Teaching, Tests and Always Being There

Photo of the Salt Lake Temple in SLC, UT.  The inside is even more
inspiring inside . . . and I appreciate that wonder because there are guidelines
I have to follow to be allow the privilege of entering in.

Version of nitrogen cycle that I made on my iPad 

I have just finished an on-line final for a Botany class. (I got 85 out of 102 points . . . two stupid mistakes, three others I just didn't remember.)  It was a fun test--kind of a weird thing to say I suppose.  I like tests, though.  They give me a chance to see how well I have learned the material . . . and sometimes a small thrill that I can still recall information that was a challenge to acquire. 

My dad taught me about appreciating tests.  At 26, as a teacher of college English classes, I actually hated grading papers and essay tests.  They were boring like nothing else I could name.  At that time I had two toddlers (or, a little later, two pre-schoolers and a baby), and after a long day I would have to fight to stay awake.  I was complaining to my dad about it, and he pointed out that tests were an indication of the ability of both the student and the teacher.

Rose hip before it's mature.  I love all the tiny fibers that were there--and that only one seed formed.

I took this observation to heart and changed the way that I thought about teaching. 

Brent took this of me in Central Park, NY.
It was cold--with a strong cold wind . . . thus the tear.

From then on, I began each semester by introducing myself and telling my students that I was there to have a good time.  If I had to be there, so did they.  If I had to read their papers and fell asleep, then the paper didn't get a passing grade.  

I also promised them, though, that if they would attend class and do the assignments as I taught them to, that they would finish the semester having learned how to write interesting, captivating prose that would engage and challenge their reader (or at least me) to wonder about the ideas that were presented--and to stimulate him/her to think about his/her world differently.

At that point, there were a number of people who usually slipped out the back of the class or slumped down in their chairs--if they had been able to they would have begun texting their friends or surfing the net for a good place to go drinking that night.  I am talking, though, about a time that was way back when the best phone was the smallest phone--and when all that phones did was call people.  

Back to class . . . from that time forward I had only myself to blame if someone was able to foist a boring, wandering essay on me to read.  

Something else happened to me as I did this.

The underside of the leaf of a lavender--all that intricate faceting is beautiful to me. 

I began to believe what I was teaching.  I had only my own perspective--my own history as a reference for all that was going on around me every day.  When I helped these people to write well, they were able to show me things I had never thought of as interesting in a new light.  They helped me find new meanings for words that, before then, were one-dimensional and bland.  They taught me about what was important to them and why they believed it was of worth.  

Close up of common Florida weed.  The flower is actually about the size of the nail on my pinky finger.

The essays were short--I'm talking about Freshman Composition classes here--but they learned how to decide what they thought about their subject before they handed in a paper.  They learned how to limit their subject so that what they had to say actually meant something.

Photo that I took a few years ago in my side yard--mallow plant.
I think of this as an example of the first statement below--the details are assumed because
the writer hasn't allowed the reader to see the details that she/he does.

Rather than start with "My mom is really cool.  She is always there for me.", they began to see and express their ideas so that I could enter their worlds:  "There is no other person who listens as well as my mom.  When I got a D+ on a math test, she didn't yell at me for being so stupid.  Instead, she let me rant on for awhile and then offered to look at the test with me.  It took a couple of days, but by the time I had told her about each problem I got wrong, I was able to teach her how I should have done it.  By the time we got done, I understood the math.  She took a lot of time to listen to me.  I still hate math, but now I know how to add, subtract, multiply and divide fractions."

Way different ways to express a feeling that, to that writer, was saying exactly the same thing.

This--an example of the second writing above . . . focused on one thing, but also put into context.

I am enjoying the classes that I am taking right now.  Mostly they are horticulture classes.  I just finished taking Nathan through a pre-calculus class--taking notes, doing homework with him.  It has been a long time since I have taught.  

I guess I do miss it.  What I miss most, though, is the combination of teaching and taking classes at the same time.

As a graduate fellow, I was able to do that.  Taking and giving tests at the same time.  If nothing else, it always made me feel more compassion for the people I wrote for--and who had to write for me.  

It was a good balance.