It’s been a year

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August 1, 2023, was my first official day of retirement. I left after 27 years of teaching at a small community college in western North Carolina. Officially, I retired early, but I say I ended my career right on time. Some may say that I was burned out or that I had quietly quit years before, and perhaps both are true. All I know is that I loved teaching, what it really is supposed to be, too much to keep trying to do it with little academic freedom or shared governance. I couldn’t remain in a place that cared more about enrollment and data than individual students and their learning.

Writing and editing, separate from the scads of e-mails I wrote and student writing I graded, are the things that kept me going the last few years of my teaching career. This blog, started in 2014, was the first place I regularly vented my frustrations at the negative changes I saw at my institution. But I also kept my spirits up by writing about teaching itself, some of my victories in the classroom, my memories of great teachers and wonderful teaching experiences I had.

Then, in 2017, after publishing another short story and having published dozens of theater reviews and feature articles for the local newspaper, I realized that risking rejection and criticism by putting my work out into the world not only helped me be a better writer, but it also made me a better writing teacher. I wanted to offer a special kind of professional development opportunity to other writing teachers and Teach. Write. was born. Editing Teach. Write. has been one of the joys of my life and is even better now that I have time to devote to its improvement.

However, even with the blog and the journal, the pressure was getting to me. The worst part of all was realizing how powerless I was to effect any change as I witnessed the autonomy that I had enjoyed at the beginning of my career begin to erode. So, I turned to a writing project that began as a musical but had laid dormant for several years–a satire called CAMPUS.

When it started getting particularly rough, I turned back to CAMPUS and decided, I think with the help of my wonderful daughter, that I wanted to turn my musical into a novel and keep the musical element alive by podcasting it with music. How? How would I do it? First, my daughter, a sound technician, did research on the best podcasting equipment, told my sweet husband, who bought the equipment for me as a Christmas gift. It wasn’t long before I was podcasting this crazy, satirical story about higher education at a small college in western North Carolina.

But not just any college. This enchanted campus has elves, gnomes, moon people, fairy godteachers, vampires, zombies, and a boojum–kind of an Appalachian yeti–oh, and a nazi. CAMPUS is definitely out there, but its weirdness has allowed me to say things I never could have said out loud otherwise. I produced about 13 episodes.

You can go and hear them at most podcasting platforms. Just search CAMPUS: A Novel That Wants to Be a Musical and you will find them. Don’t get too excited–the production value is low because I have no idea what I’m doing, but you know, I’m kind of proud of those episodes. I’m proud of myself for completing them, taking a chance. They helped me survive those last few years of teaching and the isolation of teaching during the worst of the pandemic years.

I want to get back to completing CAMPUS when I finish the other big writing projects on my plate right now, but until then, I will leave you with one of my favorite scenes from CAMPUS, when the discouraged, burned-out faculty makes their debut “Down at the Diploma Mill.”

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

At that, in true musical fashion, a slow droning chant arose from across the quad as “They” began to come in. The slow heavy beat of the prison blues, the stomping of feet like the striking of a heavy hammer on a stake. THEM, teachers in ragged clothes and carrying old worn-out books came onto the quad.  And they chanted:

ONCE WE WERE SOME BRIGHT YOUNG TEACHERS

ONCE WE WROTE ENGAGING LESSON PLANS

ONCE WE LOOKED INTO THEIR SHINING FACES

OUR STUDENTS WERE OUR INNOCENT LITTLE LAMBS

BUT NOW

BUT NOW

BUT NOW

CHORUS

WE’RE WORKIN’ DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

LOOKIN’ FOR SOME BRAIN CELLS TO KILL

WE NEVER MEANT IT TO BE THIS WAY

BUT WE GOT NOTHIN’ LEFT TO SAY

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

ONCE WE HAD SOME GOOD IDEAS

ONCE WE TRIED TO CHANGE OUR WAYS

WE ALL SHUNNED STANDARDIZED TESTS

TRIED OUR BEST

TO NOT BE LIKE THE REST

BUT NOW

BUT NOW

BUT NOW

WE’RE WORKING

AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

WE’RE WORKING DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

LOOKIN’ FOR SOME BRAIN CELLS TO KILL

WE NEVER MEANT IT TO BE THIS WAY

BUT WE GOT NOTHIN’ LEFT TO SAY

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

ASK AN ESSAY QUESTION

DO A PROJECT INSTEAD

BUT THE DEAN SAID IT WASN’T ASSESSMENT

WE SHOULD GET RETURN ON OUR INVESTMENT

IF IT’S NOT SOMETHING WE CAN CALCULATE

OR THAT’S EASY TO REGURGITATE

THEN IT’S SOMETHING YOU CAN’T DO

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

The group begins to hum as they mount the stage and form a line of disgruntled burned out teachers. An old professor in a ragged tweed jacket with torn leather patches on the shoulder, holding a pipe comes to the mic. There is no sign of Dr. DAG. He’s gone off to Dog Hobble to that expensive restaurant only a few residents and the tourists can afford.

