So this afternoon I was sitting in a university-wide meeting, and I ran into a friend from another department, with whom I share a student. Apparently, after I handed back papers this morning in the class in which I have this student, the student fled to talk to my friend and was freaking out about how she’d done. (Note: the paper is only worth 10% of the final grade, and the student was solidly in the middle of the papers, in terms of the grade. In other words, the student is fine. Not in trouble at all, in the grand scheme of things. But my students tend not to see the grand scheme.) At any rate, kudos to my friend for telling the student to come see me, and I ended up meeting with the student for 45 minutes, and it was all good.
But as my friend and I were chatting about this, the conversation then veered to me talking about how appalled I was by many of the papers that were submitted in that class, another colleague from Nursing was sitting next to me, and she said, “This is a class with majors and minors? In English? This actually makes me feel better – that it’s not just my students who don’t seem to be able to write. Are they really not able to write?”
I thought for a moment, and then I responded: “Honestly? They are able to write well. But they don’t always do what they are capable of doing. I think they want to test you to see what you’ll do. I think they want to see how little they can do and still do ok. So my tendency is to give the smack-down early, and then magically the work that I get improves. But yes, that first paper really sucks.”
Lots of people from other departments were listening to me at that point, and they all seemed astonished both that “English majors” submit crappy writing (a) and that I don’t cave and curve everything up (b). And then our committee meeting started, and that was that.
But so I felt like maybe I should write about what I think about the writing that I get from my students in upper-level courses, and about the limits of required writing courses, which, let’s note, I also teach.
It strikes me that people in disciplines not English – and maybe some people even who are *in* English – want to believe that required writing courses – those gen ed writing courses – will teach students everything that they need to know about writing. This, my friends, is not true. For lots of reasons. Even if they have exemplary teachers of writing in those courses (which isn’t always the case, but let’s pretend we’re in a utopia where all writing courses are awesome). And if a person believes that, he or she has two options when he or she gets a stack of shitty papers: 1) blame the English department, which clearly is Not Doing Its Job, or 2) blame the students, who are clearly functional illiterates. But neither of those options is actually reasonable. First of all, just because a student is able to succeed in a class devoted to writing, it doesn’t mean that the student will understand that what he or she has learned there is supposed to be applied elsewhere. Second, and I really do believe this, students are often only as capable as what is demanded of them; put more simply, if they can get away with shitty writing, then they often will only submit shitty writing. ( I believe this second point in part because I submitted shitty writing as a student, even though I was capable of more, because I knew that it would be “good enough.”)
Look, I’ve had students follow me from writing courses to lit courses who have done poorly on the writing in lit courses. In other words, there isn’t even a variable of the instructor there. BUT. They don’t translate what they learned about writing from me to the lit context. It’s not that they are stupid, or that they didn’t meet the expectations for writing in my writing class. It’s that there is a problem of translation. (Note: I’ve had students follow me from lit gen ed courses into upper-level lit courses and do just fine. My point is that comp does not necessarily an all-around-good-writer make.)
So yes, I teach upper-division English majors, and sometimes they still, unaccountably, submit writing that is wordy, awkward, ungrammatical, and BAD. Bad like there aren’t coherent paragraphs. Bad like they don’t appear to recognize the meaning of the “sentences,” if you can call them that.
Part of this is laziness, but that’s not the whole story. Most of the story is usually that you are expecting them to encounter ideas that they don’t know how to handle, ideas that are new and scary and difficult. They might be great writers with things that they are comfortable with, but once you challenge them? The whole thing becomes a hot mess. This doesn’t mean that they are bad writers – it means that they are out of their intellectual depth. If you teach them the ideas, then the writing can catch up. But the writing has to catch up to their thinking – the writing isn’t a stand-alone thing.
