Salmon or Sardine?

Being an adjunct (part-time) college instructor is a lot like being an intern. Our pay may be slightly better, but the power dynamic is the same. The “customers” (in our case, students) think we’re on par with the higher-ups because they don’t know any better, but the other staff and faculty knows the truth: we are simply houseflies. Despite our passion and our abilities, we can only make so much noise. A small amount might get us noticed, but too much and someone comes out with a rolled-up newspaper, ready to swat us down. This makes feeling invested in a college campus and feeling like you are a contributing member of the faculty a very complex thing. And God forbid we have any constructive criticism to give! That is very dangerous water, indeed.

Now, I am very passionate about my job and, at the risk of sounding conceited, I think I’m pretty good at it. This can also be a dangerous position. On the one hand, you want to show ‘em what you’ve got; however, this makes people (full time and adjunct alike) a little nervous. I am also an instructor who believes in the humanity of the classroom – and my students – and one who talks to students as people. This can also be dangerous ground because I often find myself a reluctantly willing confidante to students bemoaning their other instructor’s teaching styles. I can sympathize as a student and as an instructor because I understand the complications of instruction and the hardship of having a teacher who simply isn’t a good fit for my learning style. But what do I do with this information?

Often, I find myself with names of instructors who, in my opinion, should be consulted by the higher-ups and coached into more modern styles of teaching. Long gone are the days when Composition instructors are taught to lecture, slap letter grades on work, and bury their noses in books during test time. Yet there are some who still adhere to these practices. Don’t get me wrong. I do not mean that any instructor intentionally uses a teaching method that s/he knows will not benefit the majority of the classroom. For the most part, I believe it’s a matter of time. Those who graduated 10-15 years ago were taught very differently and, therefore, carry those practices into their classrooms. Those of us who graduated more recently and by more progressive teachers (thank God for the CSUF English department) have simply had a different teaching “upbringing” that really honors student knowledge in addition to instructor knowledge. But this does not solve my dilemma. What do I do when I hear of instructors who are not teaching in a way that enables learning?

This is when I have to ask myself... am I Sardine or Salmon? Do I go with the flow like my little silver friends or do I follow the salmon and dive head-on into rushing waters? Do I risk the hatred of a colleague who may discover my “tip-off” to the dean who will, no doubt, miss my intentions to help everyone benefit from a little change? Or perhaps I tell students to do the “tipping” themselves to avoid any finger-pointing in my direction. But either way, I’m a rat, right? Either way, I’m screwing over fellow adjuncts (or, gasp, full-timers) who are struggling to pay the bills and get classes. But how do I justify to myself and to those damn-confessional students that their paying for a class in which they’ll learn only to listen, regurgitate information, and predict instructor expectations is really education? And when I think of how many students filter through (or only make it through part of) each class each semester, it makes being a “tattle-tale” feel more like vindication.

But it’s even more complicated when I think about the bigger picture. Okay, so let’s say I turn Salmon and report an instructor... and the students benefit. That’s a HUGE success. However, what if others catch wind of my “tip-off.” So here are my questions to you. Is my action seen as a good or a bad thing to faculty? Is this spunky little Salmon rewarded for her tenacity and granted respect and maybe even... gasp... a full time position? Or is she a troublesome upstart that gets snatched up by the hungry wading bear, damned to the academic equivalent of death: part-time teaching for eternity. So, what should I be... Salmon or Sardine?

The Journey of a Thousand Miles...

A few weeks back, I had the great idea to blog about how unmotivated I was to plan for my classes. I figured that most people could relate to the dynamic tension of mild anxiety in knowing something big is coming up and the complete lack of desire to fix the problem. Unfortunately, I procrastinated too long and now the semester has begun. C'est la vie.

So, yesterday I taught my first class of Spring 2010. I did actually force myself to plan and, as I was reviewing the Course Outline (the state mandated requirements for what teachers must do in a particular class and what their students must be able to do before passing) I was a little surprised at how rudimentary the exiting skill requirements are. Now, I have taught very similar classes and I do know that some people really do struggle with writing. I get that and I am more than happy to help my students wherever they are in their writing process. But what concerns me are the low expectations placed upon some of these "lower level" students. We ask students to jump through academic hoops simply because of poor test scores and then require the bare minimum from them because we think it's what they can handle. Yesterday, I sat with 34 of those "low level" students. I looked out into the sea of students before me and asked them what they assumed their role would be in my class. Amongst the answers of "come prepared," "listen," and "write a lot" there were little snippets of insecurity. One student even said he assumed that I would have trouble reading his papers.

So what does it say to that student, who is already insecure of his writing and aware of his weaknesses (although probably completely unaware of his strengths) that he is only expected to know the basics of a paragraph upon exiting my class? Some might say that it's freeing - he doesn't have to become overwhelmed by high stakes and pressures. But I say that it speaks far more loudly about what we assume he cannot do and, God forbid, what he might be able to learn in the 17 weeks he's in my class. I have worked with students all the way up into critical thinking classes who can't put together a solid academic paragraph, but we're going to tell these basic writing students that is their primary goal? It's a place to start, but what about what they'll actually learn? What about their ability to come up with original ideas and have the confidence to get them down onto paper, even if it's not the most eloquent things you've ever read? What about the student who has never turned on a computer, but who now sits in my computer lab and will have completed an entire semester of blogging by the middle of May 2010? That student will have written (no... typed!) around 4,000 words in her blog alone! That doesn't include homework assignments or any formal essays and drafts. That's an accomplishment and all we want to say is that she'll learn the basics of writing. It sounds like an understatement to me.

I am not, by any means, saying that most teachers intentionally think less of their students than they deserve, but I have heard this mentality surface amongst my colleagues on several different campuses and even in various conferences. I think it needs to change. Often times, the composition teacher is the advocate for the downtrodden. We take a subject that most people detest, not because it is horrible, but because students are incredibly insecure about their ability to do it successfully, and try to make it interesting. If we continue to think that English (insert any class number) students can only do X, we are setting our students up to think that is all they can do. That does not mean that I'm going to walk into my basic writing class tomorrow and ask for an 8-10 page paper, but it does mean that I'm going to walk in assuming that, in a few more English classes, they will be able to write that paper. We must teach the foundational elements before we expect masterful academic writing, but that doesn't mean that we can't expect greatness from each student in every class. Expect it, let the students know that you believe they can produce it, and expect to be surprised.