A Report on Rapport

It’s ironic, I think, that Inside Higher Ed has decided to link to my post about academic time since it’s exactly a lack of time that has prevented me from posting. The semester’s gravity has sucked me in, indeed. Enough whining, on with the post.

I have to admit it, I love to teach. At my (research) institution, the old saw about the lack of investment in teaching just isn’t true, at least not in the English department. The professors as well as the grad students here are incredibly invested in instruction, both at the undergrad and grad level, and are some of the most reflective teachers I’ve met. That said, in this, our third week of classes, many of the grad instructors are encountering resistance from their students. It happens every semester. The grad students are bright, articulate, and know the material. They are, for the most part, enthusiastic. But many of them have the same complaint about their students: “They just won't talk.” I attribute this to the inability of some teachers to effectively build rapport with their students. Of course the writing course most of us teach doesn’t, in and of itself, have students singing from their dorm windows. This is the only course that every undergrad has to take. They typically come in uninspired and somewhat dispirited. In my class though, almost from the first day, everyone is taking, students stay after class to talk to me. Why? I would like to think that it’s because I’m especially charismatic, but it’s not. It’s because I design my course so that this happens. This is how:

Fun

Though we all have to teach the “same” course in terms of the structure of the writing assignments and learning objectives, the content is up to us. While a lot of instructors base their courses around their research interests, I don’t. Why? Because I couldn’t face twenty-five freshman everyday and expect them to get excited about eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British literature and culture. Would it help my research if I taught a class like this? Yes. I am incredibly invested in my “work,” but I can’t subject freshmen in a required, non-lit course to only the things that I’m interested in. Since the learning objectives are about arguing and writing, I want them to argue and write about things that they’ll find . . . well, fun. So on my wife’s suggestion, I designed a course around reality TV. And I can still talk about the things I’m interested in on the theoretical level like gender, class, and textual interpretation.

It's All About the Kids

In the classroom, I try the best I can to flatten the power hierarchy. Of course I know that there are always extreme explicit and implicit power differentials at play, but we talk about them openly. I also talk about my role as a grad student, about the work I do, about how even I miss deadlines. They understand that I understand that the end of the semester is busy for everyone, and that we all have other things to attend to besides this class, but we still have to do it. Besides humanizing me—not always an easy task—the other upside is that they cut me a little slack if I’m late getting papers back.

In class, I’m fully invested, not only mentally, but bodily. I flail a bit more than I should, shout for emphasis, and generally run about the room like a maniac when it will make a point. In my class I have no shame and the kids know it. If I can embarrass myself a bit, they might be less afraid of embarrassing themselves.

The most important thing I do is to care about the kids. I know it sounds cloying, or a bit Dead-Poets-Society-y, but it’s true. I always come to class early and talk to the students as they come in. I ask about how their lacrosse games went, how they fared on their calculus exams, and if they’ve managed to mend ties with that estranged dorm mate. I always make time for them. I take them seriously and, in turn, they take me seriously too, despite the flailing.

Sylla-bliss

So it's finally done. The syllabus, that is. I give my syllabus out over the course of two days because, well, it's quite comprehensive, though not as comprehensive is it was last year. (Last fall's syllabus weighed in at a whopping 35 pages. No, that's not a typo.)

The first section contains the course description, the learning objectives, and all the boilerplate administrative stuff, which continues to grow. This semester, for the first time, I’ve had to include a clause notifying students that they cannot photograph or record any class sessions unless they have a documented disability that would be mitigated by having a recording. And of course, they must have my “express written consent.” I don’t teach when I’m drunk, but nonetheless, I’d like to avoid the kind of fame this guy has gotten.

The second section is a very detailed course schedule which is probably a bit too hand-holdy, especially considering where I teach. It includes one or two guiding questions for the day, what the student’s should have read, and the homework for the following class. It’s meant to be airtight because I have . . . shall I say inherently litigious students. Litigious and quite literal. Excellent students, yes. Better than any students I’ll likely have when I have a “real job,” yes. But also quite good at finding and exploiting loopholes. And man, do they care about their grades. Hence their adeptness at finding those loopholes, because it’s often easier than doing the actual work, and their workloads are insane. Understand that it’s not uncommon for an undergrad at my institution to have two majors, three or four minors, and still graduate in three years. We have very smart, very motivated students—many international—and they aren’t charged more if they take more than a full-time load. So, to save money, and to get back home more quickly, they’ll often take seven classes per semester. And my class is typically (read: always) at the bottom of their long list of priorities. So why title this post “Sylla-bliss” when all I’m doing is complaining?

Here’s the bliss. We discussed Toulmin arguments today and a full third of the class was able to identify warrants by the end of the discussion. A third. And these were pretty hard-to-identify warrants, too. I’m still amazed.

Edited to add: It appears that even five or six pages may be too long. One bloggy student says (not about my class; I just found this on Technorati):

There are two very simple reasons that I will fail this class. The first is that it is incredibly hard. We are all literally sitting there with no clue what's happening. Our syllabus is literally five or six pages long; so long in fact, that we had to sign a contract assuring our professor that we'd read it.

This is why AcadeMama might be right, though this student might object to a quiz, too. I quiz sounds like a great idea partly becuase I think having students sign a contract makes for an even more litigious atmosphere.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Too cold to leave my daughter at daycare since, as I found out this morning, her daycare building doesn't have any heat. So back home we went to email my students, letting them know that their second class has been canceled.

Despite the guilt I feel about canceling class, it's nice to unexpectedly get to spend the day with one's own kid instead of with someone else's kids.