Tuesday

A colleague here mentioned that a professor at our local community college called and asked who was in charge of sophomore English here. That’s us.

It appears this professor wants to work in conjunction with us on something called “The College-Readiness ‘Fence’ Rubric.” I wonder if it’s not in a similar vein to something I learned of this summer at a brief workshop. Apparently, there is a college professor from Itasca who wanted to develop some type of rubric to aid high school teachers in evaluating ‘good’ writing - or at least ‘college ready’ writing. It seems many of the high school students graduating were failing the essay part of their placement exams and this professor wanted to work with the high school teachers in their area to get them all on the same page.

I have a sneaking suspicion this is the same thing.

I’m not opposed. Yet.

If it’s like some of the rubrics I’ve been associated with in the past, it shouldn’t be difficult. When I was a graduate student at BSU, we spent a weekend in the late fall evaluating a few hundred freshmen essays using a rubric developed by our graduate coordinator. I think we worked in two 10 hour shifts to get the essays evaluated.

Once we were ‘trained’ on what comprises a “5” essay or a “4” essay (and so on), the evaluation became pretty simple. For example, if an essay was one long paragraph, according to the rubric, it could be no more than a “1.” If it was multiple paragraph but had major errors, it could be no more than a “2.” If it was multiple paragraph and had fewer errors but a generic tone or voice, it could be no more than a “3.” And so on. Each of us graded 10 essays at a time.

We worked in pairs. I would read one and evaluate it. Then I would pass that same essay to my partner and he would judge it. If we differed by more than one point, we passed it to our graduate coordinator.

I’m sure that the state uses a similar method to evaluate the BST essays.

Since I teach our high school’s version of College Composition, plus four sections of regular composition, this semester, I am interested in the rubric.

The only problem I have with ‘training’ people to evaluate essays is that it seems to take the joy out of the essays. When I grade my College Comp essays, I never think I’m ‘evaluating’ them. Instead I think I’m reveling in them, for this is great writing. Well, most of it is great writing. And I revel in it regardless.

Looking at the fence rubric, I see that it calls for us to analyze essays in five areas --

1. Content
2. Organization
3. Conventions
4. Sentence Fluency
5. Word Choice

I'm worried that rubrics often emphasis the wrong stuff. As an expressivist, give me writing that has voice and style and flare. You can keep all that generic five paragraph theme and correctly punctuated crap for yourself. I hate that.

When I taught at the local community college here, I had several nontraditional students (mostly nursing majors returning to school 10-15 years after graduating high school) mixed in with several regular college freshmen. The contrast in their writing was incredible. Most of the regular freshmen wrote clean, clear prose that said absolutely nothing - or worse - it said what they thought I wanted to hear (is there anything worse than reading an essay where the writer is trying to please the teacher with a pseudo sophisticated voice and a trumped up vocabulary? I’d rather have a root canal!) And most of the nontraditional students wrote lively essays just oozing personality and voice, albeit run-ons and punctuation errors were all over the place. But when it comes down to it, I don’t think you can even compare the two in terms of ‘good’ writing.

My stance has always been you can fix punctuation and usage errors pretty easily. But you can’t teach voice easily. So let students find their voices and develop their styles. Then we fix the ‘little’ problems.

But I have a feeling if I were to apply this rubric to those essays, it might value the technically correct ones over the voiceful ones. However, this is not always the case. Last year one of my best writers took the sophomore BST writing test. She received a 3.5, which is average. For the most part her writing was not average in my class. So her mother asked us to look at a copy of the essay (which the state provided our district). Sure enough, it was a five paragraph theme. There were generalities abound. It was clear and correct prose. But it was devoid of voice and style. That gave me hope for rubrics.

As an expressivist I’m at odds with the professor at our local community college, who is a stout formalist. It will be interesting to see what we consider ‘good’ writing.

****

It’s that time of the quarter where I start introducing my sophomores to the evil entity that is the five paragraph theme. It starts with a film review ( the paragraphs are devoted to -- intro, summary, theme, film technique, and personal opinion). For this I follow the same formula as the one that is used in our Comp II and College Comp classes. Personally, I don’t really mind it. However, the next few themes will have the traditional thesis statement and three supporting details associated with the traditional five paragraph theme.

