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June 22, 2009 [feather]
How to read an English department

Wanted to draw attention to a column that ran last week in the Chronicle of Higher Ed. The subject is the fraudulent manner in which many schools handle the teaching of freshman composition:


When I was a graduate student, I participated in academic fraud. I didn't plagiarize to get an article published or inflate my CV to get a job. I did something worse. I accepted a teaching assistantship as a doctoral student at Elite National University.

By becoming a TA there, I took on a responsibility for which I had no qualifications: teaching first-year composition courses. Even though I had a bachelor's degree in English, I hadn't taken an introductory writing course while I was an undergraduate. I'd never taught before or had any course work in education. I didn't even have a master's degree. My hometown community college wouldn't have hired me as an adjunct, but Elite National U. put me in charge of two sections of a required class.

Students attend ENU to be taught by experts, not amateurs. In my defense I can only plead ignorance.


The anonymous author--who is now an English professor--goes on to describe the shock he felt upon learning what being a "teaching assistant" really meant (he thought it meant that he would begin his teaching career apprentice-style, by assisting an actual college teacher, rather than by being thrown head first into his own comp class). He describes the non-training and non-mentoring offered by his graduate program, with special emphasis on his sad and groping attempts to handle things like suspected learning disabilities. He describes how the grading system was rigged at the program level. And he describes how his students instantly intuited his inexperience, and behaved accordingly:

In those days, graduate programs at many universities sent teaching assistants into the classroom with no training, but ENU took pride in its support program. Before the first day of classes, new TA's had an entire afternoon of training in grading essays, and "Dr. Dreedle," the director of the first-year composition program, told us, "Look confident."

Straining to appear stern, I began the first day of class by giving a rehearsed speech about the wonders of writing essays. I hadn't gotten very far when one young man, "Nate," declared in a stage whisper, "Bullshit!"

I hadn't prepared a response for obscenity, but the other students ignored Nate, so I went on. In a few moments Nate repeated his sotto voce declaration. The young women around him snickered. I praised rhetoric more loudly. Then he said it again.

I resorted to what I'd seen teachers do in high school. I glared at Nate and asked coldly, "Do you have a question?"

He looked down. "No."

Nate spent the rest of the semester challenging me, and I responded like a desperate novice. I tried telling Nate outside of class to behave, shaming Nate in front of his fellow students, and finally forcing him to sit in a desk in the front where I could keep an eye on him. We endured one another until the semester ended.


I expect that the author wrote this piece because he knew his experience was far more typical than not. His story certainly meshes with my own, which also involved being thrown into teaching freshman comp without ever having taught before, and essentially without preparation or guidance. Yes, there were some nominal "training" sessions the week before classes started, and yes, there were some "mentoring" sessions throughout the first semester, but I can't say they did much.

I was tickled by the anecdote about Nate. My Nate didn't curse at me, so far as I can remember--but he did make faces at me, and once he stood up in the middle of class, calmly walked out, and twenty minutes later returned with a Big Mac, fries, and a Coke, which he then ate, noisily and with great relish, throughout the remainder of the hour. Once you've taught for a few years, such events become totally unimaginable--you just acquire an easy authority and things like that just do not happen. You don't have to think about Imposing Order or Commanding Respect or any of those things. It just happens. You know your job and you know what you are doing, and the students instinctively know that you know, and problems are very rare indeed. But when you are just beginning, anything can happen.

The fact is that of all the courses English departments offer, composition is probably the hardest one to teach (and also the hardest one to take). The workload is much greater and in many ways more demanding, for both teacher and student, than a traditional literature course, and the stakes are much higher -- it really matters whether students learn in freshman comp. It matters no matter what they go on to major in, and no matter what they go on to do in life. It matters much less whether they learn something in an elective seminar on Victorian novels--and I say that as someone whose bread and butter used to be teaching Victorian novels. And yet, for the most part the folks who teach composition in university English departments are grad students who have no particular interest in composition, who may not be very good writers themselves, who may or may not know the rules of grammar and syntax, and who have been planted in composition classrooms because a) they need teaching experience; b) the faculty doesn't want to teach composition. It's win-win for everyone except the freshmen who don't get the kind of course they need--and have a right to expect.

