One of the things that struck me about Durst’s article was how disappointed the modern-day English 101 student seems to have left him. In the case study towards the end of the article, Durst notes that Rachel was “practically the only one to do the kinds of critical thinking and employ the extended writing process outlined by her teacher” (90) while “The more independent thinkers, like Elizabeth...were far more likely to reject the teachers’ advice about taking a critical, interpretive approach to their coursework” (also 90).
Is Durst asking too much of the English 101 students?
Time and again, throughout the article, we were introduced to students who rebelled against the notion of investing two hours of work outside of class for every hour inside of class. Vince and Elizabeth – both identified as fine students with a strong background of secondary education – did the minimal amount of work to produce a grade they were happy with. Other students – Chloe, Felicity and Cindy – were more content with doing even less than that, to the point of disrupting the actual class. These students could not be bothered with putting in the three hours of actual CLASS time, much less the six hours that Nan suggested they spend outside of class each week. The students that were profiled were diverse in background and previous writing experience, yet they all have one thing in common:
None of them were English majors.
The one unifying thread for any of these students was motivation, or the lack thereof. Elizabeth and Vince were technical majors who recognized early on that a B was sufficient for them to proceed unencumbered through the university to reach their goals – for Elizabeth, that was to become an architect; for Vince, electrical engineering was his field. For them, they were not UN-motivated to spend the six hours a week outside of class revising, or trying new strategies of writing; rather, they were motivated to spend that time on what they deemed more important subjects: their majors. Rachel, a nursing student, was motivated by the negative experience of her sister and a fear of failure; therefore, she performed as close to the level of expectation as laid down by the teacher as she could. The syllabus encouraged prewriting and rough drafting; therefore, she did as she was told.
Even Joshua, the mountain bike enthusiast, was not motivated by the goal of becoming a stronger writer, but of his love for mountain biking. “By focusing upon a topic which he was both interested and knowledgeable about, Joshua was able to achieve a mastery of the course ground rules which to a large extent set him apart from his classmates, giving him a distinction as a strong writer which he clearly enjoyed.” (87) In other words, he was initially motivated to write with passion about a topic he loved, and his success generated positive feedback from the class, reinforcing the pedagogy. Even Joshua, however, did not put in the recommended time outside of class. He also did not stray very far from his area of expertise.
What encourages me is that Rachel seems to have been able to take the lessons from her English class and extrapolate them into her life as a whole. “I’ve learned (through this course) that planning helps keep me from going off on tangents and revision helps me explain my ideas better.” (90) The lessons of preparation, study and effort espoused by the English 101 approach to writing may have influenced her and sharpened her work ethic, affecting her performance across the board. If this is the case, then the English class was a wild success for Rachel.
I also find it interesting that none of the students profiled received an A – or if they did, it was not mentioned. Was the carrot not large enough? Or was the stick too heavy? Are there bits of information that are not reported in this article? I personally would like to see what the teachers deemed “A” work, and the background of the students who received them – if any.
There are some things that resonate in this article. The concept of cultural capital, I believe, is valid. However, the Sheeran and Barnes model explained on page 70 only works if the college class is taught to the same level as the “privileged” students – that is, white, upper middle class experience. Should the class be taught from a different perspective – say, from the African-American or Latino perspective, which may emphasize different ground rules – then would the “privileges” of the upper middle class student turn into detriments?
Now the Zieboski article – that’s another post.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
8/27
The academic world Lindsey talks about is so stressed to freshman, yet it is so hard to define. Who is to say that college will be harder than high school for some? I think Durst really addresses this point in his essay. He speaks about the different levels that freshman are entering college at both in writing skills and just socially and emotionally. It becomes a struggle when planning a course to make the course both challenging and passable to each student, even though they may be on various writing and reading levels. Durst speaks to different teachers, such as Sherry and Nan, and listens to them as they deal with the struggle to “invite” students to do coursework and to “bully” them into coursework (Durst 74). How far are we as teachers supposed to go in order to make sure students succeed? Do we need to baby-sit them or should they be treated as adults and know the consequences of their decisions if they choose to take a course seriously or not?
