If you read the title of this blog and wondered what the two have to do with each other, well, we're in the same boat.
For today's class discussion, I had my students read "Columbine: Whose Fault is it?". An interesting little ditty written by the shock rocker himself; students generally eat it up. It typically brings up interesting comments about media, video games, music, and makes students talk about darker subjects. On the one hand, they're not entirely in their comfort zone because of the events the article discusses; on the other, they are authorities because they have all come into contact with these items of entertainment.
Anywho, class context aside. We're full throttle into an engaging discussion. We've come to an interesting intersection in which students began asking about the role of religion in these types of massacres, when a student raises hir hand anxiously.
"I just have to say, I have a serious problem with the Amish!"
Things came to a screeching halt, all around the room students were suffering from conversational whiplash. Before I was able to regain my wits and prepare to response, another student chimed in: "Yeah, what's up with them?"
Apparently, one of these students has had issues with Amish children "coming out of the corn and running at her car" on her way to work.
In my altruistic English teacher's heart, I wanted to respond with a grandiose statement of universal tolerance, and etc. Instead, I had to make sure that she wasn't confusing her own experience with Children of the Corn, "Was the kid's name Malachi?"
Before I could redeem myself, or the wonderful discussion we'd had, it was time to leave. I will have to begin next our session with a defense of Amish practices!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The end is in sight
...and I can tell because I've spent the morning systematically destroying my fingernails, checking my Facebook, online Christmas shopping, typing random letters into http://www.acronymfinder.com/ and perusing blogs, academic and non-academic alike. Unfortunately, I rearranged my wrapping paper and gift bag assortment at the end of last semester, so that leaves me with alphabetizing CDs and DVDs (or arranging according to genre) or cleaning the microwave. *shuddering*
Despite my lolly gagging, I have begun a convincing list of sources for two upcoming papers and, with any luck, might just have abstracts prepared for two upcoming submission deadlines. I'm wondering if I'll send them, though. I hear about these conference things, and what great experiences they are and how nicely they pad a CV. I've got two under my belt but--aside from the little lines they occupy on my CV--they're pretty shallow notches. It seems that these are places where academic bigwigs rub elbows and share intellectual nods--worse yet are the graduate students, you know, with their theoretical jargon and their khaki pants (kids these days). They seem to know the game.
Then there's me. I attend these conglomerations with the same confused expression as someone at their first salsa lesson: its scary, it looks painful and I have no idea what the steps are. I smile, nod, shake hands, read my paper, smile again, and look forward to getting back to the hotel bar. Maybe I should buy khaki pants. I do enjoy listening to panels, and either making mental notes of how to adopt a speaker's excellent personal presentation or feeling relieved that at least I didn't grimace as badly as that dude.
Is there a limit to how many conference presentations one should have? A graduate student friend once told me not to go to too many conferences, because it looks bad on a CV. This confused me. Can anyone corroborate this advice?
...tap left on the first beat, step forward on the same foot, rock back onto the right foot...
Despite my lolly gagging, I have begun a convincing list of sources for two upcoming papers and, with any luck, might just have abstracts prepared for two upcoming submission deadlines. I'm wondering if I'll send them, though. I hear about these conference things, and what great experiences they are and how nicely they pad a CV. I've got two under my belt but--aside from the little lines they occupy on my CV--they're pretty shallow notches. It seems that these are places where academic bigwigs rub elbows and share intellectual nods--worse yet are the graduate students, you know, with their theoretical jargon and their khaki pants (kids these days). They seem to know the game.
Then there's me. I attend these conglomerations with the same confused expression as someone at their first salsa lesson: its scary, it looks painful and I have no idea what the steps are. I smile, nod, shake hands, read my paper, smile again, and look forward to getting back to the hotel bar. Maybe I should buy khaki pants. I do enjoy listening to panels, and either making mental notes of how to adopt a speaker's excellent personal presentation or feeling relieved that at least I didn't grimace as badly as that dude.
