I Attempt to Teach English, Damn It

I teach English to college students who don't want to learn English. I teach Freshman Composition. It is a required course, which means all students have to take it, whether they are majoring in math, science, computer engineering, architecture, medicine, or underwater basketweaving. Very few are majoring in English. Very few want to be in the room. Very few see any point in taking English AGAIN. They've taken it every year they've been in school. They speak (at least most of them) English (I do get some non-native speakers sometimes), or some variation of it, so enough already. My classroom is the last place they want to be.

It's not like they're going to need to know how to write. Computers do all the work for them. Thirty-five years ago, when I started teaching, it was secretaries who would do all the work for them. Now it's machines. And, besides, who cares? They're going to be nurses, police officers, executives in their own businesses. They're not going to have to write. Let's just forget about the next three and a half years of college; no other classes will expect them to write anything. And if there is writing required, well, they've done alright so far. They've made it to college, right?

So I'm facing a room full of people who are, how do I say this politely—not interested? Hating my guts? Wishing I would just disappear, so they could go do something productive with the next hour or hour and twenty minutes, like have lunch or check their cell phones or stare into space vacantly?

I have options. I've seen other professors' methods. Walk in like a general. Do not smile. Do not bend. Issue orders. Let them know who's in charge. Hand out a massive syllabus, let them know one foot off the path means failure, and see if many of them disappear before the next class. It cuts down on the number of papers to grade. It works quite well, if your object is to get rid of students.

Another option is to be their friend. They don't want to write papers, and you don't want to grade them, so you work out a deal. You'll sit around bullshitting for the semester, but since it's required that they do some writing, as long as they hand in a minimum number of essays, they'll pass. If they hand in more, they'll get a better grade, and if they hand in the maximum number, they'll get an A. The best part of this method is the professor doesn't actually have to read the essays, just count them. The worst part is, the students don't learn anything, once they figure out the professor isn't reading the essays. The smart professors in this group don't hand any of the essays back until the end of the semester. I suppose that tricks some of the students into putting some effort into writing them.

My approach is somewhere in between, I guess. I introduce myself by pulling out one of my three tiaras to show who's in charge in my classroom. I also have the "scepter of power," my green pen (never red). In rapid succession from my briefcase (like Mary Poppins' carpet bag) I pull out my red clown nose, my hand cleanser, my White-out, my stapler, my ruler, and my magic wand. Each has an explanation, all showing that I am prepared for anything. The duct tape usually gets at least a smile from those who haven't reacted yet, as I explain that's for people who can't keep their mouths closed. The tissues are for sob stories.

By now, the students either know I have a sense of humor, or they are convinced I'm insane. Then it's time to tell them about my credentials, hand out the syllabus, tell them what book(s) they'll need, and remind them that if they don't think they will like the class for any reason whatsoever, they still have time to change sections, not only for my class but for any of their classes. They are adults now and can choose to stay or go find another class. I sometimes lose one or two. More often, they all stay. Sigh.

I grade their essays. Every word of every essay. People learn how to write by writing, not by reading someone else's writing, anymore than people can learn to swim by watching someone else swim. And students can't grade other students' papers. I tried that theory, too, and no one wanted to criticize anyone else's work. But if there is an error and no one tells you, you will continue to make that error. It's called teaching. It's only criticizing if you don't tell what the right answer is.

I teach grammar. Writing is made up of rules, including where the punctuation goes, correct sentence structure, modifiers placed where they belong, the correct pronouns clearly referring to the nouns they are replacing, and the elimination of superfluous words. Clear, concise, and correct: that's good writing. Some students are grateful. Some are surprised. Some are angry that I have made writing so damned complicated. "You know what I mean," is a phrase I've heard many times. "Yes, I can figure it out," I reply. "But it's not my job. It's your job to make it clear to me."

I attempt to teach English. What I get sometimes is close but not quite there. I have learned that "next to smoking, obesity is now the leading cause of morality in the United States." "Reading is a great way to break up the monogomy of life." And my favorite was actually a paper issued by one of the colleges on "Public Dissemination of Information." The title worked, but farther down in the paper, the letter "l" was left out of "public," and suddenly the dissemination of information sounded much more interesting.

Writing is important. It is still a form of communication, even after the telephone threatened to make it obsolete. Texting and memos threaten to make writing casual, but some errors will be repeated and printed over and over and never be forgotten. As I tell my students, make sure your readers are laughing with you, not at you. Misspelled words in these days of spell check don't make you look terribly bright. And once your thoughts are in writing, they are permanent. Make sure they look good and sound good. Paper has a much longer memory than people do.