As I enter my last few weeks of graduate school—which cannot come soon enough—I wonder where my next academic venture will begin. While typing this thought, I am silently screaming at myself for even considering another academic adventure. I have instructed all members of my family and my closest friends to slap me or ridicule me if I ever mention a doctoral program.

In my undergraduate days, I never thought of myself as an academic. Though Graff’s depiction of flabbergasted college students, in awe of textual material they just cannot understand, doesn’t accurately categorize me as an undergraduate either. I simply believed that a four-year degree was a necessity in the 21^st century world; college was the expected route for students who excelled in high school and were clueless as to what to do upon graduation. I went to college because I didn’t know what else I could do. Did I excel while I was there? Sure…but I only did enough to maintain the level of success I had already achieved in high school.

Perhaps I was not intellectually engaged in college. Graff’s educational philosophies strive to engage students with the text and peak their interest in analysis and criticism. His tactics were used (intuitively, I presume) by many of the teachers I had in high school, though I’m sorry to say, many of my professors in college preferred giving lectures on the texts and assigning analysis papers. This “cult” of academia, that views the college classroom as superior to secondary education, seems as though it could learn much from the intuitive tactics of middle and high school educators. The successful secondary educator, with her varied students with multiple-intelligences, must believe that all of her students are capable of producing glimmers of genius, if given the opportunity. College professors, on the other hand, seem to assume that their student population possesses homogenous intellectual abilities and goals. Adopting the secondary educators’ assumption of intelligence might better prepare college professors and academia for the students they receive. Graff supports this assumption in Chapter 11, “Hidden Intellectualism.” He admits that his “own working premise as a teacher is that inside every street-smart student—that is, potentially every student—is a latent intellectual trying to break out, and that it’s my job to tease out that latent person and help it articulate itself in more public form” (212).

This is a smart assumption from a public forum—the University—that seems intuitive. I was guilty of the same assumption that many college professors and some secondary teachers adopt; I thought students who entered college were intellectually superior to their peers. Our assumptions harm our students and the collegiate education system. By assuming that our students know how to analyze and argue and write upon being accepted into a four-year program, we are negating, not promoting, the power of education.

Graff’s introductory section “The Overrating of Fact” cited a calamity central to our county’s educational practices: “Displaying pointless information for its own sake—the activity rewarded by many standardized tests—is the mark of a bore, not an educated person” (31). I nearly shouted “Amen!” after reading Graff’s assertion; why then, does our educational system stress the regurgitation of factual information on our state tests? What can students learn through this practice, and what type of thinkers are we creating?

Graff offers a practical classroom solution, “Instead of imparting facts in a vacuum, teachers are likely to be more successful when they introduce information as it becomes necessary for students to make sense of an issue or a set of arguments” (32). As a teacher, I practice this method of back-loading factual information, but what purpose does my teaching philosophy serve when my students’ final challenge comes in the form of a standardized test? Surely our students, as Graff warns, see through our binary teaching practices. The paradoxical atmosphere of modern education harms students and teachers alike. How can we expect ourselves to teach higher-level thinking strategies when our state tests demand factual regurgitation?

Furthermore, teaching our subject in exclusion of other subjects, even through high-level thinking strategies, seems counterproductive to interdisciplinary teaching. Students in my English class seem thoroughly confused when I tell them that analytical thinking does not always produce an obviously correct answer. They are trained to produce a factual answer in math, science, and social studies and the uncertainties of literary analysis frighten them. As an English teacher, I worry that my students will be further confused in high school and college if their teachers demand a certain analysis of a piece of literature. How do I simultaneously teach them that literature offers uncertain answers (unlike other core subjects) yet some English teachers will require certain analysis? Could the job get any more complicated?

When learning becomes convoluted and teaching uncertain, what student or educator can flourish in this confusing academic world? During my teaching career, I have often felt like I cannot “do” my job correctly. Graff’s research and educational philosophies, as interesting and insightful as they are, leave me feeling like a failure. Are we, as educators and students alike, ever going to have a clue? Will there be any certainty in our uncertain careers and studies? The field of education seems to continually reinvent and question itself. While I appreciate this self-reflective cycle, it leaves one wanting stability and “a clue” in our clueless situation.

When I was a high school student, my English teacher used Kate Chopin’s “Story of an Hour” to illustrate the concept of irony. Now that I am also an English teacher, I can appreciate the complexity of teaching irony and my students’ subsequent misunderstanding of the literary element. As I reread “Story of an Hour,” I questioned whether a New Critical approach would have better helped me, as a high school student, understand irony and Chopin’s use of the element in Mrs. Mallard’s approach to the news of her husband’s death.

