The Pissed Off Professor

I’m not sure why other people teach, and there are days I don’t know why I do, but I’m willing to bet none of us does it as a means to undermine the success of students.

There is very little joy derived from students who don’t succeed, and even if the lack of success is completely out of my control, it’s never pleasant to inform students they’ve fallen so far behind the end isn’t just near—it has arrived.

That’s how I spent part of my Wednesday: advising several students (each of whom had failed to write a 4-page paper in three weeks’ time) they could no longer pass the course.

I’m amazed by the number of students who are shocked by my telling them they can no longer pass the class. I clearly state it on my course syllabus in the section dedicated to “How to pass this course.” One of the items is “all formal writing assignments must be completed in a manner timely enough to receive credit.”

I repeat this statement on my essay prompts, and I discuss it when I pass out the assignment.

There is always a group of students who ignore all of this because the first essay is worth only 5% of the final grade. (This is after I’ve explained it as my way of making certain everyone has the chance to get settled in, to learn my standards and expectations, but that failing to turn in that paper in a manner timely enough to earn credit will result in an automatic failure.)

It doesn’t matter: somewhere in between the multiple chances students are given in high school, in other college courses, and in life, they just don’t get that sometimes a deadline is a deadline.

I am, of course, personally responsible for their lives falling apart because I:

• a. am so mean.
• b. am completely inflexible.
• c. don’t understand what it’s like.
• d. All of the above

Because the answer is “d,” it also follows my sole purpose in the classroom is to undermine my students’ success.

Because it’s my fault they couldn’t write four pages in three weeks’ time.

Because I had the audacity to ask them to write an essay in the first place.

In a composition class no less!

I have to go plot my next scheme now: I have more lives to ruin.

Maybe another essay?

A reading response?

No—how about part of a research paper? Yes, that’s it!

Muwaaaaaaaaaaah.

I used to try to hold regular class meetings on the days formal writing assignments were due, but I’ve learned how foolish it is to expect the average (i.e. procrastinating) student to finish up a paper and read something for a class discussion.

I’ve come up with a few ways to solve this issue:

• The quick meeting: I collect papers, go over any pressing details, and dismiss the class.
• The in-class workshop: I assign an in-class reading and a discussion follows.
• The trip to the library: I escort my students to the mysterious brick building that takes up one end of the campus and show them what’s inside.

The first solution serves a dual role: I don’t have to put on a show for an entire period, and late students miss turning in their work—this leads to stiff penalties. The second solution is a bit dicey: the brain drain of paper-completion usually means even in-class work goes poorly. The third solution works reasonably well, but most students notice if I take them to the library more than once per semester, and this is confusing for them.

Monday, was a paper due date, and I went for option #3, so it was a hi-ho hi-ho it’s, off to the library we go day.

Monday’s task was to introduce the class to the wonders of online databases. The utter joy of being able to access full-text articles from a computer—even while seated in one’s home—is lost on most of my students because they have lived their entire lives in a world in which the internet was always at their fingertips. Most have never looked up a book using a card catalog. (Actually, most have never checked out a library book. Ever.)

I get downright giddy over online databases, but I’m a bit of a geek.

They didn’t get very giddy, and I just don’t get it: they have research papers to write, and being able to complete some of their research online is such a big gift, they ought to be celebrating.

Perhaps they were so overwhelmed by seeing thousands of books in one location they simply couldn’t take in the databases.

One of the things I do in addition to my teaching duties at Sacramento City College is read the English Assessment exams in-coming students must take to ascertain where they’re to be placed within the parameters of the offered English courses.

I read about fifty exams this afternoon, and I find I am troubled anew by what I observed. Of the exams I read, most of the writers (i.e. most in-coming, first-year, college students) are going to find themselves in English Writing 50: Developmental Writing.

English Writing 50:

offers individualized and group instruction for students who need to improve their ability to write increasingly complex and varied formal paragraphs and to advance to the writing of short essays.

This is no joke: a vast number of students are heading into college with the writing skills of children. Let me tell you when this gets to be extremely painful: one of the many possible topics for this exam asks students to reflect on their career goals, and while many of the essays I read disturb me, it is when this topic is assigned that I find I am most saddened.

When the career-goals topic is given, I read responses from 18-20 year olds who are entering college dreaming of becoming doctors or lawyers or small business owners, but who cannot write well enough to assess into a freshman composition course. (I am not even going to get into the grade-level at which they are reading.)