The old professor takes the mic as the group hums on. He speaks:

I’ll tell you what I want.  Huh, come to think of it, what, exactly, do I want?  I used to want to be published in exclusive journals, solicited to speak at prestigious conferences, overseas…in Europe…in Paris, all expenses paid.  I wanted to be so valuable to the college I could thumb my nose at the presidents and VPs and deans and especially department chairs like Dr. C. J. Hamilton, who just had to lord over me his award-winning dissertation, the title of which he doesn’t let anyone forget– The Reawakening of Chartism and the Writings of Thomas Carlylse in the Post-Victorian/Pre-Edwardian Epoch.

Do you know what he said when I told him that I had my students all meet me at that great vegan restaurant in Asheville?  He said it was stupid! Yeah. My innovative idea!  A lot better than sitting around on a bunch of hard chairs in straight little rows listening to Dr. Hamilton drone on and on about Sartor Resartus and Queen Victoria’s increasing seclusion and her fat son’s sickening perversions.

 My idea was great!  We had a good meal, raised a few organic brews, and it was off to search for the famous O’Henry plaque embedded in the sidewalk near the cafe. We found it. I didn’t tell them that when O’Henry came to Asheville, he was a penniless drunk.  How could I tell a group of 20-somethings in a creative writing class that I knew all their dreams would come to nothing?

But then we all drove together over to the Grove Park Inn to find the F. Scott Fitzgerald room.  They all wanted to see the place where Fitzgerald didn’t write while he waited for Zelda to slowly lose her mind.  We found the room, but I think we had all underestimated the effect of that many beers, organic or not, on our critical thinking skills. We had a hard time finding the room, and when we did and got in there… How did we get in there?

The concierge wasn’t too happy that we barged in on those German tourists.  At least one of them was German because I recognized certain select vernacular.  Anyway, before the burly one threw us out, I did get a glimpse around the room, a nice room, but ordinary, nothing special about it at all really. I mean why should there be?  Fitzgerald just sat there, day in and day out, not writing and drinking himself into mind- numbing oblivion. On second thought, although I can’t tell you what I want, I can tell you what I don’t want.  I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Then the others joined him in the rousing chorus.

CHORUS

WORKIN’ DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

LOOKIN’ FOR SOME BRAIN CELLS TO KILL

WE NEVER MEANT IT TO BE THIS WAY

BUT WE GOT NOTHIN’ LEFT TO SAY

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

The old professor sings

WHY DID I SPEND THAT MONEY TO BE A DOCTOR

WHEN ALL THEY REALLY WANT IS A PROCTOR?

WHY BOTHER CALLING ME A TEACHER

WHEN I’M JUST A FACILITATOR

FESTERING IN THIS STINKING DIPLOMA MILL?

SO, I DON’T EVEN WANT TO TRY

THE STUDENTS SAY MY CLASS IS TOO BORING

TOO MUCH GRAMMAR OR LIT STARTS THEM SNORING

I NEED TO TRY TO ASK THE GOOD QUESTIONS

NOW I CAN ONLY HIDE MY FRUSTRATION

IT’S ALL I CAN DO TO KEEP THEM FROM TEXTING

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

And the others join in the final CHORUS

WORKIN’ DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

LOOKIN’ FOR SOME BRAIN CELLS TO KILL

WE NEVER MEANT IT TO BE THIS WAY

BUT WE GOT NOTHIN’ LEFT TO SAY

DOWN AT THE DIPLOMA MILL

Teaching Again

All they did was ask me to do a 15-minute devotional at my church’s drama camp, 3rd-8th graders and young high school and college-aged counselors, but I felt like I was back in the classroom again. The camp leader said I should talk about perseverance and use our verse for the week–James 1: 2-4.

2 Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,[ a] whenever you face trials of many kinds, 3 because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. 4 Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

I was ridiculously excited to put together this little lesson. Just like in the old days, I tried to consider my audience–a wide range of ages, more girls than boys, artsy theater kids, not easy to engage–a challenge. Yes!

The first think I did was choose a PowerPoint theme with some interesting graphics and give my talk a title. I chose a presentation template called Pheasant and called it “If at first you don’t succeed.” I know what you’re thinking, PowerPoint is so passe, how can that engage? What a corny title, how will that grab kids’ attention? I didn’t know how. I just went with my gut–just like in the old days.

First thing good teachers do is review, right? So, I reviewed the verse, emphasizing how perseverance helps us grow. Then, as an example, I did research on some young actors who went through adversity before they made their breakthroughs and settled on Millie Bobby Brown, who started trying to get commercials and roles at a very young age. She and her family were about to give up when she got the role of Eleven in the hit Netflix series Stranger Things, for which she won a Screen Actors Guild Award. My thinking was that trying to get roles and failing would resonate with kids who the day before had auditioned for the little plays we would do at the end of the week. Not all of them received the roles they had set their hearts own. My strategy worked. This rowdy bunch of kids were quiet, listening, engaged.

Next came the question for the audience: Have you ever failed at something? Raise your hand. Many of them raised their hands? Give me one word to describe how you felt? The answers came–sad, depressed, bad, heart-broken, mad. Just as in my classrooms before, I wanted my talk to be interactive. I continued to ask questions of the group as we proceeded.

The camp leader had asked me to share a little about my background as a playwright and writer, so in this context, I decided to share about my failures–how in 40 years of working to be published I had about 30 short stories published and four plays produced at a community college. If that sounds like a lot, I said, it isn’t. After about ten years I quit counting my rejections. I had reached 200 by then and since then had had hundreds more.