I remember feeling shocked that a wife, upon hearing of her husband’s brutal death, could have felt anything akin to freedom or relief. Would it have benefited my eventual understanding of irony if my teacher had front-loaded the class with information regarding the treatment of women in 19^th century America? Perhaps he assumed that teenagers would have intuitively understood a 19^th century woman’s desire for independence from a male-dominated society. But the central problem in understanding the irony at work in Chopin’s story, is that our 21^st century students do not have a cultural basis for understanding Mrs. Mallard’s situation. Our students, contrary to our graduate-schooled selves, do not understand Mrs. Mallard’s feminist desires. As a teacher, I now know that many of my students would view the “widow” as cruel and deserving of her untimely death. The element of irony that “Story of an Hour” clearly illustrates would seem overshadowed by my students’ negative contemporary judgments regarding Mrs. Mallard’s behavior.

I believe many students would benefit from a well-structured preamble to the teaching of canonized texts. Though I feel New Critical theory has its place in secondary education, a teacher should initially introduce the concept without his or her students’ conscious knowledge. As a student myself, I favor creative and innovative lesson planning over a front-loaded lecture any day. If I were teaching irony via “Story of an Hour,” I would prime my students’ contemporary sensibilities with 19^thcentury role playing. My female students could play the role of Mrs. Mallard-esque women and the males could adopt the privilege bestowed upon Mr. Mallard-esque men. After role-playing, we could discuss their character’s behavior in juxtaposition to how women and men behave in modern society.  Without explaining my New Critical approach, my students would become better able to analyze the 19^th century characters in Chopin’s ironic story.

Would my high school class have developed more empathy for Mrs. Mallard’s cloistered existence if my teacher had helped us develop a cultural basis for our understanding? Cultural compassion, at the very least, would result from a creative New Critical approach to the study of classic texts. Students would develop an appreciation for the literary skill Chopin exercises in her writing, whether or not they understand the complexity of irony. Perhaps teachers should help their students create cultural connections with century-old text before we ask them to analyze difficult literary concepts.

Each human is his or her own favorite subject. And after reading several self-evaluations this week, it seems we routinely self-deprecate and feel guilty for this introspection. What else should we contemplate in our weekly blogs than our personal opinions and theories on the craft of teaching and understanding literature? Our experiences are our only vantage point unless we practice perfect empathy and martyrdom (which might seem like a prerequisite for teaching). We weigh ourselves against the texts and evaluate where we stand in relation to what we learn–these qualities make us lifelong students and worthy teachers. And as teachers, we rule our own domain; our students view us as the purveyors of content knowledge. It seems a natural progression (or pitfall) to start thinking or ourselves as the expert.

Looking over my previous blogs, I have noticed moments when I seem to flaunt my believed expert status (particularly in relation to my post concerning Wilner’s essay last week). Because I view my rapport with my students as primary and teaching literature and language as secondary, I could not condone Wilner’s treatment of her students. I felt perturbed enough about Wilner’s teaching style that I composed a blog for all of my classmates to read. What could anyone else learn from my rants? Was it narcissistic to post my opinion that suggested Wilner‘s style was flawed?  Perhaps. But because of my reflections on Wilner, I now reflect before criticizing (whether verbally or mentally) my students.

Not only do I rely on my teaching experiences as evidence of my growing “expert” status in my classroom, but I also incorporate knowledge from my life experiences unrelated to teaching. My first blog seemed to speak more to the pleasure of difficulty in life than the difficulty I have experienced as a reader.  I have noticed that I tend to blend the lines between the analysis of the text I read and the analysis of my life experiences. While reflecting on my blogs, I have recognized that my reading comprehension depends on my ability to mesh the textual information I consume with the prior knowledge I have harvested throughout my life. This mini-epiphany, common sense as it may seem, will allow me to relate to my students and better understand the value of this blended approach to learning and teaching. How can I expect my students to fully understand or value a text that does not correlate with their life experiences? How could Wilner have expected this? Why do teachers encourage and require students to read literature that they could not possibly understand without properly priming their minds with prior knowledge experiences? Through reading and reflecting, I have learned that good teaching requires good scaffolding practices. I have also realized that information gained through reading, without an emphasis on the application of this knowledge, makes learning a stagnant enterprise. 