Is there a limit to how many conference presentations one should have? A graduate student friend once told me not to go to too many conferences, because it looks bad on a CV. This confused me. Can anyone corroborate this advice?
...tap left on the first beat, step forward on the same foot, rock back onto the right foot...
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
You're majoring in what?
Sometimes my hormones make me stupid. More often, they make everyone else stupid...
People tend to react poorly when I tell them I major in English lit. Sometimes, in an attempt to be encouraging (or comforting, perhaps), the individual might ask, "Oh, have you read [insert some random paperback fiction]? It's really good!" Awkward. Especially because they seem to think me inept at my trade, if I have not read their latest fancy.
Then there's the reactions to hearing that I teach composition:
"My daughter's about to take that down at ____ University. I told her to prepare herself for a boring drudge of a class. I absolutely hated my composition classes in college."
"Yeah, I always hated English. I mean, I failed Comp I three times. But that was also because the teacher was so hot. I always had this fantasy about English teachers..."
Grr.
People tend to react poorly when I tell them I major in English lit. Sometimes, in an attempt to be encouraging (or comforting, perhaps), the individual might ask, "Oh, have you read [insert some random paperback fiction]? It's really good!" Awkward. Especially because they seem to think me inept at my trade, if I have not read their latest fancy.
Then there's the reactions to hearing that I teach composition:
"My daughter's about to take that down at ____ University. I told her to prepare herself for a boring drudge of a class. I absolutely hated my composition classes in college."
"Yeah, I always hated English. I mean, I failed Comp I three times. But that was also because the teacher was so hot. I always had this fantasy about English teachers..."
Grr.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Double Post
It's that time again!
...that time during the semester when I can't get to sleep at night, because I know they're there, lurking. Then in the morning, I can hardly motivate myself to get out of bed, because I know I have to face them--
the piles.
There's one pile of articles and books that have been sifted through and highlighted or post-it noted at random intervals. Actually, there's a few of these piles. But as I'm arranging these according to theme, it is all one pile, regardless of the actual number of stacks. Let's not even get into stacks.
There's another few piles of student portfolios. The Comp one pile is outgoing, thank goodness, but Comp II still needs dealt with. I'm trying to give myself some breathing room between the two, especially since the Comp II pile's got an oddly feral look to it... It never seems to be in the place I left it, and I think its getting bigger.
Piles of laundry, dishes, but that's almost comforting--I mean, what would my house be without them?
Pile of GRE subject test printouts, and Norton/Longman introductions. Ick. Standardized test cooties.
Pile of application materials. I'm trying to convince myself that its disheveled look is a sign of progress--being sifted through and marked in strategic places, but its mainly just disheveled.
On A Side Note:
This past weekend I went to the wedding of a British bloke whom I met on the bus about eight years ago. My grandpa would be proud; the man who could find a stranger to befriend even on a frozen tundra (he often introduced himself as "The ol' blister" cos there's nuthin' more irritatin' than a blister).
I have one more wedding to go to next weekend, and then I'm closing up shop for the winter. No more. I will send a gift in the mail if I have to. I am wedding'd out, particularly because they are no longer drinking affairs for me--I've got the sickness. More on that one, later.
...that time during the semester when I can't get to sleep at night, because I know they're there, lurking. Then in the morning, I can hardly motivate myself to get out of bed, because I know I have to face them--
the piles.
There's one pile of articles and books that have been sifted through and highlighted or post-it noted at random intervals. Actually, there's a few of these piles. But as I'm arranging these according to theme, it is all one pile, regardless of the actual number of stacks. Let's not even get into stacks.
There's another few piles of student portfolios. The Comp one pile is outgoing, thank goodness, but Comp II still needs dealt with. I'm trying to give myself some breathing room between the two, especially since the Comp II pile's got an oddly feral look to it... It never seems to be in the place I left it, and I think its getting bigger.
