Household Opera

Thoughts on libraries and a cultivated sense of curiosity

(This is a semi-stream-of-consciousness post. I'm thinking out loud rather than posing a question I have real answers to. But it's been on my mind lately; if any of you have any better answers than I do, have at it in the comments!)

A couple of the people I follow on Twitter posted links today to Heather Wilson's recent Washington Post article "Our Superficial Scholars," a dispiriting view of recent Rhodes Scholarship applicants as hyperspecialized and unused to thinking about larger questions. Then I scanned the New York Times forum on the question "Does college make you smarter?"—which cites the recent book Academically Adrift, a report on how little college students are learning—and was struck by Leon Botstein's response:

All many [high school students] know is rote learning, and fear of mediocre standardized tests and grades. No vital connection between learning and life has been forged in our schools, much less any affection for voluntarily using one’s mind in the rigorous, sustained and frequently counterintuitive way that leads to innovation and the advancement of knowledge.

But our colleges and universities do pitifully little about combating student passivity and absence of curiosity. ... Since the specialized and competing interests of faculty from disparate fields seem hard to reconcile, all but a handful of institutions fail to have significant programs in undergraduate general education designed to equip students with serious skills, inspire them to raise their sights and help them discover what they might be interested in.

Partly I wonder if things are as bad as that. I suspect that on a large number of campuses you can find both deeply engaged students and students who aren't learning much. As one Twitter friend said of Wilson's article, "Always mildly suspicious of decline narratives. Faults don't ring true." 

But I've also seen that lack of interest in one's own education in quite a few students myself. (Not so much since I became a librarian; the students I see in the library tend to self-select for engagement with learning.) It used to depress me a lot back in my previous life teaching freshman writing. There were always students who were interested in the larger world and who seemed to like learning new things, but there were also always students who just didn't seem curious about anything. And it was the lack of curiosity that really worried me, partly because I don't think you can really get an education with that attitude, partly because it just seems like a dull and miserable way to go through life.

But I can't really blame them, because if your entire education to date has been about jumping through a series of hoops all designed to lead up to the larger hoop of a college degree that will get you a decent job, it's not surprising if you haven't developed the habit of wondering about the world, of contemplating and looking closely and reflecting and asking questions. (This cartoon is in the back of my mind as I write.)

So I've been thinking about how to foster curiosity in students who maybe have never been encouraged to be curious, and what libraries might do about it. I would love to see some kind of program for small, customized research projects along the lines of "Figure out something you're interested in. Explore that topic. Talk to your librarian about how to do that. Let your exploration take you into other subjects you wouldn't have thought to investigate. Then talk to your fellow students about what you've discovered." Libraries are fabulous places for doing that kind of open-ended exploration, but I think there need to be ways to encourage students to do that—not for a grade—as well as to provide the raw materials for their research.

I'm also wondering if one of the pedagogical techniques I adopted while teaching literature might also be adaptable to a library context. If I wanted to get students thinking a bit more laterally about a given text, I'd have them all look at it for a few minutes and write down an observation or two. Then we'd go around the room and each student would have to find a way to connect his or her own observation to what the previous student had just said. Something about the "Here's an observation; here's an observation; now connect them" structure always seemed to push the discussion out of familiar territory. I wonder if that structure might also work to encourage research exploration as well.

And I'll stop there. Reader, what do you think?

Close reading and the librarian

I've been thinking, in a work-related context, about close reading, and how librarians might help students learn to do it. The standard "bibliographic instruction" model — class meets in library, librarian shows students how to find what they need — tends to be geared toward paper research. Close reading is a skill that isn't usually covered, because there's no well-defined set of library tools for it. Close reading also takes time, which is a luxury if you only see the students for one 50-minute session.

And yet there are plenty of courses that make use of close reading, and I always want my library teaching sessions to seem like a real part of the class rather than a disconnected "field trip" with no relationship to anything else the students are doing. So the question came up recently: how can a library visit reinforce what the students are learning about how to engage closely with a text?

There are one or two nifty resources I can demonstrate (I'm showing one upcoming class the OED) to encourage that kind of engagement. But I think Dr. Crazy is right about teaching close reading*: you have to model it and get the students to practice it. And where that fits into bibliographic instruction as we know it, I'm still figuring out. But I think it's worth pursuing, because I always found that students responded much better to short exercises that get them actively reading than to extended lectures. Now the question is how to carry that over into the teaching I do as a librarian.

Perhaps one way might be to approach the question of evaluating sources (is this web site appropriate to cite in a term paper? is this encyclopedia worth the paper it's printed on?) as a close-reading question. Or maybe what we need is a whole other kind of library instruction that's more directly part of the class. If I come up with any answers, I'll no doubt blog about them.