Now, I find myself ranting again…. perhaps a shift from self-reflection to action will allow our cyber-ranting to bring about the change we seek.

-Jennifer Carter-Wharton

I might stand alone with my complaint, but I’m rather accustomed to that, so I’ll just air my grievance. I found Wilner’s analysis of her students’ interpretive skills rather alarming and a bit degrading. She states that her “students responded to texts in such self-centered, such willfully naïve ways, that instead of interpreting or even shedding light on the text, they appeared simply to defy it” (173). I found myself questing whether their lack of interpreting ability was a personal flaw or their professor’s failure. Wilner’s expectations regarding the basic level of her under-graduate students’ analytical skills seemed excessive. The texts her under-graduate students were given, “Territory” and “Sonny’s Blues,” not only require open-minds but high-level skills in literary analysis. The cultural, literary, and historical knowledge needed to handle the texts Wilner provided seemed beyond the capability of her students. The critical stance Wilner took toward the failings of her students should have also been directed at her teaching style.

I do not applaud the forum that Wilner provided for her students to voice their hateful stereotypes and prejudices. Wilner told of the time she wrote the word homophobia on the chalkboard and a student vocalized his hatred of homosexuals. Though it shocked me that this behavior was allowed in a higher education atmosphere, I felt Wilner should have addressed the student’s hatred for what it was—narrow-minded thinking. Instead, I felt she labeled all of her students unfairly because of a few bigoted perspectives. The bigoted outburst of one student seemed to allow a forum for bigoted conversation. Was this the learning experience that Wilner wished for? I hope not. Perhaps Wilner should have taken a mental note of her student population before assigning a text that they were not culturally equipped to handle. The need for scaffolding with this particular group of students seems obvious, even from a secondary educator’s perspective. Wilner’s students needed an anti-New Criticism approach to the reading of “Territory” before actually reading the text. If Wilner would have known her students’ cultural biases more thoroughly—and used scaffolding methods to approach culturally difficult texts—I feel the students would have been better able to analyze the material. I wondered throughout the essay which came first, Wilner’s assumptions about the inept literary skills of her students or her assumptions regarding their inept cultural sensitivity?

If I were teaching “Territory” or “Sonny’s Blues” to under-graduates who appeared culturally and analytically bankrupt, I would hope my approach would focus first on background knowledge and literary and cultural sensitivity. Though I am not a fan of front-loading information, I believe that when presenting potentially controversial texts, a teacher must know when to forgo the New Critical approach. I was pleased when Wilner began the process of self-reflection toward the end of her essay in the section “Am I Blue?” The truest statement of the piece was Wilsner’s analysis of her own approach: “Unless I continue to examine my own assumptions, I will not be effective in helping students confront theirs. Unless I view my practices as always provisional, I cannot expect my students to see themselves as always ‘in process’ ” (193). Wilsner deserves credit for writing about her failed teaching strategies; though I feel I have learned more about what not to do when teaching difficult texts than what to do from reading her self-analysis.

Last week’s Think Aloud, paired with the written analysis of the exercise, helped me better understand how my students must feel when I urge them to master the uncertain skill of interpreting literature. I chose to analyze the Think Aloud that I participated in, and in my analysis, I realized that acquiring knowledge truly is a process. I was surprised that our group analysis during the Think Aloud fluctuated from literal to figurative meaning and then back to literal understanding; the cyclical nature of our analysis did not produce a concrete understanding of Williams’ poem.

As a lifelong reader of poetry, I feel uneasy when I cannot unearth poetic meaning. In my secondary and undergraduate education (even many graduate classes), I have assumed that a close reading and analysis of poetry will uncover the poet’s intended meaning. After the Think Aloud, I am left questioning the certainty of knowing. If knowledge is indeed a process, and the poem a living organism that changes with time, what can the reader conclude about the permanence of poetic meaning? Perhaps poetic meaning isn’t permanent. A poem, by nature, seems to riddle the reader with metaphorical and figurative imagery, while giving away little more than the literal words on the page. Williams’ intended meaning in “Between Walls” could live in the world of the Imagist movement, where the essence of the thing described creates the central focus of the poem. The image represented in the poem could hold the meaning of the poem. How could a reader unarmed with knowledge of the Imagist movement, or the Modernist movement that followed it, truly understand Williams’ poetry? How can I expect my young students to correctly analyze poetry when I doubt the certainty of poetic knowledge? Should this uncertainty and difficulty pinning down meaning pervade the analysis of literature? Should I teach uncertainty?