By this time, I could have heard a pin drop. I had them! I told them that none of that mattered. That success as a writer, an actor, a musician, is in the doing. I told them that I express my heart through my writing and need to write. I can’t not write, I told them. The striving and the working to become better and better makes the tangible successes that much sweeter.

Now was time for the pièce de résistance

I showed a short video of when Heather Dorniden, now Kampf, raced in the 600m, fell flat on her face, got up and came back to win the race. This part of the talk especially seemed to speak to the older girls; some of them were athletes, some had seen the clip before. But all the kids were mesmerized. You can see the race for yourself:

I had done some further research on Kampf and found an interview where she explained in more detail about the race and some of her experiences, good and bad, that happened in her running career after that incredible race. When I explained Heather’s background and the victories and hardships throughout her career, the point was made. The last slide read:

I don’t know if those drama campers will remember my talk, but I will never forget how this old, retired teacher felt that familiar fire as I looked into those young faces and could see hope and inspiration there. No, I don’t want to go back to grading endless comparison essays in overcrowded online classes or deal with all the bureaucratic and political crap I had to put up with over the years, but I sure do miss that feeling.

It was good to get it back once again, even if just for fifteen minutes.

The Dramatists Guild Foundation and Me

The Dramatists Guild Foundation won a TONY!

Why do I care?

The Foundation is now an independent organization but was an arm of the Dramatists Guild of America, which I have been a member of since 2006 when I applied. I submitted my one-act play Green Room, a social satire that takes place in the green room of a sleazy talk show. The play had been produced at Blue Ridge Community College in Flat Rock, North Carolina, where I taught for 27 years and from where I retired Aug 1 of last year.

The Foundation continues to strongly support Dramatists Guild members, and I receive regular communications from both groups. Towards the end of my final year of teaching, the Foundation announced it was offering, for the first time, a national virtual fellowship for Dramatists Guild members living outside of the New York area. Being accepted was indeed a long shot, but with the help of my theater friend and mentor at the college, who had directed all of the four plays I had produced there, I decided to apply.

I submitted sample pages and music from my play A Carolina Story, applying for a position as a musical theater fellow. The play, a re-telling of the Story of Job set in Western North Carolina during the depression, had been produced at Blue Ridge about ten years ago, but I have long wanted to revise and revive it. I also thought it was the best fit for the national fellows program as it represents Appalachia and its unique often misrepresented culture. Quite a few months went by, my retirement began, and I thought nothing more about the fellowship. Then, in November I found out I was a finalist, by December, I was in!

Since January, the fellows from all over the country have been meeting for two-hour workshops as well as critiquing each other’s work and encouraging each other. I have exchanged my play with four talented playwrights so far, learning so much from just reading their works, but also getting invaluable feedback about my play. Best of all is being around people who are so different but are united by the love of words and the theater.

Being a fellow has put me back in the position of a student but has also allowed me to use the teaching skills I worked so hard to develop as a college instructor, especially when giving feedback to the other fellows. Discussing my work with other professional playwrights was at first intimidating; I thought I was out of my league, but now I realize that although my play needs improvement, it holds its own. It has promise.

I am honored to be a part of the Dramatists Guild Foundation’s inaugural 2024-2025 National Virtual Fellowship program and congratulate the Foundation on receiving its well-deserved TONY!

Distractions

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We suffer from distractions. It’s not only the high tech, although that is definitely a problem – our phones and computers and endless entertainment sources and open AI and, and, and. More than anything else, we are distracted by our concerns. No, our worries. Perhaps it makes us feel virtuous to worry, to endlessly bemoan the failings of others and how they are leading us all down the path that leads to destruction. After all, if we can distract ourselves with how the world is going to hell in a handbasket, maybe we won’t have to look into our own souls and search for the true sources of our problems.

Lord knows I’m guilty. If I worry enough about how this current election will affect education and talk about it enough with friends, then I can distract from the fact that I promised myself I would finish my teaching memoir this first year of my retirement and that I would work diligently on making the most use of the Virtual Playwriting Fellowship the Dramatists Guild Foundation awarded me.

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Of course, I don’t call it worrying; I am “concerned,” so my worry becomes something good, right? My other distractions, including social media, are being used, I tell myself, to help raise awareness and guide people toward good things. And it is good if I stay focused, but if I’m honest, I don’t. I start out with those good intentions and slip on down the road to you know where.

In Book XII of C. S. Lewis’s great satiric epistolary novel, The Screwtape Letters, the uncle demon Screwtape advises his nephew Wormwood about the value of distractions to keep the new Christian, no longer in danger of the fires of hell, from being too effective.

He says:

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You can make him waste his time not only in conversation he enjoys with people whom he likes, but in conversations with those he cares nothing about on subjects that bore him. You can make him do nothing at all for long periods. You can keep him up late at night, not roistering, but staring at a dead fire in a cold room. All the healthy and outgoing activities which we want him to avoid can be inhibited and nothing given in return, so that at last he may say, as one of my own patients said on his arrival down here, “I now see that I spent most of my life in doing neither what I ought nor what I liked”. The Christians describe the Enemy as one “without whom Nothing is strong”. And Nothing is very strong: strong enough to steal away a man’s best years not in sweet sins but in a dreary flickering of the mind over it knows not what and knows not why, in the gratification of curiosities so feeble that the man is only half aware of them, in drumming of fingers and kicking of heels, in whistling tunes that he does not like, or in the long, dim labyrinth of reveries that have not even lust or ambition to give them a relish, but which, once chance association has started them, the creature is too weak and fuddled to shake off.

