Going out of Business

F-Bomb Alert: My mom should not read this post (she will anyway).

My teaching career is officially, finally, and irrevocably over. After 19 years in the biz, I've had enough. A few months ago, a friend of mine said, "You know, there are problems at every job; I just need a different set of problems." And I guess I kind of took her statement into my own heart.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I, too, need a different set of problems. So I went out of business...mainly because I'm too tired to keep the store open anymore and because I'm not even sure how I went from being a teaching professional to a business owner.

"Delivering composition." It's the title of a well-known book in my former field, and it's the way many in that field refer to their work. Deliver stuff to someone. Like fucking UPS. It's the tabula rasa in make-up and high heels (because those who "deliver composition" are overwhelmingly female). Worse still, while every college and university across the nation considers composition a foundation of their educational program, it is largely taught by contingent faculty...mostly women...who are far too generous with their time in comparison to the pay they receive, which is among the lowest at any university. Darkness visible: importance undervalued.

I didn't actually sign up for a teaching career. Like most things in my life, it fell into my lap. My Pell Grant was suddenly cut off, and I was forced to graduate. I spent a summer wondering, "What the hell?" And then I got a call from a college friend. The Intensive English Program needed a warm body to stand in front of a class of international students. "Could you be that body?" I was desperate, so I took the job. I remember buying cheap "professional" clothes from Wal-Mart after I accepted my offer. They (the clothes, not the offer) were (a) too big and (b) so unfashionable even for the time that, if you tagged me in a picture of myself wearing them on Facebook, I'd have to unfriend and then block you (after untagging myself, of course).

The funny thing is no one in my new department wanted to teach writing. Being the n00b, I eventually became the expert in teaching writing to students for whom English was a second language...through experience and gut instinct...not through any sort of training. Sure, I read some articles, tried some stuff, and eventually disposed of it because it didn't really get at the reality of how people learn to write well.

You know, I've been writing since before I could write. I'd pen stories I spoke out loud as I wrote down chicken scratches that I thought looked something like the alphabet. I'd show them to my mother: "Sansy, you'll learn to write soon enough." She was wrong. In first grade, I was not taught to write. I was taught to copy. I was also taught that variation from the norm is forbidden. This set of rules for behavior was known as "penmanship," and it taught me that words ending in -ship are often not trustworthy: hardship, censorship, partisanship (not a real thing), membership (generally leads to responsibilities one does not want), kinship (backstabbing, in-fighting, general carnage), etc. So I took to my granddad's typewriter (a Remington that celebrated it's 92nd birthday in July) and did my own thing sans a fat pencil, a Big Chief tablet, or a template. (I'm going all Lady Gaga and seeing how many times I can work my own nickname into each post. See?). It also taught me that if you really want to learn to do something, you have to take matters into your own hands. That's how I learned to actually write, and it didn't feel soon enough. Even at that young age, I had something to say, I wanted to say it, and I felt like forces were holding me back.

My mom and I discovered, when I was in high school, that the reason I was never assigned homework is because I actually was. I just didn't understand the concept. The teacher would tell the class to read this and fill out that, so I did it when I was bored and waiting for everyone else to catch up with whatever the teacher was droning on about (which I had already read in the textbook). I thought that was what we were supposed to do...keep busy. I didn't know I was supposed to sit there quietly doing nothing while all that homework piled up for us to take home.

My bad.

At least I had glorious afternoons playing in the weird back yard that was designed by a concrete manufacturer in 1884: a reflection pool, a rock garden, an octagonal fish pond with island and bridge, a six-foot high bird bath, a wisteria arbor. Hell, the man even encircled the clothesline with sidewalk. My house was THE place to be after school. And when everyone got called in for supper and I had finished eating, I went to the typewriter.

