Below is a catalog of changes to my practice that I've made in the last few months as a result of either the inquiry process or as part of my habit of wanting to tweak things.
Advanced Composition:
1. Reading papers for grammar before the final draft is due. My students give me an almost-final draft and I read it only for grammar, not for meaning/content. I make quick marks in the margin—circle the error and put an "X" in the margin for every grammatical error. Sometimes I underline unclear sentences. It takes me about 45 minutes to quickly read through all the papers. I put papers back in student boxes the same day, and they get me their revised drafts the next day. Impact: for me, the impact is huge. I spend almost no time correcting (and getting frustrated by correcting) grammatical errors, and can focus exclusively on the flow of ideas in the paper. Still need to check in with my students about how it's working for them.
English 1A
1. For six weeks this term, I tried to grade on my laptop instead of on paper—I thought that I'd be able to give more specific feedback and save some trees. I hated it. I couldn't improve my efficiency at grading, and my grading suddenly became less portable and more subject to distractions.
2. I haven't actually made this change, but I will the next time I teach this course: more models earlier on of what we expect in student writing. I'd really love to break down our rubric with a model paper and show them how that paper demonstrates the skills on the rubric.
3. Introduced metawriting at mid-term. So far, it seems to be a big hit. I'll update and expand after I read course evaluations.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Big Picture
Recently, I met with a consultant the school is bringing in to help us with our inquiry work. She pushed a few of my ideas further, and helped me clarify some of the ways I'm going to go about working on this project. But she also suggested that I ask some bigger-picture questions about the curriculum we teach and why we teach what we teach. One of the questions we came up with was: how does the stuff we teach actually lead to critical thinking?
The question came up as I described to her my struggles with teaching literary analysis in a way that lets students' hearts be in their work. It's not easy. So she asked me why we have to teach it at all. I came up with the usual reasons: writing such essays is required in college, and becoming skilled at literary analysis will benefit our students by making them better critical thinkers—if they can dissect a text, then they can dissect anything else. But as I teach freshmen the rudiments of such analysis this fall, I am reminded of just how difficult a genre it is, and just how arbitrary some of the rules may seem. Is asking students to fit into this mold also somehow depriving them of developing their own critical voices? Or are there ways to get them into this mode that allow for more freedom?
In Advanced Comp, I've been experimenting with allowing students to choose their texts for the analytical writing portion of the class. In part, my decision to do so is grounded in the idea that choice is incredibly important to writers. In the real world, scholars choose both their field of study and their concentrations, even though they do have to sometimes take courses (and write papers) that are out of their particular concentration. So why wouldn't high school students benefit from an element of choice in what they study? This year's experiment has gone well: I have four groups reading four books, and they're working with each other to understand the texts and write about them. That doesn't mean that they love expository writing—they're all excited to move on to writing personal narrative next week. But giving them choice does mean that they've made an investment that they have in the texts that they might not otherwise have. As one student put it to me when I asked them how choosing books was different, "Even if I hate the book, I'd still be like, this is cool because I chose it."
But those are seniors; they've spent the last four years working their analytical muscles, and while they don't all feel that they're strong writers, they do know what the expectations are for their writing. What can I do with freshmen to engage them more in the process of writing out their thoughts?
Several things come to mind, many of which I use regularly in my classes: informal writing serves often as a bridge between thinking and talking in class and writing formal papers; open time for journaling gives my students time to use writing for something other than analysis; sometimes I say during a particularly good discussion that the way we're breaking down the text is exactly what students are supposed to do in their essays. But few of these tactics lead to my students' feeling anything more than frustrated with the process of learning to write this way—there isn't always the joy of discovery as students first begin learning to write analytically. Older students do get this joy: once they're not struggling all the time with form, the ideas/content can become engaging in and of itself. At that point, they're thinking critically, and happy to do so.
Back to teaching freshmen critical thinking: I need to collect information about my primary question. (How do I make writing something that all students feel they are both able to do and able to improve upon?) I need to find a way to pursue this question that allows me to see tangible results. And I needed to start collecting that data three weeks ago (funny how work gets in the way of work sometimes...). Here's what I'm going to do in the next week: make a quick check-in survey for my frosh, see what they say, and try to tweak some practices in the final stretch of the class. I'll work with a couple of students in particular to see if I can help them stretch those analytical muscles a bit more. And I'll report back, sooner than a month from now.
The question came up as I described to her my struggles with teaching literary analysis in a way that lets students' hearts be in their work. It's not easy. So she asked me why we have to teach it at all. I came up with the usual reasons: writing such essays is required in college, and becoming skilled at literary analysis will benefit our students by making them better critical thinkers—if they can dissect a text, then they can dissect anything else. But as I teach freshmen the rudiments of such analysis this fall, I am reminded of just how difficult a genre it is, and just how arbitrary some of the rules may seem. Is asking students to fit into this mold also somehow depriving them of developing their own critical voices? Or are there ways to get them into this mode that allow for more freedom?
