believed it. I did what I could, but with little warning to prepare myself the first time around, and even less this time, it was overwhelming.
I flailed just as hard as my students did, tried to explain and push in the same sentence. I knew they could do better, knew they were more than their advisors, their test scores said they could be. I knew they could analyze – they did it in class. We had exercises, discussions, group work centered around analysis, critical thinking, extrapolation. Yet that one crucial step, from voice to paper, seemed beyond them. For some of them, it clicked by the end, and I was glad. Glad that, even though I’d had no clue what I’d done, how I’d said what I did, to help them cross that chasm from “high school writing” to “college level,” some of them had made it. Some gave up. Some didn’t have the drive, or I couldn’t ignite it in them. Some thought plagiarism was easier, or right, or a non-issue.
In the fall, I had a smaller class again. I’d had some time to build the course, work with my colleagues, understand the basics of the assignments. I tried something different, switched up the syllabus. Time, up to this point, was against us, and perhaps, with a bit of fiddling, we could make it work. I set up a twice-weekly Journal assignment, had them build WordPress pages, gave them a creative outlet (though later they intimated once-weekly balanced their loads). It gave them time to puzzle and write thoroughly, thoughtfully, rather than feel rushed during the daily writing activities. I asked them to write a technology literacy narrative in their journals – low stakes, a shorter practice with evidence and narrative, but still a chance to show me their writing – and they reveled in it.
Just Mercy gave us an organically grown assignment to focus audience and evidence, to begin understanding argument. It was another low-stakes piece, a mere 5%, relevant to the political and social climate. Class discussion on topics, audience, and persuasion walked us all to the same conclusion: a focused letter to a single, researchable person could make a difference in their viewpoint, be they “ultra-conservative Uncle Jeff” or the Attorney General of Georgia. This letter gave them a chance to discuss their particular complaint with the justice system, but also to learn the rudiments of persuasion.
We moved to micro-ethnography, and, yet again, I hit the speedbump hard. I understood the creation and use of primary evidence, knew how useful the assignment could be in helping them with necessary observational skills, using evidence, practicing citations, yet I couldn’t articulate that. Partially, my handouts were to blame. I’d not yet developed my own, not yet learned to update the department’s to my own understanding of the project, so instead borrowed and adapted a colleague’s, an interpretation of an interpretation. Together, we all muddled through it, talked through it enough to get that space was the answer.
Throughout it all, though, we focused on argument. Every chance we got, we examined how a particular source created their argument, picked them apart – internet articles, movie reviews, books, episodes from Adam Ruins Everything and TEDTalks. We took our time, picked movies or games that interested us, practiced writing arguments, making group arguments, observing speeches. We learned, together, how to learn about persuasion. In their journals, they outlined their ideas – not only whether the film in question was good, but how it was good, what inherent argument it was trying to make.
Their first drafts were words on a page, outlines, worth just enough to convince them to turn them in and review their peers’. Their second drafts were something to show their parents. I took time with them, gave them thorough feedback, nurtured their desire to know more about why. They didn’t struggle with the third drafts, didn’t complain, didn’t drag their feet. I’d told them the month before that the first drafts were “child’s words,” words on a page, drabbles, just something to be done with. Second drafts were workable, malleable. But third drafts – third drafts were something to be proud of. Some chose to revise their Just Mercy letters instead of analyze a film. I wouldn’t be surprised if some even sent them off afterward. I do hope they got satisfactory responses.
I’m still playing with this model. It’s not right quite yet, the focus on argument, on persuasion, on building critical thinking. Fall semester was a special class, and I’m proud to have taught them. I didn’t spend quite enough time on valid research, on academic sources. There never seems to be enough time. For me, 1101 is a place to, step by step, leave your high school mentality and writing style behind. It’s a place to learn the expanses of college-level thinking, not just writing. If I give them enough to go on, enough to understand how to ask how and why deliberately, that would be enough.
I still struggle with time, most of all. How much time in a class for group discussion, activities, writing, lecture, fun? How much time in a semester to cover everything we need to say? How much time to spend on each facet of writing, and how much to pass over in hopes they’ll get it somewhere else? And how much time will it take me to learn to balance it all?
The Crafty Medievalist 