You will say that these are very small sins; and doubtless, like all young tempters, you are anxious to be able to report spectacular wickedness. But do remember, the only thing that matters is the extent to which you separate the man from the Enemy. It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing. Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts,

So, whether it be pleasure or worry that distracts us, in the end all that will matter is that we have not acted as we should have or wanted to. It is right that we be concerned about extremist candidates running for state superintendent, about school board meetings becoming violent, about indoctrination coming from the right or left, about unwarranted censorship or the lack thereof, but it is wrong of us to see problems where there aren’t any or to let our fears and worries distract us from what you (talking to teachers now) are supposed to do–TEACH.

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Until the last two years of my teaching, I worried constantly about ambiguous mandates coming down from the administration. Often, they didn’t apply to me but nevertheless distracted from my teaching. I would get upset, argue, discuss whatever it was endlessly with my colleagues in their offices. The thing is I didn’t need to worry because most people in the administration were simply passing on what had been mandated to them, having little hope that, for example, yet another restructuring of developmental education would fix the problems that the previous restructuring just a few years before had not fixed or made worse.

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All my “concern” did not help me teach those developmental classes effectively. The only thing that helped was buckling down and embracing any sound ideas and finding ways around the silliness, or simply ignoring it. For example, when the state mandated that instructors should not use fiction or essays written in first-person to teach reading and writing, I was flabbergasted, ready to fight this nonsense tooth and nail at the conference I went to explaining the new curriculum. However, low and behold, almost every session at the conference included sample readings that were either essays written in fir st person or fiction. These teachers were fantastic, and their lesson ideas were great. I adopted some of them. No one seemed to notice these teachers were ignoring the mandate, including the people who had cobbled together the new curriculum. I didn’t have to fight.

Now that I’m retired, I can see that I wasted a lot of time and caused myself undo stress by allowing myself to be distracted by administrative bloat and broad, ambiguous criticism. All I can do now is say to young educators, please don’t be like me: don’t turn your teaching world upside down with every pedagogical or andragogical wind that blows. It’s not worth it. Pick out the good ideas and incorporate them, change when you need to, learn new technical skills that enhance your teaching, use old ideas that have worked for you before, and trust yourself.

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Teaching is a craft. You should always be open to improving it; however, teaching is also an art, most successful when it is creative and engaging, when it takes risks, when it moves onto the fringes and beckons students into the glorious realm of ideas.

Baby Brother

As a much older, bossy sister, it is hard to admit that my baby brother has been such an influential teacher to me for half a century. But, the past few weeks, as he has endured serious health issues, including emergency open heart surgery, I have been reminded of some of the strengths he’s demonstrated time and time again, including adaptability, persistence, and most of all, resilience.

My brother hasn’t chosen the easiest path to make a living: he breeds and trains working German shepherds. He started the business when he was still in undergraduate school at Auburn University and grew it through many years of struggle as he was working on his master’s in liberal arts at Auburn University-Montgomery. While there, he focused on media and computer studies that have all been helpful in conducting his business, which included creating and maintaining his website: Schwarzerhund.com. His dogs are some of the most intelligent, powerful, and beautiful creatures you will ever have the privilege to meet.

My brother is no stranger to adversity. On April 27, 2011, less than two weeks after the death of our sister Ronda and the evening of the day he defended his master’s thesis, Rob’s trailer, right next to my parents’ house, was destroyed by one of the EF-4 tornados to strike Alabama during the historic super tornado outbreak that year.

What was left of the trailer after the tornado–photo by Katie Winkler

Around 10:00 pm, my brother had fallen asleep in front of the television and did not hear the news of the approaching tornado. He did, however, hear the tell-tale sounds of wind rushing like a locomotive bearing down on his vulnerable home. He and the young German shepherd he was caring for sprinted across the lawn to my parents’ house. My mother, also unaware of the approaching tornado, had just locked the door when Rob started pounding on it, yelling, “Mom, you’ve got to let me in or I’m going to die.”

He made it inside, but as soon as my mother closed the door behind him, the tornado struck. My brother recalls how they could hear the roof creaking and giving way as half of it was sucked up into the vortex. Somehow, they made it to the hallway, where they met my father, who had mobility issues due to diabetic neuropathy, coming out of his bedroom. They headed to the bathroom and stood huddled in the tub waiting for the storm to pass, which it did shortly after.

They were safe. That was the main thing.

The family home after the tornado

However, the damage was extensive; my brother knew that, but he didn’t have time to fully take stock of everything that happened. Once he made sure my elderly parents were in an undamaged room of the house and safe, he found the house’s insurance information, but of course the phone lines were out, and at that time, cell coverage was spotty at best in that area of Chambers County, one of the poorest in the nation.

So, he called his big sister. At first my husband and I couldn’t hear much, but made out the word tornado, and looked on the Weather Channel’s website to see the news of the huge storm. The radar showed the cells all over Alabama. We were helpless, though, until Rob was able to navigate around all the fallen trees and drive close enough to a town to get cell reception. Because of Rob’s quick thinking, I was one of the first to call and inform the insurance company of the disaster, so my family was able to quickly receive help.