In Advanced Comp, I've been experimenting with allowing students to choose their texts for the analytical writing portion of the class. In part, my decision to do so is grounded in the idea that choice is incredibly important to writers. In the real world, scholars choose both their field of study and their concentrations, even though they do have to sometimes take courses (and write papers) that are out of their particular concentration. So why wouldn't high school students benefit from an element of choice in what they study? This year's experiment has gone well: I have four groups reading four books, and they're working with each other to understand the texts and write about them. That doesn't mean that they love expository writing—they're all excited to move on to writing personal narrative next week. But giving them choice does mean that they've made an investment that they have in the texts that they might not otherwise have. As one student put it to me when I asked them how choosing books was different, "Even if I hate the book, I'd still be like, this is cool because I chose it."
But those are seniors; they've spent the last four years working their analytical muscles, and while they don't all feel that they're strong writers, they do know what the expectations are for their writing. What can I do with freshmen to engage them more in the process of writing out their thoughts?
Several things come to mind, many of which I use regularly in my classes: informal writing serves often as a bridge between thinking and talking in class and writing formal papers; open time for journaling gives my students time to use writing for something other than analysis; sometimes I say during a particularly good discussion that the way we're breaking down the text is exactly what students are supposed to do in their essays. But few of these tactics lead to my students' feeling anything more than frustrated with the process of learning to write this way—there isn't always the joy of discovery as students first begin learning to write analytically. Older students do get this joy: once they're not struggling all the time with form, the ideas/content can become engaging in and of itself. At that point, they're thinking critically, and happy to do so.
Back to teaching freshmen critical thinking: I need to collect information about my primary question. (How do I make writing something that all students feel they are both able to do and able to improve upon?) I need to find a way to pursue this question that allows me to see tangible results. And I needed to start collecting that data three weeks ago (funny how work gets in the way of work sometimes...). Here's what I'm going to do in the next week: make a quick check-in survey for my frosh, see what they say, and try to tweak some practices in the final stretch of the class. I'll work with a couple of students in particular to see if I can help them stretch those analytical muscles a bit more. And I'll report back, sooner than a month from now.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Blogging Inquiry: Further Refinements to the Question
The last time that I wrote about the inquiry process, I decided that I'd come to a good point in my question-asking. I thought that I wanted to focus on balancing play with analytical writing:
I have a few weak writers this term. It's hardly surprising: I certainly don't expect perfection (not at any stage, really), but least of all do I expect perfection from freshmen. Even so, some students struggle considerably with putting their ideas together in a way that is coherent and thoughtful. So, the question really is: how do I reach those students? How do I coach them into improving their weaknesses as writers, without making them think I'm judging them as people? How do I make writing something that all students feel they are both able to do and able to improve at? I have some thoughts, but I guess that's what this term is about—finding out ways to shift my practice that will help these students.
Of course, making changes is all well and good, but I also need to spend some time proving that those changes have worked. How will I know that a shift in my practice has made a tangible difference to this group of learners? Can I just ask a student to report back to me about what works for him, or is this supposed to be more subtle? Am I supposed to sneakily notice what's different, even as I make deliberate changes and efforts with one particular student? The standard ways of assessing student achievement in English classes include essays and participation in class discussion. There are some informal assessments, too. But how will I know that one student has made more progress in his/her writing than another student who initially struggled equally in the class? What happens if I decide to broaden some of my changes to the whole class? How will I know then? Sometimes the best teaching I do feels accidental, some sort of alchemical procedure that just happens to work. Sometimes I know why it worked. I do spend a lot of time planning. But sometimes I'm not sure. Maybe that's a challenge to me as a teacher: I need to begin to be better at identifying not just what works, but why it works.
How do I balance teaching (analytical) writing skills with the habit of playing with the text?Now that we're a few weeks further into the school year, I find myself looking at that question and wondering what on earth I meant. I mean, I know what I meant: I want to make analytical writing accessible, and I want to help my students learn to cultivate a playful attitude toward analysis. I don't want reading and talking about the text to become a chore, something miserable, something that sucks the life out of books. But, given the students I have, is avoiding joylessness really the right focus? Or does the question need a bit more refinement?
I have a few weak writers this term. It's hardly surprising: I certainly don't expect perfection (not at any stage, really), but least of all do I expect perfection from freshmen. Even so, some students struggle considerably with putting their ideas together in a way that is coherent and thoughtful. So, the question really is: how do I reach those students? How do I coach them into improving their weaknesses as writers, without making them think I'm judging them as people? How do I make writing something that all students feel they are both able to do and able to improve at? I have some thoughts, but I guess that's what this term is about—finding out ways to shift my practice that will help these students.
Of course, making changes is all well and good, but I also need to spend some time proving that those changes have worked. How will I know that a shift in my practice has made a tangible difference to this group of learners? Can I just ask a student to report back to me about what works for him, or is this supposed to be more subtle? Am I supposed to sneakily notice what's different, even as I make deliberate changes and efforts with one particular student? The standard ways of assessing student achievement in English classes include essays and participation in class discussion. There are some informal assessments, too. But how will I know that one student has made more progress in his/her writing than another student who initially struggled equally in the class? What happens if I decide to broaden some of my changes to the whole class? How will I know then? Sometimes the best teaching I do feels accidental, some sort of alchemical procedure that just happens to work. Sometimes I know why it worked. I do spend a lot of time planning. But sometimes I'm not sure. Maybe that's a challenge to me as a teacher: I need to begin to be better at identifying not just what works, but why it works.
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