Here’s the thing that I’ve learned from teaching writing: I have to teach writing in all of my classes. In fact, this is the primary reason that I resent teaching composition: not that I don’t like to teach writing, but rather that the reality is that I’m teaching writing even when it counts for nothing. In other words, it’s not that I’m not teaching writing if I’m not teaching comp, but rather that all of the teaching of writing that I do is totally ignored and undervalued precisely because it’s not labeled as comp.
But let me stop bitching. My point is this. I got a bunch of papers that I would say were not good enough. And the ones that really weren’t good? That really were terrible? I required revision, and I insisted that they come see me. So that I can teach them how to write. No, that’s not the point of this class, and yes, it’s more work for me. But if I believe in anything, I believe in this – in teaching my students to express themselves in some sort of a coherent fashion. Mainly because I think that this is the general point of an education.
And this last paragraph seemed to be the most astonishing thing, to my colleagues from elsewhere in the university. They said, when I said that I was requiring revision,”but that’s more grading for you!” Yeah, it is. But I have terrified those students to the point that they will submit AWESOME papers. It’s not really extra work when that’s the result. But my colleagues were all, “But how do you know they’ll be awesome?”
How do I know? Honestly, I know because I’ve scared the shit out of them. My students work for me because they are afraid of what will happen if they don’t. And that is, at least in my experience, good pedagogy. Every student of mine, in this particular class, who followed me from another class – gen ed, intro to the major, upper-level – was in the upper quarter – if not an A-range – on this paper. Students who can rise to my standards rise. And, frankly, I’d be doing those students a disservice if I didn’t challenge them to rise. But I’m also confident that if I didn’t challenge them that they wouldn’t bother even trying.
Students don’t write better for me because I make them do it,though. They write better because they believe that they have to. And yes, there is a difference. And part of that difference lies in that I work really hard to teach them to write, even in classes that aren’t “writing” classes, and I support them in working hard for me.
In sum: if you leave writing instruction to gen ed, you will be disappointed. My students are excellent writers because I teach them writing even when they should already know better. And yes, that makes a difference.
I think that idea that about how not having your ideas together creates bad writing can actually be true even after a PhD. The more editing I do, the more you come to realise that a lot of the time, that hot mess of an article is really because the author isn’t quite there yet. And sometimes, they need someone to go ‘dude, this is the point you’re trying to make- go make it’. And hey presto, the writing also improves. Plus, I know that while I hope I no longer make stupid grammar mistakes anymore, that there are things I do wrong over and over again- even though I know better. Because in that moment of writing, you just don’t see that you’re doing it, or perhaps, because that’s how my brain works, but the written form doesn’t allow for that and you need to have time and space and a kick up the pants to go – doing it again, aargh.
“Students don’t write better for me because I make them do it,though. They write better because they believe that they have to.”–This really struck a chord with me, as I’ve started to realize that is, to some extent, the way I teach: for example, I got some amusing feedback at the end of last term when a student told me that the first week of class, I was the instructor who terrified him more than anyone else–which I eventually decided was a big compliment, especially as I’m a lowly grad student and I know the student in question had some very senior, very good professors whose pedagogy I really respect (said student also improved a huge amount over the course of that term). It’s started to make me question a lot of (especially feminist-inspired) pedagogical guides I’ve read that talk about creating an accepting atmosphere in the classroom: I’ve realized that I don’t want to create an atmosphere that’s so accepting that sloppy or shoddy work is accepted (and yes, I’ve seen many older professors do this, most–though not all–of them women).
Crazy, you’re just fabulous. I totally get what you’re saying about what they learn in one class doesn’t show up in other classes – I see that in every assignment. One of the pleasures of my current teaching strategy is that students come back and tell me they are applying what they learned in my classes to their other classes. But that’s not writing. In the classes where they have to write, I find that your analysis is bang on. What’s a bit disconcerting is that they seem to assure themselves that they don’t have to improve: “It’s not my major and it’s not English comp so I don’t need to write well. You should focus on content, not English stuff.” Gah. (FTR, my response is automatically ‘if you can’t communicate your ideas and arguments clearly, you can’t say you know it, or call yourself educated. Period.’)