About two months into the rebuilding–June 2011

Rob made a few other essential calls and then headed home. When he drove up to the house, the dog that had followed him from the house across the yard, that he thought was lost in the storm, came running up to him unharmed. She must have been able to get under the house. That was the first of many miracles that kept him going in all the many months following the tornado.

To my credit, I did do my share, helping out as much as I could, especially with my parents by securing a place for them to live while the house was being rebuilt and visiting as often as I could, but it was my brother who adapted his entire life in order to manage the property and his business after the storm. He stayed at the farm, at first sleeping under the carport in a recliner with a shotgun to ward off looters while protecting and caring for his beloved dogs. Of all the dozens of animals he cared for at the time, he didn’t lose any in the storm itself, and only two died as a result of injury and trauma–A miracle that such a powerful storm did not take more lives.

The Family Home Today

To my discredit, however, I did try to play the big sister at one point. I admit that I got pretty bossy and critical during that time, and my little brother finally had enough. He told me, “Katie, you’re going to have to make a decision. You’re either going to have to come down here permanently and run the show, or you’re going to have to trust me to do it.” I learned two valuable lessons that day: Number 1–Little brothers grow up and become men. Number 2–People have to be given a chance to handle things their own way–they have to be trusted.

That last lesson really helped me as an instructor to adult students. I learned that I was actually hurting my students if I gave them too much direction, if I didn’t allow them to discover things on their own, even if they had to experience painful trial and error. That’s the only way we really learn anything. During the years of recovery, my brother made some mistakes, but he pulled through and has brought the farm and his business back from the devastation of the tornado, a credit to his tenacious spirit.

One of Rob’s beautiful puppies.

This last trial that my brother has been through, enduring sextuple heart bypass surgery, has once again proven his persistence and resilience, his ability to adjust and adapt his best laid plans. Also, in the midst of that, he has maintained an optimism that defies his circumstances. He has shown humility and gratitude, allowing medical professionals, friends, and family to enter into his private world and help him. This is easier said than done for an independent introverted bachelor, but he has done it and has grown as a person as he has adapted to his new reality.

I took Rob to his first doctor appointment with his primary physician following the surgery, and his nurse read from the cardiac ICU report. It said, “Robert Whitlock is a 54-year-old male and a very nice man.” An understatement. He’s also the best little brother anybody could ask for.

And he’s not a bad teacher either.

The new edition of Teach. Write. is Here!

March came and went without me posting, but it wasn’t like I was just sitting around! No, I was spending every waking moment working on the new edition of Teach. Write. And taking walks with friends and playing with my not so little kitten. Going to Alabama to help take care of my mother. Working on my play as a Dramatists Guild Foundation National Fellow And spending ten glorious days in Germany to celebrate our 35th anniversary and my brother’s retirement.

Yes, Katie’s been busy NOT teaching. Without the pressures of preparing lessons and grading essays, I was actually able to take my time and truly enjoy the editing process. I’m happy with the results; hope you will be, also.

So, head on over to teachwritejournal.com and have a look!

Education should begin with education

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I’ve probably written this in a post before, but it bears repeating. One of the best teaching professors I ever had said, “The goal of any good teacher is to become increasingly unimportant.” To me, that meant teachers are successful when they help students learn how to be independent, critical thinkers–self-starters who can be trusted to troubleshoot and problem solve yet still ask for assistance when needed–people who aren’t afraid of a challenge or obstacles or even failure. My goal was to give my students tools to meet those challenges and overcome obstacles, to learn from failure and become resilient. I wanted to equip students for all of life, not just work.

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But here in North Carolina and elsewhere in our country, education has become more of a means to an end. The general attitude seems to be “get those general ed classes out of the way” (I heard that ALL the time). They seemed to say to me, “Those classes, especially English and math, are just annoying steps a person must take to be pumped into “the pipeline” and “enter the workforce.” Gaining an education that helps people live better lives, no matter what they do for a living, or if they choose to stay home and raise children or pursue their art, has been replaced with training for a particular, specific field with a goal of employment, not life-changing education.

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So many of the intangibles that occur when students are truly engaged in an educational experience are lost when the emphasis is on training for local, narrowly focused workforce development based on current trends that will shift and change with every economic bubble that bursts. In the last few years of my teaching, I yearned for the days when so many of my students actually enjoyed going to school, who relished simply learning something they never knew about before. They built relationships with their classmates, studied and ate meals together, listened to music, played video games between classes and had spirited discussions in and outside of the classroom. I remember the days when students would work together, pouring hours of work into extra-curricular activities like producing a play, some of them spending hours in rehearsal on top of all of their classes and after school jobs, but they did it because they wanted to–they had a passion for it, even if they had other long-term vocational plans.

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There was a time at the college where I taught when all students in the college transfer program were required to take a literature class. There they had a chance to stretch themselves by reading complex texts that are at the foundation of not only ours but the world’s culture and government. Now, a student can get either an Associate of Science or even an Associate of Arts degree without having to take a literature course at all. How can that be?