Someone needs to give these students a large dose of reality: if one hasn’t picked up basic literacy in the K-12 years, one is not likely to have a miraculous turn-around in college.

Think about this: these students don’t know how far behind they are.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I come from a family of dreamers, and I spent my childhood being encouraged to seek my life and career happiness regardless of the reigning social construct. My family still encourages my dreams—as long as there is a certain rationale to them. After all, at some point, much of one’s childhood must end, and adult reality has got to take over.

For example, it is no secret I have long wished to be a writer by profession, and while the chances of this are slim, I have followed one of the educational paths that might make this dream possible, and I do what I can on a regular basis to put my work out in the universe. I am still hell-bent on making this wish come true.

My other dream is to be an attorney; however, at 42 years of age, I understand that unless I make drastic changes and make them, uh, right now, I am not likely to make this particular dream a reality. I’d have to get through the educational requirements, then pass the bar exam, then find a firm willing to hire me, and THEN, I’d have made that dream a reality. Whew!

Remember, I’ve made my way through an advanced education, have relatively strong critical thinking and writing skills, and am a strong enough reader I can get through law-based materials, so much of the issue for me is time and effort not skill.

Now, let’s go back to the 18-20 year olds who are reading and writing and thinking like 8-10 year olds and are probably maxed out in terms of real learning potential, and the idea that these students want to go to medical school or law school or run a business is both frightening and sad.

I don’t know whose job it is to burst certain bubbles, nor do I know when the best time to do that bursting might be, but I know this: if an 18-20 year old enters college unable to read and write at an age-appropriate level, she is not someone I want cutting me open, defending me in court, or supplying my goods.

Yes, there will be exceptions, but these students are not the rule.

As an educator, and as a person who cares about other people, this makes me very sad.

My students take their midterm exam today, and they are going to be writing about one of my favorite articles “The 7 Deadly Sins of Students.”

It says what I am thinking right now having recently finished grading the first set of out-of-class essays. . .

One of the things I’ve noticed over the years I’ve taught is the declining ability/desire of students to plan, draft, write, and edit their work.

I could take the easy road and blame this on laziness, and while I believe this to be partially true, I don’t think it’s the real reason for this phenomenon.

The computer is to blame for this.

When I was a beginning writing student, I had paper and pencils. The act of writing a composition consisted of working on sheets of paper, jotting down one’s ideas, using arrows and asterisks and numerous revisions to get the work to a point that it was safe to write a final copy—you know, the one the teacher would grade for content and neatness.

Later, when my mother brought her old typewriter home from the office, the process was similar; however, the final copy was painstakingly hunt-n-peck typed, and inevitably, one or more pages would need to be retyped after a missed key or a missed mark of punctuation or the realization that the bottom line of the text was below the one-inch margin on the page. After one or two miscues, a person learned how to focus on the task at hand.

After liquid white-out came to be, making an error was not lethal, but it was still rough: moving the bad text up, whiting the mistake out, and moving the text back down worked only some of the time. With the advent of the electric, self-correcting typewriter—a machine that could miraculously backspace, eradicate an error, and retype the correct word or phrase—life became much easier.

But the process of writing still had to be undertaken. One had to lay plans before typing. No student in her right mind would sit down at a typewriter, think to herself that she’s got four hours to get her paper done, and begin banging away on the keyboard.

Today, that’s the way students write. I know. I’ve asked the question, and the honest ones have told me as much. Before the computer, this simply wasn’t possible—at least not to the same degree.

The idea of planning and drafting a thing before typing it makes no sense in the heads of today’s students. It’s viewed as a ludicrous waste of time.

Why would I work on paper when I can work on my laptop? If I don’t like something, I just select it, hit “delete,” and move forward.

I don’t need to worry about where things go: that’s what copy and paste is for.

All I need to do is type out what comes into my head, and I’ll spell check it, grammar check it, and revise it later.

And who can blame them? They’ve grown up with computers.

They have no idea that writing and typing are not the same things.

When I learned to write, typing was the thing one did when everything was perfect. It’s what made all that hard work look good. It was the signal that a process had come to an end.

Today, using a computer (i.e. typing) is the starting point. It is the means to perfection; the place that houses the grammar checker and the dictionary and the internet. The work produced looks good from the moment it begins, and we all know the connection between looking good and feeling good.