The idea of a theme for a course that Zebioski poses is a very good idea. It would seem to give students a path to follow in the course and give them a purpose for the course other than just numerous writing assignments. This theme, however, although good for teaching a course may not be the best approach to how students handle their assignments. In Durst’s article Josh, one of Sherry’s students, writes all of his assignments on one topic that he enjoys. There seems to be a struggle between letting students choose what they want to write and also challenging them to go beyond their comfort zones. Although it is a nice way to ease students into doing research and writing longer papers by allowing them to write and research about what interests them, it may also not allow them to show their full writing potential. Durst’s article really showed the struggle teachers had with not only different levels of learning, but the fact that many freshman want to do as minimal work as possible and still earn an above average grade. He showed that there are different approaches to take with college writing courses, such as submitting rough drafts and having peer review sessions, but even those are not always the right or best answers when dealing with students who would rather attend a party than write a paper.
What can we as teachers do to make students want to write and learn in our classrooms? How can we show them that we are trying to teach them valuable skills they will use for the rest of their college careers and hopefully beyond?
The idea of a theme for a course that Zebioski poses is a very good idea. It would seem to give students a path to follow in the course and give them a purpose for the course other than just numerous writing assignments. This theme, however, although good for teaching a course may not be the best approach to how students handle their assignments. In Durst’s article Josh, one of Sherry’s students, writes all of his assignments on one topic that he enjoys. There seems to be a struggle between letting students choose what they want to write and also challenging them to go beyond their comfort zones. Although it is a nice way to ease students into doing research and writing longer papers by allowing them to write and research about what interests them, it may also not allow them to show their full writing potential. Durst’s article really showed the struggle teachers had with not only different levels of learning, but the fact that many freshman want to do as minimal work as possible and still earn an above average grade. He showed that there are different approaches to take with college writing courses, such as submitting rough drafts and having peer review sessions, but even those are not always the right or best answers when dealing with students who would rather attend a party than write a paper.
What can we as teachers do to make students want to write and learn in our classrooms? How can we show them that we are trying to teach them valuable skills they will use for the rest of their college careers and hopefully beyond?
August 27, 2008
Right on, Katie: the first post is always somewhat disconcerting, just like the first class of the semester gives me butterflies in my stomach. I suppose it’s much worse for incoming freshman (I know it was for me), and I hope that as a teacher, I can help students to be comfortable with and perhaps enjoy learning about (and doing) writing.
Zebroski makes an interesting point: “Composing can be seen as the intersection of context, text, self, and society. But then too composing is simultaneously the active (if partial) (re)constructing of these discursive universes of context, text, self, and society” (5). The idea of intersectionality is interesting to me because it really hones in on writing as a social practice. This allows us to see writing as the intersection of the things noted by Zebroski, and the diverse ways in which we go about making meaning. My (often messy) theory of writing goes beyond script and typing, and I think this concept of intersectionality helps to clear a few things up for me. When I attempt to answer the question “What is writing?” I find myself scrambling to fit together a seemingly endless array of answers with as much coherence as possible. So far, I’ve been able to “define” writing as a social practice that includes many different modes of representation and meaning-making, but I think I’ll have to include the idea of intersectionality now, because it points to the fluidity and connections within a theory of writing.
Durst’s argument that the first year writing course should go beyond teaching the basics of composition, but also should “provide a kind of intellectual orientation to university academics and a set of strategies, or dispositions of mind that will help prepare students for not just the writing but also the kinds of intensive, rigorous thinking, reading, speaking, and problem solving that make up a university education” (73). Since the first-year writing course, generally, is required for every student, it provides an opportunity to introduce first-year students to the kind of rhetorical “intersectionality” Zebroski discusses. The course also serves as an introduction to academic thought and activity, as mentioned by Durst, and provides the students with theory of writing that goes beyond the five-paragraph essay.
I agree with Durst’s argument that first-year writing must introduce students to an academic mindset, but I also think that the course should allow students to see the importance of these skills outside the academic world. What we, as writing teachers, are doing is teaching students how to communicate through different ways of, again, making meaning of their world.