In addition, more and more in our community colleges, three disturbing trends have taken hold–asynchronous online learning for developmental English students, high school students earning high school and college English credit for the same college-level class, and so-called accelerated classes. I helped to develop some of these courses and taught them, so you would think that I would be a proponent, but in my defense, I was misled in all of these cases into thinking the situations were temporary or that only advanced students would be taking these classes. I feel like a fool. That’s an understatement.

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I am mortified.

In my and the college’s defense, the developmental co-requisite English class that I had developed, which was part of North Carolina’s third iteration of developmental education in less than a decade, was not intended to be an online program. The plan was that all developmental classes be taught in the classroom. Then, in March of 2020, when we were soon to roll out our new co-requisite English classes, the pandemic hit. All classes, including the co-requisite English courses, were forced to go online.

It didn’t go well.

Come back soon and I’ll explain.

Quit Dissing College!!

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Poor college!!! Seems like every Tom, Dick, and Henrietta is taking a pot shot at you these days. I know, I know, you can be expensive, especially if people get sweet-talked into taking on college loans (Don’t do it unless you absolutely have to!). Also, some classes and professors will be really sucky at your place. People can be downright mean, too. Plus, students can get in a lot of trouble given the kind of freedom that you bring. Don’t forget, you forced me to question my core beliefs. Yes, I didn’t abandon those beliefs, but admit it, I did question them, loudly and a lot.

But…

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Is it just me, or did you, along with a supportive family and friends, help me find my way through my late teens and early twenties? Did you help me forge positive, meaningful relationships with people from other cultures and countries with varying backgrounds and values? I think it was you who qualified me for a fulfilling career as an English and German teacher at the high school and college level. During my working years, you helped me provide a strong high school education for my child and made it possible for me and my husband to pay for her now debt-free education (two degrees). You allowed me to contribute to a pension plan that means I can enjoy a financially secure retirement.

Because of you, in undergraduate school at a Christian university, I traveled to Europe for six weeks, studying German and history. I visited West Berlin when it was still trapped within a wall, but somehow still free because of what my country, along with England and France, did for that city. I laid hands on the graffiti-laden free side of that wall and was thankful to be a citizen of a nation that saw the value in maintaining the democracy of a country with which it had so recently been at war.

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Because of you, I visited Christians in East Berlin who were trapped outside the wall by an oppressive communist regime that would not let them worship freely. Yes, older people could go to church, but their every movement was monitored by the Stasi, the East German secret police, and younger people were prevented, by law, from attending church. And yet, in those few hours in the East, I witnessed the bravery of those who longed for freedom–an old woman who shook the hands of every student and said in broken English, “Tell them we have no freedom here. Tell them we have no freedom here. Tell them we have no freedom here.” The young people in their teens and twenties who traveled two-by-two just to meet, in secret, a group of American Christians, tell them their stories, and fellowship with them.

Because of you, I was able to spend the second half of my German trip in Tübingen to visit my brother who was studying theology there. I lived in the international dorm and traveled into the city, learning the mass transit system (new to me), eating at the Mensa (student cafeteria), visiting the old castle where my brother preached his first sermon to an intimidating crowd of professors, and sitting in on lectures about biblical archeology, some of which I could actually understand! We punted flat boats on the Neckar River, took walks into the forests, and had picnics with my brother’s friends. We took a train to Munich to hear The Rolling Stones at the Olympic Stadium and hitchhiked the way back (not recommended these days but safe back then).

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Only because of you could I have afforded this trip. You didn’t pay for it outright, but you supplemented it, enriched it with quality faculty members who had the knowledge to plan our trip in order to give us the best educational and personal experiences possible. I also learned how to work for what I wanted, taking on two jobs and saving to raise the funds.

I had so many other wonderful experiences during my college years because of the support you offered, and I have gotten so much more out of my experiences since then because of you, but you also gave me a chance to make a living doing what I love to do–teach. The data shows that you give many people that opportunity–people with a bachelor’s, master’s, professional, or doctoral degree still make more on average AND have lower unemployment than those with a two-year degree or less, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics using 2022 data. You give so many of us so many opportunities we wouldn’t have without you.

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I know you’re not perfect. Far from it. You have so many problems that more and more people are saying you’re not worth it. But you are!! Even though I realize you are not right for everybody–my own husband went to trade school to study x-ray and ultrasound technology, which has led to a great career for him. But for me, you made the difference despite the drawbacks. College, you have enriched my life more than I can say in one brief post. I can keep writing about you and the lessons you taught for at least the length of one book.

Oh, I think I will.

How about that for a segue? I hope to finish the rough draft of my educational memoir “Lessons” by the end of the year. I will keep you updated about the progress and maybe spin some more tales as I’m working on the book.

Also, the journal I edit and publish, Teach. Write., is open for submissions until March 1. The 2023 Spring/Summer edition is to be published on April 1. See the submission guidelines at teachwritejournal.com.

NCWN Fall Conference Was Inspiring

Total honesty. I wasn’t really looking forward to the North Carolina Writers’ Network fall conference as much as I have in the past. I’m not sure why, but I think the main reason was my inner critic. I guess sometimes I don’t think I deserve to call myself a writer. I know I am one, but, oh, I don’t know what I mean. I think I should have had a book published by now, I suppose. I have had many short stories published. I’ve had four plays produced, I blog, I edit and publish a journal, but….