* Incidentally, I Googled "teaching close reading" and got an appreciable number of hits from academic blogs. One of my Drexel professors this term likes the idea of using blogs and wikis as a way for librarians and faculty to communicate; I think librarian/faculty group blogs could be a really neat way to hold a campus-wide conversation about, say, teaching writing. Or introducing undergraduates to science research. Or what have you.

Not my finest hour.

So today I taught a library instruction session for a class. In a classroom whose technological setup I hadn't checked in advance. (Those of you who do anything at all with instructional technology probably know where this is going.) And after I'd discovered that there was no computer in the room and raced back to the library to borrow a laptop so I could demonstrate various catalog and database searches, I found that the trackpad on the borrowed laptop wasn't working as well as it could.

In the end, I borrowed a spare mouse from one of the students and went on with what I'd planned, while trying not to look like a complete techno-idiot. I hope the students got something out of it; things seemed to go better once the technological issues were cleared up, but said issues shouldn't have eaten up classroom time to begin with. All of which was entirely my fault for not planning better, not checking the configuration of the room, and not calling in the support cavalry in advance.

The lesson to be learned here, obviously, is: Thou Shalt Check All Equipment Beforehand, Multiple Times If Possible. Also: Thou Shalt Try Not To Get Too Flustered When Things Go Wrong, Which, At Some Point, They Inevitably Will. I thought I knew both of those things, but perhaps there are some lessons you only learn through direct experience of screwing up embarrassingly in front of an audience.

At any rate, I decided I might as well post about it as a PSA to anyone who might benefit from the crucial life lessons I learned today. And now I'm off to drown the embarrassment in tapas and plan my next teaching session more foresightedly.

On teaching and finding one's niche

This was the last week before the spring semester gets underway, and I spent most of it wrapping up a big web-design project I've been working on intermittently for the last year. It's for an undergraduate class that's been in the works for some time. I'm doing some librarian outreach work with the students in the class, too; I'll be introducing myself on the first day, demonstrating the website, and (time and other projects permitting) sitting in on some of the lectures, which promise to be fascinating. (The story of how all this came about is a long one, but I hope to narrate it as an article sometime soon, if the other people involved are amenable.)

Yesterday I looked into the empty lecture hall where we'll be meeting next week, to get a feel for the space, and I thought how strange it was to be about to re-enter the classroom, and at the same time not strange at all, because I've been teaching in one way or another ever since I got here. I've taught bibliographic instruction sessions for freshmen and sophomores; I've taught grad students and professors how to use Early English Books Online and its ilk; and at the reference desk I've taught more people than I can count how to navigate their way through catalog records, article databases, encyclopedias, dictionaries, WorldCat, and the open web.

I used to quiver with nerves in front of a room full of students. At the end of the best class I ever taught as a graduate student — a class that still makes me glow when I think back on it — I asked the students for feedback, and one of them said (not unkindly) "You seemed kind of nervous." I got past the stage fright after a while, but I always thought I did the most good when I could talk with students individually during office hours, when we could focus on the questions at hand and have a conversation rather than a mostly one-sided exchange. One of the best things about my time here has been the realization that the kind of teaching librarians do is exactly the kind of teaching I like best — with the added bonus that one tends to learn all kinds of unexpected things in the course of helping people find what they're looking for.*

I made the right call when I ran off to join the librarians. But who'd have thought that would be how I'd discover my Inner Teacher? Not me, but I'm very glad I have.

* Not to mention the absence of grading, which is a perk in and of itself.

It's never over when it's over

The semester is officially over and the grades are in, which means that it's officially Grade Complaint Season. I don't mind showing students numerical breakdowns of how they did in class (actually, I do mind that, a bit; I hate having to quantify everything), but what I really don't like is finding multiple "Why did I get a B?" queries in my e-mail inbox. It makes me want to hide for the next two weeks and pretend I've skipped town already. Or growl and snarl and show my teeth.

On the upside, after this round is over, I'll never have to deal with another grade complaint again unless I decide somewhere along the line that I really, really want to return to teaching, which looks unlikely at this point.

Oh, and see generally Michael Bérubé, whose blog I've been reading of late (must update blogroll again), on the subject of how to reduce grade inflation (NYT, registration required). What he says about the default A/B scale in English departments — "English departments have basically worked on the A/B binary system for some time: A's and A-minuses for the best students, B's for everyone else and C's, D's and F's for students who miss half the classes or threaten their teachers with bodily harm" — is certainly true here. (Which is why it's especially galling to get deluged with change-my-B-to-an-A requests at the end of each semester.) I like his proposal that colleges factor in "degree of difficulty" in determining students' grades, but I'm kind of glad I won't be there if it ever gets put into practice.