You’re absolutely on the mark when you talk about how writing goes to hell when people are trying to write about complex new ideas.
Writing is like music: to be good at it, you have to practice, and practice some more, and recognize that when you’re learning a new piece, you’ll sound terrible at first, so you practice some more.
And isn’t it GREAT that many students will rise to your expectations!
I think it’s important to emphasize that effective writing is not *just* the responsibility of one comp class freshman year or of the English department more generally. Writing should be the *majority* component of graded work in all classes across the curriculum. That’s how you make an effective curriculum–but of course, it’s expensive to teach classes capped at 40 or 50 instead of 100, 200, or 400. Neither students nor their universities are motivated to make this kind of an investment, unfortunately, but that’s what it takes.
My students are the same as yours, Crazy: they have the skills, but they choose instead to see how little they can get away with. The majority step it up when we crush them on the first assignment. There is no advantage to extending charity on the first assignment. None.
My students are generally very good writers–I correct very few grammar mistakes because they write strong sentences. I swear, I have been reading 9th, 10th, and 11th grade writing since September and I have yet to correct anybody using the passive voice. One of the bigger variables between my best students and the average ones is the degree to which they vary their sentence length/complexity and vocabulary. That’s sort of a tangent but there it is. Anyway, what they’re still learning is how to establish relationships between paragraphs. So that’s where we focus.
What I notice is that sometimes they learn a strategy for organizing their essays in literature class and they try to apply it–they really do try!–in history and it doesn’t always work. We’re constantly having a conversation about what it means to write for history vs. what it means to write for literature. One of the things our lit teachers emphasize is cutting out the plot summary. They get stuck in history because sometimes I’m asking them to explain what happened in a given event–usually because it’s complex enough that they need to identify the contributing factors and explain them clearly. It feels like “plot summary” to them, so they get antsy about it. That sort of thing.
But writing about literature and writing about history are different animals. The mechanics of good writing are the same but the kind of argument one makes and the way evidence is used–these things differ. It’s ultimately a productive conversation to have with them if I’m up front about the differences. They start to understand that writing is about context and audience, even as they improve their ability to express themselves coherently and build an argument.
Good post, Dr. Crazy, and words worth hearing as I start grading a set of essays.
@Anastasia: I love that you hit on the whole plot summary thing. Sadly, I fear that our (English Profs) point regarding plot summary somehow gets lost in translation because in the end what we’re trying to encourage is in fact very close to what you as an historian are trying to cultivate. At the risk of reduction, you want them to recount the “plot” in such a way that the arrangement and organization of events, circumstances, issues, and most importantly, details all lead to a synthetic point that amplifies the thesis. Over here in the English class, we’re actually trying (however in vain) for the same thing. In my view, the problem rests in the formulation of the thesis insofar as students seem to have been taught to formulate a thesis that merely supports the most obvious elements of the “plot.” In the extreme, it goes something like this: Thesis: Hamlet is depressed. The rest of the paper is a road map of quoted passages from which the student reiterates or concludes that, wait for it, wait, wait … yes, that Hamlet is depressed. For instance, “In an early line, Hamlet says ‘How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!’ This is a clear instance in which we see that Hamlet is depressed.” Wow, really? Ya’ think so? Well blow me down, you get … a D for that insight. Trust me, they were utterly convinced that that was an ‘A’ level insight. (no, I’m not outwardly or openly this snarky; in my mind is a different story)
I’ve been teaching long enough now that I try to nip this one before it ever happens. Like our estimable host, regardless of the level of the class I’m teaching, we have “essay writing” days where I explain any number of things, but very early on there’s a day where we talk about what a real thesis is – a statement based on inference that at once adds something that is not evidently or manifestly present, but which the “plot” can nevertheless support – and how to use details, passages etc. from the “plot” to articulate and support it. But there are two things that always strike me dumb on “thesis” day. One is the look of utter terror on the students’ faces – well, to be fair, sometimes it’s terror, other times they just glower. The other is that no one has ever explained it to them this way in their earlier classes. And how do I know this? Simple, I ask them.