Video may not have killed the radio star, but the computer has killed the process of writing for many students, and I see only one way to turn back this particular clock: if it were up to me, students would not be allowed to use a computer to generate compositions until they were in graduate school. They would be forced to begin their work on paper, finalize it, and type it on a typewriter that lacked a correction tape.

I guarantee this change would result in a rediscovery of the process of writing without any input from anyone: it would be the result of necessity as it was for many of us who made do in the dark ages—the time before computers.

No matter how much I stress revision and proofreading work before turning it in, there are those students who refuse to take these steps seriously. The new age of electronics has basically killed writing as a process, but all is not lost: at least I get to laugh.

1. Frederick Douglass was born a salve, and it was difficult.
2. I think one of the ways to solve the problem is to surround the area with Bob Wire.
3. Some of the best advice I got was form my ant.
4. When u r faced with a crisis, u got to meet it head on.
5. As a child, my mother taught me about right and wrong; I don’t treat people different.

Students hate writing in-class.

Many teachers hate assigning in-class writing.

The advent of computers has led to an inability on the part of many students to write legibly, and the degree to which students rely on their word processors to check their spelling and grammar and punctuation is frightening.

Each of these issues comes to light during an in-class exam, and each presents its own problem(s) in terms of reading, marking, and grading papers; however, the in-class essay is an absolute necessity in any writing course.

Computers and the internet allow far too many students to “improve” their writing falsely.

Computers generally catch and correct basic sentence-level errors like subject-verb agreement and pronoun-antecedent agreement. This is a real problem when students who have no control over these very basic skills are not being forced to learn them because a machine is doing the work for them.

Additionally, computers can solve basic spelling, punctuation, and grammar problems, and this is also a significant problem in terms of learning and education. (At least in this area, the user’s level of knowledge often forestalls the computer’s accuracy.)

Many students are making their way through their college courses by purchasing ready-made and/or custom papers via one of the hundreds of online sites designed to facilitate this.

The only accurate gauge a writing instructor has of a student’s real writing skill is though the use of one or more in-class writings. So, while papers written in-class suffer from more than just content-based analytical problems, the exercise is well worth the associated problems.

After an in-class writing, I know immediately which of my students is relying on outside sources and/or a computer to write her papers. Sometimes this is an innocent situation, but usually, it is a revealed attempt on the part of the student to cheat her way through a course.

I implement a number of in-class writings into my semester plans, so I am clear early on regarding who is writing for himself and who is not.

Too many teachers refuse to include in-class writings into their course plans, and many who do include in-class work place too little emphasis on the percentage of a student’s grade for which an in-class writing counts.

Educators can’t pretend to care whether or not students can write in general (and on their own, specifically) if we don’t create an environment in which that skill set is required and challenged.

My students have their midterm exam coming up on Monday. They’ll be completing an in-class essay based on a reading they’ve been assigned.

WHAT—We have to write an essay in-class?!

During a discussion regarding an in-class writing, the three questions I can always count on are:

1. How long does it have to be?
2. Does punctuation count?
3. What about spelling—does it count?

Can you imagine a student asking a math teacher how long a math problem has to be?

Can you imagine a student asking a math teacher whether or not +, −, ÷, ×, or = counted?

Can you imagine a student asking a math teacher if using the right numbers matter?

At least most of my students get it when I ask them the math-based equivalents in response to their inquiries regarding what counts on an in-class essay.

The semester is finally in full swing: due dates are coming at regular intervals, and the reality of being a student with its associated responsibilities is beginning to dawn on some of the members of my class.

This is the time of the semester during which teachers are asked expected to be soothsayers.

My morning began with the first of what will undoubtedly be several e-mailed inquiries of similar content: the wayward student wanting to know whether or not he will pass the course in which he is enrolled.

When I get questions like this, the first place I turn is my grade book program. This is the desktop version of the same thing each student can access via the marvel of modern technology known as the internet, and my willingness to spend $45 of my own money annually on a service that allows students’ grades to post online for individual view.

The individual in question (you know, the guy who wants to know if given his current grade he still has a chance to pass the class) has an “F” in the course. This “F” is the result of his only having turned in 2 of the required 5 assignments that I have collected thus far.

Why does he need my input? What student cannot figure out that turning in less than 50% of the required course material will lead to failing the course?