After struggling through the Think Aloud exercise, writing the analysis, and reading this week’s poetry selections, I feel comfortable advocating uncertainty. The Norton Introduction to Literature offers some suggestions (pg. 407) that I found helpful when analyzing poetry, though I think these suggestions could apply to all literature as well. The most comforting suggest was “assume there is a reason for everything.” When I analyze a poem, trusting the artistic vision of the poet becomes paramount. As a teacher, I hope advocating this authorial trust will transfer patience and understanding to my students.

Grading is the bane of my existence as a middle school English teacher. I have realized that my colleagues in the English department and I seem to spend a great deal of our time, on the job and at home, grading essays and various other written assignments. After six years of teaching, I still have not found a way to run an essay through the Scantron machine, though I have become a rather efficient grader through skillful speed reading and judicious use of my editing pen .

The Inquiry Project attracted my attention with its focus on content rather than conquest. Regardless of all the time and tears I spend grading my students’ essays, they flip through my comments and pen marks looking for a single letter–A, B, C, D, or F. The eleven tasks required to pass the Inquiry Project help focus a student’s attention on the benefit of a final course project, rather than the completion of yet another mind-numbing research paper. Though the breadth of the Inquiry Project does not seem fitting for the middle school student, I believe a well-planned Literature Circle could mirror the reading and writing skills gained in the college-level Inquiry Project.

My eighth-graders and I have just complete our first adventure through the land of Literature Circles. Like the Inquiry Project, all novels chosen for my Literature Circle project contained the analogous theme of race and culture; and like the Inquiry Project, my primary focus of Literature Circles was to refine my students’ questioning processes. I wanted my students to question how each novel portrayed its characters dealing with issue regarding race and culture in America. My students were paired with classmates who chose to read the same novel, and this became their Literature Circle group. Though they had assignments to complete as a group, they were also given time to discuss points of interest and confusion they discovered throughout the reading process. Instead of making each group complete a final project, all students participated in a Socratic Seminar concerning race and culture. A Socratic Seminar combines oral language skills and close-text reading, as well as personal opinion reflections (something all students, regardless of age, enjoy relating). When I informed my students that this “oral test” counted as their final Literature Circle exam, I was bombarded with question about how I would assess their grade. Because of the academic focus on making the grade, my students could not fathom the idea that their intelligent and thoughtful oral responses were of value “grade-wise.”

The Inquiry Project provides a cultural shift in assessment that benefits all levels of education, from pre-elementary to post-graduate. When students focus on the quality of their thoughts, rather than the quantitative value of their questioning, real learning takes place. After receiving their Socratic Seminar “grades,” my students are clamoring for more Literature Circle-style assessments.

Jennifer Carter-Wharton

During the past few days I have had to process some rather difficult family information; after reading several blogs, I feel it appropriate to apply the idea of pleasurable difficulty to my familial turmoil, and thereby, the world outside of literature. Reading has always been a sort of salvation for me, an escape from the difficulty of life; instead of encountering frustration within literature, I often find the “real world” incredibly more complicated. After mulling through my latest domestic crisis, I realize that Salvatori and Donahue might lend of bit of wisdom toward the difficulty of life and literary struggle alike.

As Salvatori and Donahue concur, the necessity of dealing with difficult text accompany many learning experiences, particularly many reading experiences that include processing hearty pieces of literature…or in my case, tough bites of family news that seems to choke me when I’m deep in the middle of grading a stack of month-long overdue essays or, say, composing a blog for graduate school. Digesting a thick bit of literature, whether read once or reread several times, seems quite like the continual cud of turmoil some people (related to me) chew over and over and over…and through genetic ties, I too feel I am digesting the same saliva-coated crises over and over and over.

What’s a reader—or a relative—to do? Learn. Without difficulty, to put it simply, life and reading becomes too clean and tidy—too unlearned. When my students and I get elbow-deep and dirty in a piece of literature, I feel that we appreciate each other and our learning experience with a greater sincerity. Like family, we bond over our shared struggle and surface together, alive and stronger because of our diligence and reverence to difficulty.

Last week’s reading, “Taking Learning Seriously” helped me draw another comparison regarding the analogous difficulty of literature and life. Shulman professes that learning “is least useful when it is private and hidden; it is most powerful when it becomes public and communal” (2). Problems with family—and difficult literature—are best picked, plucked, made public, and hopefully, understood. Or, at the very least, accepted as unsolvable, perhaps pleasurable, slices of learning.

-Jennifer Carter-Wharton