One day, in fifth grade, I ran out of homework to not take home. So I wrote a poem about what was going on in the classroom. I observed things I had never noticed before; it made me pay attention (I even made it rhyme, and, yeah, I know, "E Gad!"). I copied it, by hand (I didn't have access to the lovely pasty smell of the ditto machine) and gave it to my teacher as a sort of present. She gave it to the school secretary, and thus I became a published author for the first time...in the school newsletter. Later that year, I was given an assignment to write a biography about someone famous (good grief, why do these subjects withstand the test of time?). I naturally wrote an essay about one of my ancestors, Benjamin Franklin, whom my dad was named after, and I got the highest grade of anyone for that assignment. I was only interested in my subject because my dad had studied Ben's life backwards and forwards, in all its tarnished glory, and had regaled me with the more kid-friendly of our progenitor's exploits. After I had written the paper, I asked my dad to check it. I don't know if he was laughing at my naivete or with joy that he had taught me something. Probably both. At any rate, he kindly and verbally corrected some parts and told me how proud he was of me. Through so many experiences like these, I learned the power of observation and that I was a WRITER.

If you want to write well, here's what you need to know:

• If you want to write, just do it.
• No matter how bad it's going, wait for the moment when it all turns right. It'll happen.
• It doesn't hurt to share. Some will love you; others will rip you apart. Somewhere in the middle is the truth.
• Motivation is key; you need to want something bigger than yourself and your own little world.
• You'll mess up a lot (typewriters are good for reminding you of this).
• Find a way in to every project.
• It isn't cheating if you ask for help.

There, I bubble-wrapped it, put it in a cardboard box filled with Styrofoam peanuts, taped up the box, drove it to your house, knocked on your door, and handed it to you. Delivered.

There are several problems with this metaphor, however. Once something has been delivered, what happens to it?

• What if the customer doesn't like it and wants to return it? (I thought I wanted Product X, but I've changed my mind.)
• What if the customer wants an exchange? (I want a better version of Product X.)
• What if he/she never opens the box (In one week, I'm no longer interested in Product X. In fact, I'm so uninterested by Product X, I won't even take the time to open the box or inquire about a possible return. I'm actually willing to lose money on it by not returning it.)
• What if your consumer only consumes part way and gives up in frustration? (I can't understand the instructions; I'll just leave it in the garage half done.)
• What if the product is a "gift" the consumer didn't want?
• What if the product doesn't meet the customers expectations because they didn't understand the product's description? (Wait, I bought a hardware key logger so I wouldn't lose all my stuff in the event of the Zombie Uprising, and you're telling me I can't use it with a laptop?)

Begin digression. 4 That last one was oddly specific, wasn't it? 3End digression.

There are a number of problems with this metaphor. The first of which is that students are not consumers and teaching does not result in a product. Consumers are people who buy, let's be literal, food and eat it. I don't want the "products" of their consumption landing on my desk. And maybe that's why student writing is so often crappy...because we've adopted the wrong metaphors for understanding what writing actually is and we refuse to see that learning how to do it will be different for every single person. No method is prêt-à-porter. Also, you can't deliver learning and expect anything to happen. You have to create opportunities for people to learn, and the classroom is probably the worst place for opportunity with its hierarchy so obviously laid out in rows.

To make matters worse, if I were still in the delivery business, as a member of the contingent faculty, I would have the additional threat of being drawn and quartered hanging over my already taut nerves. The Four Horses of the Apocalypse who would ensure the failure of my delivery would be as follows:

• My creditor: the person who renews my contract, i.e. my chair.
• My landlord: the state that pays me.
• My competition: the other composition programs out there who drive every program to act according to the same model.
• My customers: the people I'm supposed to serve out of the goodness of my heart.

Let me break it down. My creditor wants me to maintain standards, which means certain grades should form a bell-shaped curve. (The books must be balanced!) My landlord wants me to concentrate on retention which means I should do whatever it takes to make sure students pass my class. (You must pass all regulatory inspections.) My competition wants me to stay within the accepted rules of how we deliver our goods; this doesn't affect me personally, but it certainly dictates the methods by which we assess our program. (We are the standard-setters for this particular business; never mind your unique circumstances. Our guidelines should be met by everyone.) And finally, there are the customers. The people I'm supposed to serve out of love for teaching. And if I could have gotten loose of my restraints, believe me, I would have made my getaway on their horse. Unfortunately, there's already a master holding the bridles, and that master's name is "Lottery College Scholarship."