I’m a super big fan of direct instruction on these topics because telling them “don’t summarize the plot” is not actually that helpful–not unless you’ve given them some kind of framework for what that means. Expecting them to figure that out is unreasonable. The thing is, I don’t think I’ve had that many teachers who could articulate what you just articulated with any kind of clarity. Most teachers I had were more the I’ll know it when I see it type.
Fucken a I posted some fucken complicated comment but it never appeared and now I can’t remember my sophisticated conceptual framewkr.
Oh. My. Gawd. Crazy, our last divisional faculty meeting included bringing in an expert in Writing in the Disciplines. Because Freshman Comp can’t be expected to do it all, especially when there are disciplinary variations. After the meeting, the WiD committee, which has met a few times already, and whose members hoped that others might take us up on the invitation to carry on the conversation (only one did — from the English department, mostly to say they’d tried it 20 years ago, and then 10 years ago, and all they got was pushback on how there was too much to do to teach writing in X), brainstormed some more. Who is on the committee? Our teaching guru, two people from Writing, one FT English (different department: they do Lit, doncha know), one adjunct from English, or maybe Writing, who is kind of crazy to come because zie won’t be paid, and it will not end up in a FT position, one person from a different division, and me.
One of my favorite parts of the big meeting was when we were asked what we meant by “good writing.” There was a real divide between people who felt ok with correcting minor grammars later, and concentrating on getting clear arguments now, and the reverse. What really shocked me was the amount of writing our faculty don’t assign. People seemed genuinely shocked that I assign about 6000 words for my Intro classes. Most of it isn’t formal writing. It’s 2-3 paragraphs of responses to a question about the readings that I ask them to prep for discussion. They do that about once a week. And they have a couple of papers that are about 1000 words each, and are primary source analyses. Their exams are essays. Yes, it’s a lot of writing, especially when they have to re-do drafts. But they get used to it. We are really lucky in that our classes generally cap at 25 for an intro, and 15 for a seminar. But my classes are generally packed, and all of my students write.
One of the things I’ve found in teaching lots of different sorts of writing (I assign research papers and book reviews, review essays, and annotated bibliographies, too), is that students don’t always know how to read. Part of this is that History and English are different. Part of it is that a summary of a work of fiction is different to a summary of a scholarly article. It’s very hard to get students to focus on writing their own clear argument when they can’t tell the difference between another writer’s main argument and the chunks of evidence that the author uses to support that point… This weekend, my two upper-division classes are re-reading their assignments from last week, because they didn’t do what I asked, which was to identify the parts of the essay that were difficult for them, and why. They identified pieces of evidence (which were indeed problematic, except that the essay was an introductory-level theory piece, so …), and said that they understood everything else. So I read two paragraphs out loud. I believe one had the words “paradigm’ and “divest,” and the other had “discourse,” “analytic” (the noun), and “somatic.” They’d pretty much ignored them, which meant they’d missed the actual points the author was making.
It’s not just about writing, or who teaches it: we also all need to be teaching our students to read in our disciplines, and really, we should have a better idea of what things are particular to our disciplines, and which are particular to us — and articulate those things to our students.
Crazy, you are my hero. As a TA I read far too many terrible essays because students had no idea what they were doing. Not only does my university not have any sort of required gen ed writing course (which I think is a huge mistake), my department also doesn’t bother/can’t afford to offer a history writing class. Even in the basic methodology class, professors don’t bother to teach students the basics of how to write a history essay. They prefer to grumble about students’ inability to 1) develop a thesis, 2) find and use decent sources, and 3) write in even a somewhat coherent manner. Those same grumblers don’t bother to give their students any chance to improve. They have one essay assignment and that’s it, so students can’t learn from their mistakes or learn how to avoid those mistakes.