Zebroski makes an interesting point: “Composing can be seen as the intersection of context, text, self, and society. But then too composing is simultaneously the active (if partial) (re)constructing of these discursive universes of context, text, self, and society” (5). The idea of intersectionality is interesting to me because it really hones in on writing as a social practice. This allows us to see writing as the intersection of the things noted by Zebroski, and the diverse ways in which we go about making meaning. My (often messy) theory of writing goes beyond script and typing, and I think this concept of intersectionality helps to clear a few things up for me. When I attempt to answer the question “What is writing?” I find myself scrambling to fit together a seemingly endless array of answers with as much coherence as possible. So far, I’ve been able to “define” writing as a social practice that includes many different modes of representation and meaning-making, but I think I’ll have to include the idea of intersectionality now, because it points to the fluidity and connections within a theory of writing.
Durst’s argument that the first year writing course should go beyond teaching the basics of composition, but also should “provide a kind of intellectual orientation to university academics and a set of strategies, or dispositions of mind that will help prepare students for not just the writing but also the kinds of intensive, rigorous thinking, reading, speaking, and problem solving that make up a university education” (73). Since the first-year writing course, generally, is required for every student, it provides an opportunity to introduce first-year students to the kind of rhetorical “intersectionality” Zebroski discusses. The course also serves as an introduction to academic thought and activity, as mentioned by Durst, and provides the students with theory of writing that goes beyond the five-paragraph essay.
I agree with Durst’s argument that first-year writing must introduce students to an academic mindset, but I also think that the course should allow students to see the importance of these skills outside the academic world. What we, as writing teachers, are doing is teaching students how to communicate through different ways of, again, making meaning of their world.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
25:1
There is some pressure in composing this blog post, especially since Durst's "ground rules" demand that our "contributions be accurate, of an appropriate length, germane to the subject under discussion, and in a form we can understand" (66-67). I'm sweating.
I was thinking of a way to tie together the two articles we're discussing tomorrow. They are obviously quite different in their form and scope, but I found one basic place they intersect, and I think it might make for interesting discussion.
Zebrowski suggests that unbeknownst to them, students arrive at class with their own theory of writing; it is then the teacher's responsibility to provide secondary content (readings, instruction) to bolster the student's primary content (6). A student's theory of writing is closely tied to his or her community, according to Vygotskian theory.
Durst asserts that students bring their own culture, background, education, and economic class to the classroom, and these differences impact everything from how a student interacts with authority to how they embrace the reading assignments.
So both authors make the basic--yet rather daunting--observation that a student's life impacts his or her performance in the classroom, and Durst's chapter demonstrates this in vivid detail.
But going back to Zebrowski, what singular "secondary content" do we as teachers provide to the multitude of learning styles, approaches, and backgrounds? In a perfect learning world, wouldn't we say, "Gosh, what that student needs is a good dose of Hawthorne?" or for the less attentive student, a battery of short stories? For the model student, a 30 page paper to challenge her, and a shorter piece for the exchange student still grappling with English?
Durst and good common sense suggest that this customized approach to teaching is neither fair nor sensible. We have ONE syllabus. One reading list. One classroom.
Twenty-five primary contents. One secondary content.
Is there any room for customization in the curriculum? And how much does our own primary content (our prowess, likes, style) as an instructor influence the secondary content we chose for our students? Is that fair to their identities?
I was thinking of a way to tie together the two articles we're discussing tomorrow. They are obviously quite different in their form and scope, but I found one basic place they intersect, and I think it might make for interesting discussion.
Zebrowski suggests that unbeknownst to them, students arrive at class with their own theory of writing; it is then the teacher's responsibility to provide secondary content (readings, instruction) to bolster the student's primary content (6). A student's theory of writing is closely tied to his or her community, according to Vygotskian theory.
Durst asserts that students bring their own culture, background, education, and economic class to the classroom, and these differences impact everything from how a student interacts with authority to how they embrace the reading assignments.
