Three simple steps...

So it's almost midterms again.

This time last year, I was lamenting over my low test scores, particularly in my Intro classes. Don't worry. I'm off that particular soapbox for now. Not that the scores have gotten better, mind you, but we're filing that one in the 'some things never change' category.

Low test scores are like the flu. They both suck and no one wants 'em. But given a few preventative measures, both can be easily avoided.

Every semester, on the first day of class, I give my students three simple tips to healthy grades. First and foremost--and this one seems like a no-brainer--don't skip class! I know, I know. It's a radical idea, but it is one that will exponentially increase your chances of success. Even those Visitors, who show up only for exams, seem to know this fact. Case in point, the conversation I overheard just today between two students, one of which is a Visitor. When asked about how he did on a recent exam, his response was that "I think would have done better if I had gone to class more." At least he learned something from not going to class.

Another easy step? Read, read, read. See my earlier rant about the necessity of buying required textbooks. But it's not enough, I've learned, to require students simply to buy the text. At the end of every semester, I always have a student brag to me how they got more money back than anyone when selling back their book because it had never been used. First off, don't tell me this. I don't want to know. Secondly...really? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Finally, don't brag about selling back a new book in the same breath that you complain about your grade. That gives me the right to point, laugh, and walk away.

Finally, if you really want to avoid those pesky low test scores, you may want to consider sleeping at home, not in the back of my classroom. Crazy as it sounds, it's not enough to simply be a butt in the chair. Your chances of taking in the information increase exponentially if you are conscious. I am not a subliminal learning tape, and you will not learn the material through osmosis. I once had a student argue that she should have passed the test because she was in every class. And I told her I knew she was there. I could hear her snoring all the way in the front of the room every day.

By following these few basic steps, that 63.5 would nothing more than an ideal temperature on a sunny autumn day. So I tell students this on day one. I'm sure they hear me. I just don't think they listen.

Once again: Here's the water. Here's the horse. Don't even think about leading it there.

The grass is always greener...

So this past May was the 10th anniversary of my return to academia. It started with grad school and quickly morphed into a teaching gig. And if you've read this blog, you know a little about my current experiences in this field. To the untrained eye, one could even make the assumption that I was unhappy, despite my many statements to the contrary.

Nothing could be further from the truth, for as much as I tend to complain about this job, it is nothing compared to the job I left.

I've always wanted to teach, and my plan was to follow in the footsteps of a mentor or two and teach middle schoolers the finer points of the English language. To that end, I pursued and ultimately received a teaching degree--ironically from the institution at which I am now a teacher. But somewhere between my decision to teach and walking across the stage in a long black robe, I began to question this career choice.

I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I've narrowed it down to sometime after my first clinical experience. This particular experience required us to observe a week of classes in our chosen age level and field at the school of our choice. This choice--for me, at least--was a no-brainer. I arranged to go back to my middle-school alma mater to sit in with my favorite former teacher, who was also the inspiration for my decision to teach. Her class was exactly as I remembered--right down to the smell of the books and her gentle way with the students. The off-hour in the teacher's lounge, however, was enough to give me pause.

Ask any kid under 14 and you're likely to find that very few have ever set foot in this inner sanctum for those who teach, and even fewer know what really goes on in there. As it turns out, there's a reason for this--one which I observed first hand on that initial day of clinicals. It's kind of like seeing a movie, or hearing a song--one that you've previously only experienced in its 'edited' for television or radio version--in its original, unaltered form. Once the doors to the teachers' lounge swing shut, the kindly science teacher is suddenly the drunken sailor, and the math teacher that greeted everyone with a smile is now railing about his students in a way that makes you wonder why they do it. And as a former student of most of these people, I had to wonder, good gods, what did they say about me? 

I would love to tell you that things improved after that. But after a disasterous and disheartening experience as a student teacher, followed by an unsuccessful job search, I found myself in a series of consulation-prize jobs before I found what I thought would be a permanent home in the corporate world. This job involved a peripherial use of my college degree, a daily train ride to the city and a laid-back atmosphere that appealed to my own casual nature. 