Piles of laundry, dishes, but that's almost comforting--I mean, what would my house be without them?
Pile of GRE subject test printouts, and Norton/Longman introductions. Ick. Standardized test cooties.
Pile of application materials. I'm trying to convince myself that its disheveled look is a sign of progress--being sifted through and marked in strategic places, but its mainly just disheveled.
On A Side Note:
This past weekend I went to the wedding of a British bloke whom I met on the bus about eight years ago. My grandpa would be proud; the man who could find a stranger to befriend even on a frozen tundra (he often introduced himself as "The ol' blister" cos there's nuthin' more irritatin' than a blister).
I have one more wedding to go to next weekend, and then I'm closing up shop for the winter. No more. I will send a gift in the mail if I have to. I am wedding'd out, particularly because they are no longer drinking affairs for me--I've got the sickness. More on that one, later.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Nerve damage
Or something like that. Perhaps its just a midterm anxiety attack. This semester, there is some type of strange mental blockage impeding my attempts to think clearly and engage with the material on any level below the surface without busting out a jack hammer, or at least hitting my head against a wall several times.
There were times, when I was a first year--heck, even just last semester--when I contributed to class discussion because I had things to say, and I had plenty of questions. Lately, I contribute because I am one of the many who would rather hear myself fumble than listen to the sudden whirr of crickets in the room; and I feel like despite having read the material multiple times, I don't have enough knowledge or understanding to even ask questions.
*Right now, I am inwardly shuddering at the ridiculous paraphrase I tried to make of a passage in Paradise Regained earlier this evening.*
Fuck. I'm doing the reading; I'm marking up my books; I'm trying to make connections-- sparks are firing but nothing is catching. Are these types of plateaus common in academia? I feel like an absolute dunce, especially when I consider several occasions of students with about five semesters less experience than me asking pertinent questions, and even actively sustaining discussions with professors! ACK! All the while, I scramble to keep up in my notes, which leads me to another topic that has been bugging me...
I became a notetaker this semester. Something new. I have been told that I "take good notes." I don't know what this means. Someone looking at my notes would have a pretty clear concept of what we covered in class on a given day, sure...but what exactly constitutes good note-taking?
The people at the notetaking headquarters had me fill out a check-list of good and bad note taking techniques (I don't have it handy, or I'd share it) and I was interested, although slightly miffed, that I did not have all of my check marks in the "good notetaker" column. Reflecting more self-consciously on my notes from class, I realize that I tend to take what I hear for granted, and write it down without considering it, without weighing its validity or hell--even my opinion of it. There is no filter, or any attempt at my own interpretation. Well, worse yet is when there is an attempt at interpretation, but somehow I never found a moment to ask for validation. I hate changing the direction of discussion in class; worse yet, the idea might just fall flat on its face. There are such things as stupid questions, after all.
A friend of mine from last year would have grandiose ideas transmitted to her through the lecture/discussion, which she would then record in a feverish haze and later turn into her final paper. I always wanted to trip her when she recounted her "lightbulb" moment. This has rarely, if ever, happened to me. My "great ideas" typically only occur in the process of writing the paper, which means that I have already taken the notes, read the material and its criticism, and yet formed none of my own thoughts until I was at least few pages into it. Herein lies my insecurity-where is the active and inquisitive, analytical mind that I was supposed to have acquired by now? The questions I am able to raise after several rereadings and a first draft--where are they when I first encounter the text (or at least by the second read through, or when the prof asks in class)? Shouldn't I be highly trained and sensitive to the material?
Enough. It's off to bed with me.
There were times, when I was a first year--heck, even just last semester--when I contributed to class discussion because I had things to say, and I had plenty of questions. Lately, I contribute because I am one of the many who would rather hear myself fumble than listen to the sudden whirr of crickets in the room; and I feel like despite having read the material multiple times, I don't have enough knowledge or understanding to even ask questions.