Things I would rather do than grade papers

1. Clean the refrigerator.

2. Go to the nearest big grocery store, which is two or three miles away. On foot. (Actually, it's a nice energetic 45-minute hike if the weather is good and I'm in the mood for exercise, which I was yesterday. And I take the bus home, because another 45-minute hike with groceries is too much. But still.)

3. Visit my local knitting store and fondle every type of yarn in succession — though, to be fair, I do that on non-grading weekends as well.

4. Obsessively check my e-mail.

5. Obsessively check my referrer stats.

6. Watch cheesy movies starring Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones, and CGI aliens on network TV.

7. Check my Bloglines subscriptions over and over.

8. Recategorize the books on my bookshelves.

9. Stare at the wall, humming to myself.

10. Plan elaborate menus for tonight's dinner, involving recipes I probably won't have time to make.

11. Do laundry.

12. Try to win the "Expert" level in Spider Solitaire.

13. Collect and recycle all miscellaneous and non-important pieces of paper in my apartment.

14. If it comes down to it, chew off my right arm so I'll have an excuse for not writing any more comments.

[Y'all know I'm not serious about the last one, right? Actual posting of substance will resume in a few days.]

Some days I just want to smack people.

Irascible Professor guest blogger and high school teacher Elise Vogel lets fly at the culture of parent complaint in public school education:

Nothing in my teacher education courses had prepared me to deal with parents who would object that I assign homework, or who would take their objections not just to me, but to the principal, the superintendent, and the school board. It's not just the existence of homework that raises the ire of these parents; it's anything that provides an academic challenge to their children. ... All these parents want is that which is safe and comfortable for their children. This includes a curriculum where there are no real expectations of the students.

— Elise Vogel, "Stop teaching my kid"

When I read this, I thought of every student who's ever demanded or pleaded for a higher grade in my class. I recalled their demeanor: some arrogant ("Well, I think I deserve an A"), some polite, some bewildered, some desperate, telling me how they have to get all As, they have to get into law school, they have to keep their scholarships, a B will ruin their lives forever, or — most upsettingly — their parents will be furious if they get a B-plus. (The last is not an exaggeration, by the way.) And then I thought, "So that's where they come from." They've grown up with their parents storming down to their schools and pitching hissy fits over every low grade. Or they've grown up with the threat of "Make straight A's or else" hanging over their heads. Or possibly both.

I wasn't prepared for grade complaints either. I always did well in school, but as an undergraduate I sometimes got B's — the 9:30 a.m. calculus class in which I always fell asleep comes to mind. My parents didn't disown me for it or lodge a complaint. The one time I seriously considered going to a professor to complain about a grade, I thought "No, that'll just make me look like a whiny brat," and sucked up the grade in question. When I started teaching, I mistakenly assumed that my students would all be like me — an assumption I've slowly abandoned, and mostly I'm glad I was mistaken. (In retrospect, I was probably a pain in the ass at eighteen; I wouldn't want, now, to face a roomful of pedantic, socially awkward, tongue-tied little me's.) But I never quite got used to the grade-complaint phenomenon. I used to think it was a sign that Kids These Days were getting brasher and snottier; now I'm more inclined to wonder about their parents. After all, if Mom and Dad demand A's for you, why wouldn't you grow up feeling entitled to demand them for yourself?

And I just don't get that. What is with these parents who yell at the school board? I mean, did they never figure out that screwing up is actually quite instructive? Did they miss out on the whole adulthood thing themselves and stay stuck at the maturity level of a nine-year-old sulking because the mean, nasty teacher gave them a mean, nasty test? Do they not pause to think about the example they're setting for their offspring? "Okay, Junior, you're not allowed to make a mistake and learn from it. Not ever. Remember, your having a 4.0 GPA is more important than your actually learning anything." I want to whack them all over the head with my Oxford Classical Dictionary and then start a mass "get rid of grades altogether" movement in universities all across the country. It'll never really happen, I know, but until then I'll content myself with the dictionary-whacking scenario.

Of course, the fact that I have papers to grade this week is not improving my mood any. Down with grading! To the barricades!

(Side note: I've been drafting some version or other of this ever since I read a cluster of posts from Russell Arben Fox and Crooked Timber on why kids don't walk to school anymore, and how that connects to the "micromanagement" style of child-rearing. Oh, and this Atlantic article rings depressingly true. Poor kids.)

(Side note the second: When I say "parents," I'm not lumping all parents into the same category here. I'm only referring to the kind of parents who flip out because Susie has to do homework or Johnny got a B. Just wanted to clarify that for the benefit of all the regular commenters on this blog who are parents.)