So both authors make the basic--yet rather daunting--observation that a student's life impacts his or her performance in the classroom, and Durst's chapter demonstrates this in vivid detail.
But going back to Zebrowski, what singular "secondary content" do we as teachers provide to the multitude of learning styles, approaches, and backgrounds? In a perfect learning world, wouldn't we say, "Gosh, what that student needs is a good dose of Hawthorne?" or for the less attentive student, a battery of short stories? For the model student, a 30 page paper to challenge her, and a shorter piece for the exchange student still grappling with English?
Durst and good common sense suggest that this customized approach to teaching is neither fair nor sensible. We have ONE syllabus. One reading list. One classroom.
Twenty-five primary contents. One secondary content.
Is there any room for customization in the curriculum? And how much does our own primary content (our prowess, likes, style) as an instructor influence the secondary content we chose for our students? Is that fair to their identities?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
welcome!
this is the virtual writing space for english 61094, teaching college writing. here, we'll share our writing & thinking as readers of the scholarly material for the course, as thinkers engaging in theories of teaching & learning, as future writing teachers planning out how we'll design our courses & relate to our students, as students reflecting on our own experiences as learners & writers, and as writers engaged in 21st century writing practices. this may be the first time you've written online. all the better. writing teachers should have experience in how people are writing now and in the spaces writers frequent. this blog is open - so when you write, you're writing for yourself, for your class colleagues, and for people "out there" who might be reading over your shoulder virtually.
we'll use this space to reflect on the course - what we're reading, what we're talking about, what we're doing in class meetings and class assignments. participation is required - although i'm hoping that as you immerse yourself in each other's thoughts & words, you'll find this an exciting & stimulating aspect of the course. consistently, across course levels, i have found that reading student responses (in a variety of forms - in notebooks, on computer printouts, in listservs, on electronic bulletin boards, in blogs) have been my favorite part of teaching. i learn so much from the collective intellligence of the courses i've been fortunate to be part of. your participation here should be a balance of two equal types: responses to the course material and responses to one another. responses to the course material should summarize the argument and analyze that argument from your own perspective. it's perfectly appropriate in these to actually quote the scholar. responses to your class colleagues might pick up their summary of the argument or their analysis. you can argue or develop further either line of argument.
but whatever you write, do it thoughtfully, with care, and grounded in the course.
you should post about 1000 words a week (this entry is 429 words in length). this can be a combination of your responses to the course material and responses to one another. balance these so that in the end of the course, you’ve done both.
i’d like to keep this blog as a central location for the class musings, so we don’t all have to trek out to different locations. you’re also welcome to start your own blog by going to blogspot.com, though, and your individual blog can be linked to this class blog. the directions are pretty straightforward.
let’s write!
pam
we'll use this space to reflect on the course - what we're reading, what we're talking about, what we're doing in class meetings and class assignments. participation is required - although i'm hoping that as you immerse yourself in each other's thoughts & words, you'll find this an exciting & stimulating aspect of the course. consistently, across course levels, i have found that reading student responses (in a variety of forms - in notebooks, on computer printouts, in listservs, on electronic bulletin boards, in blogs) have been my favorite part of teaching. i learn so much from the collective intellligence of the courses i've been fortunate to be part of. your participation here should be a balance of two equal types: responses to the course material and responses to one another. responses to the course material should summarize the argument and analyze that argument from your own perspective. it's perfectly appropriate in these to actually quote the scholar. responses to your class colleagues might pick up their summary of the argument or their analysis. you can argue or develop further either line of argument.
but whatever you write, do it thoughtfully, with care, and grounded in the course.
you should post about 1000 words a week (this entry is 429 words in length). this can be a combination of your responses to the course material and responses to one another. balance these so that in the end of the course, you’ve done both.
i’d like to keep this blog as a central location for the class musings, so we don’t all have to trek out to different locations. you’re also welcome to start your own blog by going to blogspot.com, though, and your individual blog can be linked to this class blog. the directions are pretty straightforward.
let’s write!
pam
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)