These students have been told they stand a fighting chance, and they want it. We tell them that writing is about exploration, and they feel invited. And then we slap a grade on their fledgling attempts, and I'm sorry for the mixed metaphor (but, hell, I'm the queen of the mixed metaphor and there are so many in this text already, what's one more?), we expect them to fly?

This model is broken because it pits the teacher against everyone else.

Students want to maintain their scholarships; chairs want a bell-shaped curve. The legislature wants to move the college graduation rate above 18%. I'm not sure standards have ever actually entered the minds of any legislator in this respect. My imaginary elected official thinks something like this: "Give college students the Easy A, damn it! Knowledge-based industries like Google will never figure out how woefully inadequate our workers are until we've attracted them with our tax incentive packages, and then it'll be too late!" Beg your pardon, legislators, the information age is actively looking for brain capital, and they know we don't have it.

In the meantime, the Council of Writing Program Administrators (WPA) sets standards for class size and assessment guidelines that go against anything any administrator in this state has the money to agree to thanks to the legislature that subsidizes every public school of higher education here. This is the very same legislature that decided to award unprepared students scholarships for college with stipulations they can't meet.

And this is why everything must go. And by everything I mean grades, standards, enforced curricula (assignments, textbooks, methods of teaching, especially the tabula rasa model), and the disenfranchisement of women in the discipline.

Oh, and grading 640 papers a semester? That was the first thing I put into the trash.

Photo Credit: Bearfaced via a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-NoDerivs License. http://www.flickr.com/photos/bearfaced/5845467008/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Thousands of Words, Hundreds of Miles, and Seven Pounds Later

Several of my friends have been using this month as a chance to reflect on the things they're thankful for. My mom and I conducted an e-mail exchange along those lines each November for a few years. But this year I spent the month winning NaNoWriMo (see badge at left). And when I finished that challenge, I realized the things I'm thankful for are things I made happen: I wrote a novel (no, it's not done and not even ready for revision), I became a runner, and I lost the seven pounds I gained after my dad died of cancer last year.

I celebrated these feats last night by drinking a couple glasses of wine and going to bed early. Hey, I know how party!

So let's start with NaNoWriMo: November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Anyone who wants to can sign up for an account at the NaNoWriMo.org website. Writers can then use a variety of resources to help them write 50,000 words by November 30: pep talks, a word count tracker, and merchandise like Chris Baty's book No Plot, No Problem! Writers who make it to the 50,000 word minimum "win" the contest. For their troubles, they receive a certificate and special internet badges that indicate they've won (see badge above). Yeah, that's pretty much it.

So now you may be wondering how I came to participate in the contest.

As with most meaningful things that have happened to me in my life, this one happened quite by accident. I woke up on November 1st, thought to myself, "Oh, NaNoWriMo starts today. Let's see if I can get 1667 words." And I did. Then I did it the next day and the next day and the next day until last night when I hit the 50,000 word mark and validated my word count on the NaNoWriMo site. Technically, I was supposed to have spent the month of October prepping, but since I wasn't planning to participate, I did no research whatsoever (which I'll come back to later on.) I had tried the contest a couple times before (never got past 6000 words), and then completely ignored it last year thinking that it just wasn't for me. So what was different this year?

First of all, I had a plot that included a beginning, middle, and end. Second, as I started writing, I either fell in love or in hate, as appropriate, with my characters. Third, the work is ultimately a discussion of some of my favorite subjects: art history, the Marquis de Sade, the link between pleasure and pain, the place of morality in the world, and what it means for something to be "beautiful." It also doesn't hurt that it takes place in Paris, the streets of which I can walk from the comfort of my home in Conwag.