But, but, but, but…why do I do this to myself?

Anyway, this is the way I had been talking to myself BEFORE the conference.

First, thing, though, I saw two writer friends whom I hardly ever see except at writing conferences. We talked about our writing, got caught up on life events, our families. We ate several of our meals together and chatted about what we learned from the sessions we attended. I always feel so much better when I get together with other writers. They get me. So, they totally understood why I was so happy to find out that my play “A Carolina Story” made it to the finals for the Dramatists Guild Foundation’s Virtual Musical Theatre Fellowship.

I was also glad I went because of the quality faculty. All my sessions were led by people with the knowledge, experience, and wisdom that I was looking for. Most memorable was the session on writing books of essays led by Patrice Gopo because it helped me get a breakthrough about how I want to structure Lessons, the teaching memoir/methods book that I’m working on. I can’t wait to read her book Autumn Song to see how she applied the techniques described in her session.

Another great thing that happened is I met one of my contributors. He walked up to me and introduced himself, saying how much he appreciated my acceptance of his work for the last edition of Teach. Write. Especially meaningful was how he thanked me for giving teachers an outlet for their work. Man, made me feel good.

Finally, I just had fun. I was relaxed. It was the first conference I attended without having to worry about checking work e-mail in between sessions or getting behind in planning classes, maintaining online courses, or grading essays. It was glorious to use my break just to walk around the little lake by the conference hotel on a glorious autumn day.

If you’ve never heard of the North Carolina Writers’ Network, then I encourage you to check it out. You don’t have to live in North Carolina to be a member. The thing I like most about it, as I rediscovered this past weekend, is that it is a true network of writers, and more than a few teachers, who teach and learn from each other, who understand the struggles and triumphs of the writing life.

Comma Lessons

An excerpt from the rough draft of my upcoming book, Lessons: A Teacher’s Life:

Long story ahead, but it will relate to commas, eventually, I promise.

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I know how incredibly blessed I am by having my education provided for me. When I went to a private, Christian university for undergraduate degrees in English and German, I went tuition free because both my parents worked for the university. My mother was a librarian, first in acquisitions and then in special collections, and my father, after he received his master’s in theology, became a representative, which basically meant that he was an itinerant preacher–moving around the southeastern states and visiting people who supported the ministry that supported the university. One of the benefits of working at the university for at least two years was free tuition for your children.

 My parents didn’t make that much money, so this benefit made it possibly for my older brother and me to go to college. For the first part of my time there, I lived at home with my parents, but when they moved back to Alabama to be closer to their own aging parents, I lived in the dormitory. My grandmother and great aunt paid for my room and board. I carried two jobs and paid for the upkeep on my vehicle, gas, and books, so I got off easy. 

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Then, when I went to Auburn University two years later, it was my grandmother and great aunt who paid my tuition. They had both been long time educators themselves who had risen from poverty because of their teaching degrees and knew better than most the value of an education; they helped all their grandchildren, nieces, and nephews at one time or other.  At Auburn, I once again lived with my parents, paid for my books by working horrible jobs (more about this later) and never had to take out a loan or apply for scholarships. 

My master’s in education at Western Carolina came quite a bit later, but once again, I was blessed. I had been applying for teaching jobs as soon as my husband John and I decided to move to North Carolina, and although I had already become certified to teach 8-12 grade English and German, I couldn’t get a job, even after John started working as an ultrasound technologist at a small hospital south of Asheville. I had several interviews in several counties but no go. 

On a whim, I decided to apply for graduate school at Western Carolina University in Sylva, about 60 miles from our home south of Asheville. I was accepted but didn’t think I would be able to go since we were newly married, newly moved–my husband with a new job fresh out of ultrasound school, and me without a job at all. I wouldn’t be able to afford the out-of-state tuition. We were hoping to buy a house soon on top of all of that. I had signed up to do some substitute teaching, $50 a day, and rarely worth it. You know how kids teach substitutes. 

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But, probably less than a week after I got my acceptance letter, I received another letter from the English department asking if I would come in for an interview. I guess my five years of high school teaching experience and the emergency need for freshman composition instructors made me a good candidate for receiving a graduate assistantship. My out-of-state tuition fees would be waived; my stipend was enough to pay my tuition, books, and the gas it would take to drive from Hendersonville to Cullowhee. 

It was settled. I was going to graduate school. 

Finally, we get to the commas. Well almost. 

The first semester I was required to take a course called “Teaching Rhetoric and Composition”–a down and dirty English composition teaching course. Despite my having taught for five years and having had several teaching courses at Auburn while I worked on my English Education degree, I had to take the course. All graduate assistants were required to take it, and although a bit miffed at first, I soon found the course useful and learned quite a bit.

One of the things I learned, I’ve written about at length in this blog–The Five Easy Ways to Improve Your Writing. Those ideas came from a visiting lecturer in the rhetoric course.

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The other part of that first semester was working in the university’s writing center. My job was to tutor students as they came in to work on their essays. I stayed very busy in the center, especially because of Western’s CC program. I forget what CC stands for, but essays in any non-English class that did not meet basic college-level writing requirements received a CC. If students received two CC’s, they had to take a developmental English course that was notoriously hard to pass, and if the student did not pass, then they were suspended. Quite a few students, therefore, would come in to the Writing Center after the first CC to avoid that grammar class. 

