For the first homework assignment every semester I ask students to read the syllabus in full and answer a few questions to give me a sense of their preparedness or enthusiasm for the course and how I can support them in my teaching. After asking what they are looking forward to and how they plan to handle things that look challenging, I ask, “What do you think I can most help you with?” It is, intentionally, a pretty open question. Students answer in varying degrees of specificity. Some students know what they want help with, but in composition courses I often get replies like:
“Everything. I’m not a good writer.” “I hate writing, so I guess making it interesting.” “Tell me when I make mistakes.” These discouraged answers don’t discourage me. I see my niche in these answers—a place where I my help is needed and I belong. Answers like these show me students who can’t quite point to what intimidates them about writing or what, specifically, they have a hard time with. They might know that they have gotten low grades on writing assignments, or that someone told them they are “bad” at it, or someone once filled their assignments with red-inked marginalia like “awk.” or ✓ and they don’t know what it’s all about. The students I work with come from diverse backgrounds, socioeconomically, racial, culturally, and educationally. For my students from underserved communities, writing anxiety often stems from feeling or being unprepared for something as intensive as “college writing.” For my students who are English Language Learners, there is the challenge of writing effectively in a language they are learning and, particularly for international and immigrant students, the cultural challenge of writing in an American context with its direct, up-front arguments that can seem too forward, even aggressive. For my students who are first generation college students, there is the added problem of trying to figure out college, know which questions to ask, or find out where to get support. For my students with learning disabilities, writing can be a frustrating, disheartening activity and the pressure to write well is on. For my students from low-income families there is the very real problem of not being able to afford course materials, which can quickly result in learning setbacks if their instructors don’t know or don’t help. For my non-white students, there is often also the problem of not seeing themselves reflected in the institution or their course materials (hello, literature by dead white dudes). Because of the legacy of institutionalized racism in this country, many of these experiences intersect. What sounds like dislike of writing, or even like a student’s reluctance to try, can be a sign of another, bigger issue. I respond to these issues through the three principles at the heart of my teaching: breaking each assignment and skill down step-by-step, making room for practice, and building in opportunities for feedback along the way. Breaking everything down step-by-step makes the challenging work less intimidating. Instead of focusing on the number of pages or sources, my students work through the writing process incrementally. Making purposeful, step-by-step plans also means choosing affordable materials and planning their use accordingly. It involves taking time to discuss cultural writing forms with international students. One of the best things I do in my courses is turn my classrooms into writing workshops where we can build, tinker, or modify writing projects. Writing is a skill we learn by doing, so we practice writing and work on assignments in class. This gives me opportunities to work with writers one-to-one, to be called over for advice, and to give real-time interventions and help (rather than only assessing a final product and finding that a student missed something important). My students with learning and language difficulties benefit from this on-the-spot response and additional explanation. I have been increasingly refining this approach over the past three years, no doubt influenced by my summer tutoring for incoming college students from underserved and low-income communities. Obviously practice benefits from feedback. Feedback (from me and from peers, along the way and when drafts are done) helps keep up writing momentum and supports consistent improvement. These methods help build confidence and capability. It’s important to look at examples when we learn something new. My students agree and frequently say this is a learning strategy that works for them. In a writing course that means reading. When I ask for critical writing, I provide critical reading that examines relatable cultural phenomena. Recently we looked at what Beyoncé’s music says about American culture and the complex historical, political, and cultural value of sneakers. We break these pieces down, look at how they work, and find examples of how writers analyze, evaluate, and argue. Then I ask students to develop their own cultural criticisms, insights, and evaluations, one step at a time. Valuing student voices, experiences, and observations improves their confidence. It shows students they have something to contribute, no matter where (literally or figuratively) they’re coming from. At the end of every semester I collect anonymous course feedback to supplement institutional student evaluations and to get a more detailed picture of the course’s success and my teaching from my students’ perspectives. I ask about whether the course was useful and invite them to “please evaluate my teaching style and skills.” To me, the VERY best compliment I can get isn’t that I’m a great teacher. It’s hearing I helped someone become more confident in their writing: “Struggling with English I can say that I am more confident with my writing.” “You make me try harder and believe in my ability.” “I pushed myself to become something I wasn’t before.”
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BlogThoughts on pedagogy, updates on projects, and analyses of texts, cultural phenomena, social issues, and intellectual curiosity. Archives
November 2017
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