So what tends to happen in freshman comp? The standard model is that students spend most of their class time discussing readings--rather like a standard lit course. This suits the grad student teachers just fine, because it lets them practice teaching literature, which is what they really want to teach anyhow, while also allowing them to mask the fact that they aren't generally doing very much at all in the way of teaching actual writing. Students will then write lots of essays, and there will often be lots of class time devoted to "workshopping" the essays, an enormously time-consuming activity of questionable value. In a "workshop" every student has supposedly read and commented on one student's essay. Then they all talk about it, and deliver their considered opinions about what's good about the essay and about how it could be improved. Good teachers can make this format work--but inexperienced ones tend to allow it to become a shapeless free for all in which bad ideas get just as much play as good ones, and in which the outcome tends more to confusion than clarity. That's an acceptable tradeoff for the beginning teacher, though, as workshopping is a great way to fill up class time while getting the students to talk. It also makes everyone feel that writing is being taught--even when it isn't.

Stanley Fish is fascinating on the subject of what composition courses should be. Here he is in Save the World on Your Own Time:


All composition courses should teach grammar and rhetoric and nothing else. No composition course should have a theme, especially not one the instructor is interested in. Ideas should be introduced not for their own sake, but for the sake of the syntactical and rhetorical points they help illustrate, and once they serve this purpose, they should be sent away. Content should be avoided like the plague it is, except for the deep and inexhaustible content that will reveal itself once the dynamics of language are regarded not as secondary, mechanical aids to thought, but as thought itself. If content takes over, what won't get done is the teaching of writing, something the world really needs and something an academic with the appropriate training can actually do.

Note the bit about training. But of course, if composition courses were treated as Fish would like, you couldn't just dump unprepared grad students in to teach them.

posted on June 22, 2009 6:44 AM




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Comments:

First off, teachers (K-12) have rarely had more than four to eight months of supervised apprenticeship before being thrown into the classroom. I do think it would be a great idea if graduate students were paired with a master professor for one academic year of training before being given the reins of a classroom. It would be one way of creating a non-research-centered set of positions for faculty, and it would create a justification for a sort of full-time tenure-track position: secure teachers dedicated to a single institution, knowing it like the backs of their hands, passing that wisdom down to young teachers.

Second, the issue of "composition" is simply far more complicated than presented here (and I know this posting does not intend to be comprehensive). Fish is saying nothing more than what Peter Elbow said in the 1970s, and there is a great deal of research on composition that argues well against that position (see Bartholomae's work, for instance).

The idea of a content-less writing class fails to take into account the fact that beyond the level of the sentence, there is no such thing as "writing" that can be mastered (and even at the level of the sentence, what we call "mastery" is more likely correctness). Each genre has its own demands, and very likely, each genre rests on cognitive processes that are not the same. This seems less obvious when we're talking about the differences between, say, writing a descriptive versus a persuasive essay, but it becomes terribly clear when we observe the differences between writing a novel and writing a play (very few writers can make that transition).

Furthermore, a student's knowledge of the topic on which she writes has a clear effect on the quality of the writing. This is often mistaken for "enthusiasm" -- get the kids to write about what they care about -- but really it's about getting the kids to write about what they already know about. Even spelling and grammar have been shown to go downhill once the student is spending more time figuring about her topic and argument as she goes through the writing process itself. I'm not setting up a simple opposition between thinking and writing, but kids tend to write better when they already know the subject inside and out.

So any composition program must decide what sorts of writing it will privilege in the classroom and what are the best means for teaching it. And if the school wants to teach what we tend to call "analytic" or "academic" writing, then content has been proven necessary, even if that content is simply a means to an end. You can't learn to write an essay about history without learning some history; you can't learn to write music criticism without learning something about music.

Posted by: Luther Blissett at June 22, 2009 6:45 PM



LB..."the differences between writing a novel and writing a play (very few writers can make that transition)"...interesting. Could you expand on the reasons for that a bit?

Posted by: david foster at June 23, 2009 5:21 AM



David, I'll try, but it's really a mystery to me. Not that it's surprising that the transition across various sorts of "creative" writing is difficult, but it definitely has to do with how the brain works, a topic I know little about.