The woman who ran the center was one of the best teachers I ever had. She taught by example. I would listen as she tutored students, helpful and patient but never overhelping, even when sorely tempted. Plus, she had all sorts of materials available to help students and gave me permission to take and use any materials as long as I credited the center. One of the most used handouts at the center was the director’s six simple comma rules. I used this handout as the base of my comma lecture for years because the rules were easy to understand, using little grammatical terminology, and the examples illustrated each rule well. 

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I’m afraid that handout is only in my mind now, but I used some form of those basic rules throughout my tenure as a community college instructor. It was just always the easiest for my students to grasp in the triage-type grammar teaching that I found myself doing. I added the comma rules to my editing workshop worksheet that I gave to my students when they were preparing their final manuscripts for grading. Here’s what they boiled down to:

Use commas

  1. to separate items in a series of three or more
  2. to set off introductory material
  3. around words interrupting the flow of thought
  4. between complete thoughts joined with a conjunction (if two complete thoughts are joined with just a comma, the writer has a comma splice—major grammar error)
  5. with direct quotations
  6. with everyday material such as dates and addresses

Although I tried to keep grammatical terminology to a minimum, I did use some, so at the beginning of the lesson, I would remind students of some basic terms: 

  • Noun
  • Subject 
  • Verb
  • Coordinating conjunctions (FANBOYS)
  • Independent clause 
  • Dependent clause. 

After the review, I went through each of the six comma rules, giving examples of each. If time was short, I would just cover the first four. 

As a warmup to the lesson, I would try to engage students by using another cool example I learned in grad school.  At the beginning of class, without saying anything else, I would write the following sentence on the board: 

A woman without her man is nothing. 

I asked the students to write the sentence down and add two commas. I gave a minute to complete that and then would ask for volunteers. Often, here in the South at a small community college where sexism is alive and well, students, both male and female, would answer, “A woman, comma, without her man, comma, is nothing.” 

Of course, I would challenge them, tell them there was another solution: A woman, comma, without her, comma, man is nothing. One comma, one comma, I would say, totally changes the meaning of the sentence. That’s how important commas are, I said. 

Then I would begin. 

Rule #1 –Items in a series–First because it was usually the comma rule that students were most familiar with. 

I like apples, bananas, and oranges. 

I explained that if you have three or more items in a series, then you need to add commas between the items. 

I use the Oxford comma and only talked about the option of leaving that remaining comma out if a student brought it up. Commas are confusing enough to students, especially those in developmental classes, so I tried not to complicate things unnecessarily. 

Rule #2–Two independent clauses joined with a coordinating conjunction. I would give an example: 

The dog ran after the cat, but the cat held its ground and fought back. 

It is good to include a compound sentence that needs a comma and another coordinating conjunction that does not need to be separated from the rest of the sentence so that you can explain the difference. 

I explained that you have two independent clauses, reminding them that the only seven words that can join two complete sentences together are the FANBOYS, the coordinating conjunctions: for, and, nor, but, or, yet, so. In the case of this example, you have two complete sentences (independent clauses) joined with but, one of the fanboys, so you need the comma, I would tell them. 

I asked students if they see another conjunction. They would usually find the and. I asked, Why do we not use a comma here? Often times they didn’t answer, so I would ask if there were a complete sentence on either side of the conjunction. No. Then, there is no need for a comma. 

Rule #3–Commas after introductory material. I would explain that you need a comma after words, phrases, and clauses that come before the main clause and give examples:

  • Nevertheless, I left the room and never returned–nevertheless is a conjunctive adverb that modifies the whole sentence, so it needs to be set off by a comma.
  • In the middle of the night, Julia heard a loud bang. In the middle of the night are two prepositional phrases coming before the main clause, so you need a comma to notify the reader that the two phrases are coming before the main clause. 
  • As John was reading the book, he realized that he had read it before. As John was reading the book is a dependent clause–he realized that he had read it before is the main clause, so you need a comma after the dependent clause. 

Rule #4–Anything that interrupts the flow of thought. The next rule is super simplified, but usually this explanation helped students get the commas right without getting bogged down in too much grammar, especially restrictive and non-restrictive clauses. Oh, Lord, don’t go there. I explained that you need commas (most of the time) around words, phrases and clauses that interrupt the flow of thought in the sentence. Alternatively, I said that if you can pull the word, phrase, or clause out of the sentence and the sentence still makes sense, then you need commas around that word phrase or clause. Then, once again, I gave examples:

  • The new owners, sadly, declined to renew the flood insurance on their house.
  • The cat, along with its four siblings, were left in a box on the side of the road.
  • The man, who is standing over there in a red shirt, is my partner. 

Note: This lesson is most effective if spread over two class periods, so there is enough time to answer questions, show more examples, or put students into groups to practice. One exercise I liked to do with students is have them write sentences that use the different comma rules but leave the commas out, exchange papers, and correct each other’s sentences.

I guess, I’m weird, but I really loved comma lesson day. It was pure unadulterated, nobody-could-accuse me-of-indoctrination day, except for that “woman without her man” sentence, of course. Might be too engaging for today’s classroom.

Another reason I’m glad to be retired.