And here's what I learned about life, writing, and teaching writing:

1) You have more time than you think. On Day Three, I had to respond to 35 student drafts while helping supervise the writing center where I am assistant director and attend two meetings. I figured I'd still have that night to write and was then that I had volunteered to act in a short film for my friend CEP. All the shooting was complete except for the green screen scenes, and he had reserved the screen room for that night and that night only. I asked if he didn't mind shooting everyone else's parts and then calling me when he needed me. No, he didn't mind (thanks, CEP!). So in the few hours between getting home and getting in costume, I managed my 1667 words. When I got to 35,000 words, my pace started slowing. I woke one morning at 3:30 and started feeling guilty. Then it dawned on me: "I'm just going to lie here tossing and turning feeling guilty. I'm never going to fall back asleep. Why not just get up and write?" So that's what I did. You've got five idle minutes? You gonna spend it on Facebook? Or you gonna write? Which will mean more to you in the end? Question answered.

2) This relates directly to number one: find people who support you because they'll make sure you've got the time. Leave behind those who don't support you because they'll only see your work as a frivolous excuse for turning down invitations and begging off extra work they've contrived for you to do. Facebook was instrumental in building a network of support. Posting my word count to strangers on NaNoWriMo didn't really mean anything to me. But posting the milestones on FB and receiving "Likes" and congratulations was a tremendous boost to my motivation. Which led me to another conclusion: psychologists say that if you tell someone you're going to do something, you're more likely to do it. That may be true, but if the people you tell start nagging you, you're going to dig in your heels and say, "Na, na, na, na, na, you can't make me." The reinforcement has to be positive. Also, The Hubs finally understands what I mean when I say, quoting Stevie Nicks, "I wanna be a star! I don't wanna be a cleaning lady."

3) Drafting and revising are separate activities. When you have a looming deadline for a rough, rough draft, just write the draft. It used to be that I had the leisure of writing from the beginning until I got stuck, at which point I'd go back to the top and start revising until I got unstuck. Then I'd begin drafting again until I got stuck and end up back at the beginning revising to "unstuck" again. I'm not sure that's the most efficient way to go about writing. I'm now convinced that just getting something down and often working on bits and pieces as the muse for that section calls is more efficient. Now that I've got a huge chunk of novel finished, I feel like I can continue moving forward without ever getting stuck again. And what's the point of going back to revise something that might end up cut from the original because of a plot problem? And this especially translates to teaching: why should a student revise a section of her research paper that may actually contradict her thesis or be completely irrelevant to her focus?

4) Sometimes you just need to write and fill in the gaps that need to be researched later. I could have spent the entire month reading about the philosophy of the Marquis de Sade, translating stories I wanted to use from Le Monde, etc. But I didn't have time for that. Better to get down the story line and develop the characters and worry about the details later. I used asterisks, blanks, and highlighting to indicate places I needed to develop through research, names I hadn't decided on, and fact and spelling checking I needed to do. I can now worry about those things during the December break. Le Monde is archived like any other newspaper; I can go back to the news that fits my story line and translate those articles later. And I get to keep Airaksinen's Philosophy of the Marquis de Sade until March, at which time I can certainly renew it from the library.

So that's what NaNoWriMo did for me.

I've written before about what running has meant in my life. I started the day my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor (see post dated August 9). I had to put it aside when school started, but now that I've come to realize that I have more time than I thought I had, I've taken it back up again. Also, sitting in front of a computer for nearly a month has made me want to feel my whole body move again, not just my fingers as they glide over a keyboard. Funnily enough, it got a little cold yesterday, so I spent some time this morning doing research on technical gear for runners (that's backpacker/hiker/runner speak for clothes that keep you warm and dry) and discovered a new accidental challenge: the day I started running again (Thanksgiving), Runner's World started the first annual Holiday Running Streak: run one mile a day from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Pfft. That's nothing. If you're friends with me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter, you can be sure I'll be posting my triumphs daily, assuming this initial soreness doesn't put me in a wheelchair.

And as for the seven pounds...well, that came off without a hitch. I owe it all to single-serving bags of popcorn and Granny Smith apples for breakfast (because I don't like sweet stuff). If I lost a couple more pounds, I could easily rock a size two, but you know what...I'm pretty damn happy with what I've accomplished so far.

It's been a good year.