I think about how few great writers are masters of more than one genre. Some of that has to do with the historical meaning of genre: periods in which poetry was the highest pursuit and the novel was looked upon as too popular or sensational, or periods in which drama held a vastly different social function than poetry or prose. And then there's simply how we receive a writer. Wallace Stevens wrote some amazing essays, but we don't think of him (and he didn't seem to think of himself) as both essayist and poet. Or W. C. Williams, whose non-fiction prose and short stories are quite great, but who will be remembered primarily as a poet.

I'm not a Henry James expert by any means, but I think of the situation around his play *The Outcry*. Like all of James' theatre work, this was a disaster. It had none of what we come to James for besides the themes (and really, who reads James for themes?). James seemed not to comprehend the depth and significance of his brilliance as a novelist, or else he wouldn't have even tried the theater. At his most powerful -- in a novel like *The Ambassadors* -- nothing happens, and nothing much is said. Subtle movements of thought and sentiment provide the drama of the novel, and James was unable to translate that onto the stage as he comprehended it. (Oddly, someone like Beckett or early Mamet managed to accomplish on stage what James accomplished in the novel.) As a novelist, James was radical; as a playwright, he was terribly conventional. And when he turned *The Outcry* into a novel to make a little cash out of it, he wrote the most conventional of his late works. It's basically the play with some heavyhanded narration around it.

Joyce's poetry is similarly conventional compared to his prose. Emerson's poetry doesn't live up to his own radical ideas about poetry found in his essays (it would take Whitman to follow through on that promise). Faulkner, of course writing for money for the studio system, didn't give us the slightest taste of Faulkner in his screenplays. It's like the brain that finds its genre and pushes it to its limits gets all too comfortable in other genres and just colors inside the lines.

Posted by: Luther Blissett at June 23, 2009 10:15 AM



LB...thanks!

Posted by: david foster at June 23, 2009 2:24 PM



In the last 25 years colleges have come a long way in helping students with their writing. Writing centers, peer tutor systems, and other means of support have been established, and that's all for the good. The fact remains, however, that college composition courses are oftentimes taught by neophyte graduate students, which is generally not good, and which is dishonest, as the anonymous CHE writer points out.

Stanley Fish is saying that content is unavoidable in the teaching of rhetoric and writing. The content chosen could presumably be anything by anyone and would help students hone their abilities to describe and persuade. Fish's admonishment that it should be jettisoned after serving its purpose means that published works should not be presented as truth in this context.

Posted by: TG at June 23, 2009 4:17 PM



The fact is that of all the courses English departments offer, composition is probably the hardest one to teach (and also the hardest one to take). The workload is much greater and in many ways more demanding, for both teacher and student, than a traditional literature course, and the stakes are much higher -- it really matters whether students learn in freshman comp. It matters no matter what they go on to major in, and no matter what they go on to do in life.

I think you have just explained why the senior faculty have fobbed off the task on others.

Posted by: Art Deco at June 25, 2009 3:00 PM



...you have just explained why the senior faculty have fobbed off the task on others.

Hey, we don't all work for Elite National University. Here at my own humble institution, all English department faculty teach freshman comp.

Among the many problems plaguing freshman comp is the way these classes often fall victim to institutional mission creep. Often their "Student Learning Outcomes" (SLOs) are not limited to writing but also include the improvement of reading, speaking, research, and critical thinking skills, plus things like "service learning" and "working effectively in groups." In my experience I've found this sort of goal-proliferation to be encouraged by accreditors, who like to see lots of SLOs being pursued at the gen-ed level (and of all gen-ed classes, freshman comp always seems to be the one where they wind up getting pursued). I'd be thrilled to see our "composition courses...teach grammar and rhetoric and nothing else," but actually putting that on the institutional syllabus would definitely not be a good idea.

No composition course should have a theme... Maybe so, but where I work, such themed classes are definitely smiled upon--not for pedagogical but for market reasons. The idea is that a themed comp class will strike the student as more interesting than a vanilla comp class, and that retention will improve if students self-select into classes with themes that interest them. And retention is a huge issue here. In fact the "performance contract" we have with the state specifies a numerical goal for improving retention (but not, of course, for improving writing instruction).

Posted by: Eveningsun at June 28, 2009 3:53 PM





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