UPDATE, 3/12/04: And there's even a magazine for overly involved parents who want to "advocate" for grade inflation for their college-age children! See: "Boomer Parents Still Protesting on Campus," a feature on the newly-launched magazine College Parent and its editor Steve Peri. See especially the following:

The Greatest Generation may have practiced a hands-off approach to parenting, but their baby boomer offspring are often overly involved in every detail of their kids' lives. This is partly because of the revolution in communications, which lets parents stay in close contact through cell phones and email. Some parents go so far as editing drafts of their children's papers and protesting low grades, Peri says.

And he wants to encourage them? *groans* *bangs head repeatedly on desk*

Miss Congeniality

By one of those weird coincidences that seem to happen in the academic blogosphere, I read Naomi Chana's post about rate-your-professors sites only hours after I'd stumbled upon one of those sites myself. The temptation to look up my own name was irresistible, and there it was, with a happy face next to it. Someone had given me a positive overall rating. First I was pleased: some of them like me, after all. Then I was cheek-burningly embarrassed: whoever it was said I'm an easy grader.

Well, that explains why I've been getting e-mails from students who want to know about the requirements for my composition classes next term...

End-of-term nightmare

Last night I had a worse-than-standard "teaching anxiety" dream: I dreamed I was reading my students' course evaluations, and all their comments were not only negative, but horribly detailed. One said something like "We could tell she'd read a lot about Lacan [not that I've ever taught Lacan], but this class was, on the whole, not a very good idea." Another comment criticized my posture, my body language, the state of my teeth, and my smile, which was described as a "grimace."

Even worse, I was somehow reading these evaluations on the web, using my laptop, and I was in the classroom at the time with the students in question, which gave me a sudden flash of guilty panic: Oh my God, I shouldn't be reading these yet, the course isn't over!

It was awful. I'm knocking back coffee in a slightly frantic effort to wake all the way up. At the same time, though, I remember a certain feeling of grim triumph in the dream: here's the proof, I thought to myself, looking at the evaluations, that I've got to change careers. If anyone asks why I want to leave teaching, I can just show them these comments, and they'll have to agree with my decision.

All the same, I'd rather go back to dreaming my standard-issue bizarro dreams, like the one two nights ago in which I went to see the movie 28 Days Later at the movie theater (I've never seen it) and then somehow I was in the movie itself, plotting ways to flee from the killer zombies. Somehow, my unconscious grasps the distinction between fact and fiction, because the movie-zombie dream was much less scary than the evaluation dream.

Three reasons why the five-paragraph theme is a bad thing

There's been a small flurry of interesting posts about the infamous five-paragraph essay recently. Body and Soul links to a New York Times article about the low standards in Texas high schools, which begins with an anecdote about a Texas high-schooler who was "trained to write five-paragraph 'persuasive essays' for the state exam" and was "stumped by her first writing assignment" in college. Calpundit replies with a parody of the five-paragraph form ("In conclusion, Texas schools are bad. They have lots of dropouts, low test scores, and five paragraph essays. Texas schools are bad."). Pennywit makes a case for why it's not such a bad way to write an essay, if the student learns to use it flexibly, to which Calpundit replies. If you're interested in writing pedagogy, go read them all — and don't miss the comment threads.

If I had to state, five-paragraph-essay-style, my three "supporting reasons" for why I hate the five-paragraph form with a passion — even though I do think students need some kind of structure when they're just learning to put together an essay — I would say this:

1. It's supposed to be a tool for beginning writers to master and then move on. But it's often very difficult for my college composition students to break out of the five-paragraph mode. They listen to my impassioned defense of less rigid formats and try to write essays that break the mold, but it's as if it's imprinted on their brains and they write in that format even when they're trying not to. Some of them do manage to move on, but others get stuck.

2. It discourages students from making strong connections between the ideas presented in the body of the paper. In theory, you could use the five-paragraph template to come up with an essay whose body paragraphs go like this: "Let's take Point A as a premise (and here's why A is a reasonable starting point). Now, if we examine the assumptions behind A, we can see that B follows from it. However, we may not realize that we should also consider C (but here's why we should)." But almost invariably, what students learn to write is some version of "We can see [thesis] through Example A, Example B, Example C," with the paragraphs about A, B, and C connected to each other with a string of "Also"s or "Moreover"s. What it generates is more a list than an essay.

3. It encourages students to write the dullest, most formulaic introductions and conclusions ever. Lots of them recognize how dreary it is to write a conclusion that restates everything that's been said in the introduction, and lots of them worry about it, but since they've been taught over and over again to begin their last paragraphs with "In conclusion, this essay has shown that [insert slightly reshuffled sentences from introduction]," they're not sure what else to do.

My officemate recently received a new composition reader that included a completely hilarious poem about the five-paragraph essay. I'll post it if I can find the book.

(Update: Mike points out two more recent posts by John Jocalo, and his own in response. Thanks!)