I gave him the only answer I could:

Of the five assignments I have collected and scored, you have only turned in two. If you intend to skip the majority of assignments, you will not pass. If you intend to focus on this course and turn in quality work on time, you can pass. It’s entirely up to you.

I got the typical response:

So, if I turn everything else in, I’ll pass?

I gave the typical response:

I cannot see into the future, and I have no control over the level of effort you put into this class. I can tell you not turning work in will lead to certain failure; whereas, turning in quality work in a timely manner will lead to passing. The keys here are quality work and timely manner. Merely turning work in does not guarantee earning a passing score. Without consistent, passing scores, you will not pass; however, consistent passing scores will lead to passing.

Let me tell you what this student is really thinking: I have two reading assignments, a second essay, and part of my research project coming due between now and Spring Break. If I’m not going to pass my English class, I don’t want to waste my time working on any of the assignments.

As the semester progresses, these inquiries will take the form of “What do I need to get on the final to pass this class?”

Apparently, I am supposed to take time away from my life to plug various potential scores into a student’s (pathetic) current grade to answer this. These students get warned that they are in trouble over and over again during the course of the semester, but they won’t take the time to talk with me during an office hour, during a conference, or after class ends because they can’t be bothered.

I made it a personal rule two years ago never to lend extra assistance to students who are not already helping themselves. I have spent far too much time bending over backwards for individuals whose problem isn’t a lack of opportunity but a lack of concern and an utter inability to prioritize school.

ADDENDUM:

Having spent some time this morning grading a few more of the first set of essays, I see another reason the above student wants to know where he stands: his first essay was purchased from one of the numerous online writing services. Obviously, he is debating whether or not to spend more money on Essay #2.

Yesterday, while minding my own business checking my department box and running off a few photocopies, I got into a discussion debate an argument with one of my fellow teachers regarding the issue of plagiarism.

The situation began this way: one instructor (we’ll call her Sally) asked another instructor (we’ll call him Boyd) whether or not it was acceptable for a student to present the same essay to the instructors of two separate classes.

I was thinking to myself that the adage regarding “stupid questions” was again proving false when Boyd replied to Sally,

“Goodness, no—that’s plagiarism.”

I couldn’t help myself: I laughed out loud. He’d missed nary a beat while managing to mock her—and it was so funny, she couldn’t possibly get mad at him. As the cackles tumbled from my lips, and I turned away from the copy machine to share in the moment, I realized both instructors were staring at me in a manner I can only describe as unkind.

“You find plagiarism funny?”

I had one of those moments that lasts a really, really long time as I evaluated Boyd’s body language, replayed the tone of his voice in my head, and looked carefully at the glare that had set itself into his eyes, I realized I was in trouble. I also realized it was the kind of trouble that once one is in, one has to roll with and hope for the best.

“Of course not, Boyd”

I directed my next words to Sally. “The student’s work was her own, correct?”

Sally nodded, and I looked back at Boyd.

“So how is that plagiarizing?”

“Well, that should be obvious: it’s not original work.”

The dripping sarcasm in his voice did it: the fight was on.

“Hmmm—I guess it’s not obvious to me. Perhaps you can enlighten me about how printing something twice negates its originality.”

“The student turned in the same essay to two separate teachers; that’s cheating—it’s plagiarism.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No—no I’m not kidding, and I think you’ve been around long enough to know better.”

I held back from inquiring whether or not he’d meant that I’d been around long enough to know what plagiarism was or that I’d been around long enough to know that he wasn’t kidding.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go to class. I’ll leave the two of you to finish.”

Sally seemed both nervous and embarrassed as she walked out of the room.

Boyd and I looked at one another. It was my turn, and he seemed anxious to continue our little chat spat.

“C’mon Boyd, turning in a paper twice is nowhere near presenting the work of another as your own. It’s not plagiarism, and it’s not cheating. The only thing it might be is a violation of a particular instructor’s policy if that instructor has included a ‘don’t-turn-in-a-paper-to-me-that-
you’ve-turned-into-another-instructor’ clause on his or her syllabus.”

Before I had I’d finished, Boyd’s head had begun moving left-to-right-to-left in a repetitive no-no-no kind of way.

“I think someone needs to review the definition of plagiarism.”

Obviously, I was in a battle of wits with an unarmed man, so I smiled broadly at Boyd as I said,

“Happy reading,”

and walked out of the office heading for my class.