*Right now, I am inwardly shuddering at the ridiculous paraphrase I tried to make of a passage in Paradise Regained earlier this evening.*
Fuck. I'm doing the reading; I'm marking up my books; I'm trying to make connections-- sparks are firing but nothing is catching. Are these types of plateaus common in academia? I feel like an absolute dunce, especially when I consider several occasions of students with about five semesters less experience than me asking pertinent questions, and even actively sustaining discussions with professors! ACK! All the while, I scramble to keep up in my notes, which leads me to another topic that has been bugging me...
I became a notetaker this semester. Something new. I have been told that I "take good notes." I don't know what this means. Someone looking at my notes would have a pretty clear concept of what we covered in class on a given day, sure...but what exactly constitutes good note-taking?
The people at the notetaking headquarters had me fill out a check-list of good and bad note taking techniques (I don't have it handy, or I'd share it) and I was interested, although slightly miffed, that I did not have all of my check marks in the "good notetaker" column. Reflecting more self-consciously on my notes from class, I realize that I tend to take what I hear for granted, and write it down without considering it, without weighing its validity or hell--even my opinion of it. There is no filter, or any attempt at my own interpretation. Well, worse yet is when there is an attempt at interpretation, but somehow I never found a moment to ask for validation. I hate changing the direction of discussion in class; worse yet, the idea might just fall flat on its face. There are such things as stupid questions, after all.
A friend of mine from last year would have grandiose ideas transmitted to her through the lecture/discussion, which she would then record in a feverish haze and later turn into her final paper. I always wanted to trip her when she recounted her "lightbulb" moment. This has rarely, if ever, happened to me. My "great ideas" typically only occur in the process of writing the paper, which means that I have already taken the notes, read the material and its criticism, and yet formed none of my own thoughts until I was at least few pages into it. Herein lies my insecurity-where is the active and inquisitive, analytical mind that I was supposed to have acquired by now? The questions I am able to raise after several rereadings and a first draft--where are they when I first encounter the text (or at least by the second read through, or when the prof asks in class)? Shouldn't I be highly trained and sensitive to the material?
Enough. It's off to bed with me.
Friday, October 3, 2008
I have been dubbed "overly particular"
This is how a student described my comments on his/her first writing assignment which I returned to him/her yesterday. I was taken aback, to be sure. Since when do I have to let things slide? The extraneous use of words such as "quite" "very" "truly" "really" is not something I need to accept on any student's paper. It's not good writing--it's padding! What's worse is that while the student admitted to just throwing the words in there to meet the page requirement, he/she still seemed to fault me for calling it like I saw it. Just because this student's Comp I teacher was "more laid back" (to quote the student) does not mean that I am "overly particular." Grrr.
In other news, it is nearing midterm, and my home has, accordingly, reached mid-semester status: laundry baskets overflowing; boxes of kleenex everywhere for my "stress nose" (my tension tends to aim higher than my neck; it hits more in my sinuses); library books piled and serving as fortifications for kitten wars...To top it off, hubby & friends are reroofing this week. Lots of pounding, pounding, and pounding, and the cats tearing through the house screaming armageddon. Needless to say, it's been fun.
And we're off to a week of student conferences, followed by my first teaching observation (time to buy my students off with sweets!). I'll keep you posted, world.
In other news, it is nearing midterm, and my home has, accordingly, reached mid-semester status: laundry baskets overflowing; boxes of kleenex everywhere for my "stress nose" (my tension tends to aim higher than my neck; it hits more in my sinuses); library books piled and serving as fortifications for kitten wars...To top it off, hubby & friends are reroofing this week. Lots of pounding, pounding, and pounding, and the cats tearing through the house screaming armageddon. Needless to say, it's been fun.
And we're off to a week of student conferences, followed by my first teaching observation (time to buy my students off with sweets!). I'll keep you posted, world.
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