When I finally got my own class, I made sure to incorporate some writing instruction and assigned an assignment for their essay that included coming up with a thesis, three main arguments to support their thesis, and a very short annotated bibliography. Then, just like you, I scared the shit out of them and graded the assignments very harshly (well, what I call fair, but what profs here call cruel). I had more meetings with students scared about writing their essay than ever, but it was worth it because the end product was a better batch of essays than I’ve ever read from a class.
Last year, I went to the chair of the department and proposed a series of workshops designed to help students write history essays. He was so supportive! Not only did I get paid for the time I spent developing the workshops, the department also paid for pizza, drinks, and snacks for each workshop. Each workshop was two hours long and had different areas we focused on, such as how to organize your essay or how to write a strong thesis, plus an entire workshop devoted to grammar and common/annoying mistakes that we see all the time, i.e. apostrophes used to make words plural. I honestly expected maybe ten students to show up, but, incredibly, we had thirty attendees for the first two workshops and fifteen (still a big number!) for the grammar and proofreading workshops. The students actually loved it; we received great feedback. The chair was ecstatic and so were profs who saw their students doing well. The workshops have now been funded for another semester and other departments are looking at our model to see how to incorporate what we’ve done. Finally, at my school at least, writing seems to be getting the attention it desperately needs!
Good for you, Dr. C. Your students are lucky that you hold their written work to a high standard, and that you take the time to help them meet it. Writing well always requires hard work–for anyone, at any stage– and colleagues who lament that a single comp course doesn’t turn students into consistently strong writers have probably never learned to put in the effort themselves.
Loved this. Thanks.
I loved this entry too: the point you make about the quality of writing deteriorating when students are struggling with more sophisticated ideas is a really important one to elaborate, I think.
I wanted to address something said upthread by an earlier commenter, who questioned how you could set standards for not accepting sloppy work while also practicing a feminist and “accepting” style of pedagogy. For me, the distinction is that my students are always aware (I hope) that I am pushing them so hard because I truly and deeply want them to succeed and will do everything reasonably within my power to help them do so. This is accepting, to me, as opposed to the style of pedagogy that castigates students for not “getting it,” shuts them out of further supported revision, and implies that they are stupid for not being better writers and therefore deserve punishment.
We have a huge first semester emphasis on writing for our field (one required class, one set of voluntary/required seminars for remediation, a full-time writing tutor, multiple classes requiring papers)… but this year it doesn’t seem to have taken. My eyes are bleeding with bad writing for their first assignment (which hasn’t been turned in yet, but I let them give me a draft in advance for comments). I don’t understand because usually when I teach this class I don’t have to do quite so much remediation. In a position paper, I need to be able to figure out what the controversy is and which side you’re taking! Paragraphs need topic sentences! When I said papers needed to have an outline, there was a reason!
This isn’t a writing class, but I’m wondering if next time I teach the class I’m going to have to make them do things like turn in outlines, say who their audience is etc. etc… all things they were supposed to get last semester so many times that they’re doing them automatically now.
Or I could just go back to teaching math classes all the time. They have to write the occasional one page reflection in those classes, but so far they haven’t been doing a horrible job on those.
Similar issues were raised by Chad Orzel about writing in one of his physics classes. I posted a link to your article there, so I figured I should also provide a link back from here.
http://scienceblogs.com/principles/2012/02/and_experiment_in_teaching_wri.php
His problem is getting students to believe him when he tells them that professional scientists have to write and they rewrite many times before sending articles off to the publisher or up the food chain to their boss.
Hi, everyone! I’m sorry I’ve been checked out for a week – this is the result of meeting one-on-one with her students to teach them writing
I’ve got a post brewing that will respond to comments, but I just wanted to say: a) thanks for this great thread, in spite of my absence from bloggy conversation and b) thanks to CPP for the link to Chad Orzel’s post, as I think too often science-y folks are left out of this conversation, and I like that this has been a truly cross-disciplinary conversation – people from the sciences, history, economics, English… That’s what I’m talking about, people!