Throughout this foray into corporate America, I never lost the bug to teach. I knew I didn't want to teach middle school. I didn't want to be a babysitter, and middle school students aren't much more than hormones with feet. One of my friends--a college professor herself--suggested that I look into teaching at the university level, and when the crazy deadlines, clashes with management, and increasingly frequent travel to less-than-glamorous locations became too much, I began to explore my options.

Since my teaching certificate had long since expired, this same friend recommended that I think about returning to graduate school. So I applied. I even subjected myself to the torture of the Graduate Record Exam and the associated humiliation of not remembering that "pi" is more than a tasty treat after Thanksgiving dinner. But eventually, my acceptance letter came, and I tendered my resignation that day. Two weeks later, I was able to bid the corporate grind a not-so-fond farewell over many vokda-tonics with my soon-to-be-former coworkers.

If there ever was a poster child for being in the right place at the right time, I'm it. In my second year of grad school, I was given the opportunity to teach the same Introductory class I still teach today. This part time gig turned into a full time job, and one that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Teaching at the university is the best of both worlds. There's a wonderful freedom knowing that I can kick my students out, I can't deal with their parents by law, and if I accidently drop an F-bomb in class, I won't be facing the business end of a law suit. Sure, there are downsides. If you don't believe me, go back and read the rest of this blog. And I give anyone who does choose to teach those rowdy middle-schoolers all the credit in the world. But given what I hear from my friends in corporate America, what I see in their faces, and my own experiences, I'm not trading my current gig until they boot me out of my office, kicking and screaming at anyone who'll listen.

I often think back to that first clinical experience. Hell, I talk about it in my classes. It was a rude awakening, to be sure, but one from which I learned a valuable lesson. Teachers are human. We don't sleep in coffins. We get pissed off and frustrated. And while we may appear jaded and bitter--and deep down maybe we are--for many of us it's a defense mechanism. It just took me seeing life from the other side of the chalkboard to realize it. Bitching with colleagues--or venting on a blog--is the miracle cure that can save your sanity and keep your affection for the job intact.

So will I stop complaining? Probably not. Luckily we have our own version of teachers' lounges. Except we call them pubs.

Back in the saddle...

Its a new semester, full of hope and promise. The students have returned, fresh-faced and eager for knowledge, enthusiastic about participating in the phenomenon of higher education.

Oh wait. I'm sorry. I must have drifted off and been dreaming again...

While it is a new semester, and the students have indeed returned, I have yet to see the student I dream about. At least, I have yet to see more than one or two of them per class. What I'm more likely to encounter is a string of Visitors and a collection of Barbies and Kens, stumbling their way from class to class. Most of the knowledge gained is accidental, and happens despite their best efforts to the contrary.

Don't get me wrong. I am always hopeful for the students, and I do have some that stand out. But it's now six weeks into the Fall semester, and things are beginning to go downhill fast. If you've been following this humble string of rants and raves, you know what my thoughts are on the engagement level of the student population. But now what I'm seeing is a trend toward the frightening, as things are getting worse.

Take, for example, the student who came up to me after class the other day. As we are nearing the midterm, I had spent a significant amount of time in class talking about the importance of reading the textbook. After class, this student wanted to know if it was necessary to purchase the textbook. At first I thought she was kidding. When I realized she was serious, all I could do was shake my head.

Call me crazy, but when I was a student, I never questioned the word "required" when it came to things like reading, attendance, or--oh, I don't know--purchasing a textbook. Today, however, all bets are off.

I'm trying to think positive. I really am. And in my own defense, I actually made it to week six before I started to fall off the optimism wagon. But I do have hope, despite the stink of apathy in the air, because as I've stated time and again on this very blog, I really do love my job. It may be tough love at times, but I'm okay with that.


At least they're learning something...