P Is for Pedagogy

I’m grading final papers.  I take my time and write a lot of comments. I always write comments, maybe too many, but I am determined my presence will help someone become a better writer.

Because to write is to think. As historian David McCullough says, “Good writing is good thinking.”

Boy, is that a hard concept to teach. Yet, as one who made a living stringing words together, I know this. I think of it every time I write one of these posts.  Sometimes I reread a draft and think, “I didn’t know I thought that.” But writing – crafting – each of these essays requires thought and order and research and review.

Good writing is good thinking.  How do you teach that?

With the final speeches stacked on my table I know I’m at the end of my time with these 23 young souls. Have I made a difference? Would the stars have been stars whether or not I drove to Boone two times a week? What about the others? Have my admonishments and guidelines made a difference?

Will they remember my personally minted mnemonic?  SEEOAT. An effective speech needs Structure, Evidence, writing for the Ear, an Objective, to be targeted to the Audience, and have a Theme (which can be stated in one sentence). 

I’m fairly new to classroom instruction. I learn something every session, every student. I know now, three semesters in, that teaching is an act of faith. Faith that my commitment, time, preparation, and belief in the next generation are worth the effort.

I also know, as I tell my students when stressing the importance of attendance, that, as Woody Allen allegedly said, “80 percent of life is showing up."

So, after showing up in Appalachian State’s Walker Hall 28 times this semester, we’re at the end of our time together. I’m worried. Did I teach? Did they learn?

Will my fledgling speechwriters who are about to fly away ever understand the absolute importance of structure? Did I stress enough that not using an outline is not optional? If reading John McPhee on structure couldn’t convince them, what possibly could? Maybe a hammer.

I close the computer on my Excel grade book and go outside to attack the weeds in our neglected garden. I need a task where I can see tangible results of my efforts. Yet, the disarray in the garden plot reminds me of their speeches.  

Weeds. Things that don’t belong. All over the place.

           

I attack the weeds with the same fervor I attack my students’ writing. One big clump is using “that” and not “who” when referring to a person.  Pokeweed is random apostrophes where there is no possessive. The endless use of they, a plural, when referring to an individual or single entity is pigweed. Yet more garden invaders represent run-on sentences and endless paragraphs.

When will the speaker ever catch her breath? Oh, and then there are sections that, like Superman, leap tall thoughts in a single bound. Where are the transitions? On what wild ride are you taking the audience?

Good writing is good thinking. What are they thinking? Are they thinking?

So much to teach. So little time. Use concrete details. Show me, don’t tell me. Cite a source for a big statement. Use active voice.  Delete unnecessary words.  Make every word count.

Good writing is good thinking. If you can organize your thoughts, back it up with solid and convincing evidence, and make it come alive with story, you can change minds, hell, maybe even lives.

My first job was copy editor and proofreader. I loved being a “comma chaser.” But, in grading student work I choose my battles. I’ve given up on persuading them to use “more than” rather than “over,” but for who and not that, I am relentless. Even Frank Bruni, an opinion writer for The New York Times, pitched into battle with me. I use his April 8, 2017, column on “What Happened to Who?” as an extra credit assignment. Still, the “that” surplus persists.

The weed attack was the day before I was to travel to Boone for the last class meeting – hear one final speech, hand back papers, and introduce the class to Pauli, the class mascot.

Pauli is our six-month-old German Shorthaired Pointer. At the first class meeting I had supplemented my introduction with a projected photo of our new puppy. I told the class that if I ever didn’t return one of their assignments, well, it would be because my dog ate their homework. And she did. But it was only once.

Our dog helps make me more human. Over the course of the semester, my photo updates of my canine companion helped me connect with the dog-loving students. In my short teaching career, I’ve learned to be effective I must be real. It is not all about subject matter. Like most things, teaching is about relationships.

And, I work to form relationships. For the first half of the semester I fear I will never learn all their names. Okay, only seven guys, I can do that. Except, once I learn the name of the guy with the beard, the beard disappears. Then, the guy who always wears a ball cap comes hatless. And the women, why must the brunettes all sit together? The first year, the blondes all blended together. For months.

Somehow, by about Week 7 I know their names. Then, through their speeches I learn more, far more, about them as individuals: their backgrounds, hopes, interests, dreams, fears, and losses.

As I record the grades for the final speeches, I am impressed with the topics and themes. Several wrote about the college experience, but their remarks offered refreshing insights and personal perspectives that would be helpful for incoming freshmen. One student’s final speech made us laugh out loud. Still more had the class riveted. One delivered remarks on mental health and depression and cited compelling evidence – the four-times higher rate of suicide attempts for LGBTQ youth.

We were spellbound as students gave speeches with stories of child abuse, of the experience of being a brown child in a white media culture, of parents devoted to  helping a sick child, and more. I witnessed much mature self-awareness from such young people.

Okay, there’s work to do on sentence length, paragraph breaks, and who and that, but, wow, they sure get it about the power of story. Facts are important. Story brings it home. And, good thinking makes good writing.

Pauli and I walk to meet the students. We hear the final talk – the speaker rises to the occasion. Pauli is a hit, as is to be expected from such a sweet gal.  I receive flowers and two cards, which I’ll read later, and students linger to talk. I haven’t been teaching for long, but, to me, lingering on the last day is a clear sign that the prep-time, the grading, the driving, and all my efforts are worth it.

Maybe I do make a difference.

P.S.  One student wrote about me for HerCampus. That was sweet. I had told her about how my retirement planning had targeted the letter P – prose, pedaling, paddling, puppies, politics, and pedagogy.

These are sea oats. SEEOAT is a mnemonic.