(If you want a good chuckle, I have a copy of Tom Romano’s “Crafting Authentic Voice” and one of his best chapters is entitled “The Five-Paragraph You-Know-What,” and it’s a hoot)

So why do I teach something I hate? Well, it is used here in several classes. I also tell them they might need to know it for college. In graduate school, my Shakespeare and Lit Crit papers were really just five paragraph themes amplified to 20 pages apiece. The teacher was a staunch formalist and - dammit - she wanted a solid one page intro, followed by a tight thesis, followed by several pages discussing and analyzing the points raised in our thesis. I did what I had to do to get an “A.” Students need to be prepared for this.

I also teach them it because it’s a simple form to add to their arsenal. It helps in organizing their thoughts and developing support. It’s there if they need it. Hopefully, they won’t, but you never know.

But what I really have to watch out for is it corrupting me. If I were a lesser teacher - and believe me I was when I started out - I taught the five paragraph theme exclusively. Hell, it’s easy to grade. (I believe that’s where it was invented - or at least that’s what I read in graduate school - where over stressed profs could quickly scan the thesis statement, check the topic sentences, look for supporting evidence, and move on to the next one). It’s easy to teach. It’s easy for the students to glom on to and use.

But for all those reasons, the damn thing is evil. It chokes all the good stuff right out of writing. After all, where in the hell do you ever see a five paragraph theme? I’ve never read one in a personal essay in any anthology I’ve ever come across. Never read one in Time or Newsweek. Never read one in a newspaper. The only one I’ve ever read was written in the NCTE Journal last year. God help us!

At the end of my Comp class, I ask the students what themes they enjoy the most. Their answers are rarely the five paragraph themes. In fact, time permitting, I allow students to choose from one of the themes we’ve done (description, narration, persuasive, comparison/contrast, film review, and so on) and write a new one for extra credit. They rarely ever choose a five paragraph theme.

If I had more time, I’d like to show my students more clearly how to work around the five paragraph theme. You can have a thesis, but who says you need to state it at the end of your introduction? And who says you need to only have three items in your thesis? And who says you can only use three paragraphs to support them? And who says you can’t use “I”?

Many of my writers catch on to this on their own anyway. That gives me hope.

Here is an essay that has a thesis, though it’s implied. It has supporting evidence, though they’re not neatly organized in three sequential paragraphs with nice, neat topic sentences. It even has a conclusion, but it doesn’t just regurgitate my thesis. It has voice, style, and flair. I’d take it over any thesis-support/five paragraph theme.

Searching for What Isn't Lost

Life for a child is an adventure of epic proportions. Life for an adult is a routine of monotonous survival. This sucks.

In a summer long ago, I got up and donned a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, usually either my Han Solo shirt or my "May the Smurf be with you" shirt. I had other shirts, but these two were my staples. It didn't seem at all odd to me then to simply wear the same clothes every single day. My mother didn't quite see it that way though. Properly attired, the only thing left was to find socks of the same color, slip into my tennis shoes, and fasten the velcro straps. Then I scampered down our uncarpeted wooden stairs, skipping over the fifth step from the top that always cried out when stepped on, tore through the living room, whirled into the kitchen, and leapt out the back door.

Once outside I plopped on the wooden step to our back porch. At first I shivered from the crisp air and the cold metal of the screen door against my back. Yet, I relished the goose bumps. Part of me longed for the warmth of the kitchen where my mom poured ovals of batter, which would later magically solidify into pancakes, into the frying pan. I heard the bacon and eggs spit and hiss, knowing all too well how their greasy venom can easily lash out and strike a poor unsuspecting kid watching his mom make breakfast. The rest of my family struggled to pull free from their sheets. But I forced myself to remain on the step with the damp wood soaking the seat of my pants and the splinters and tiny rusty nails in the step nipping at my backside.

My eyes soaked up this green, damp world. The grass and the leaves in the trees and in the bushes all seemed so fresh from this perspective. I crossed my arms and keeled over a bit, forcing myself not to shiver, but shivering nonetheless. I noticed the bottom of my shoes, shiny and dark from the dew. While I concentrated on warming up, a parched mosquito quietly perched on my arm and pried into a vein. Suddenly, the sharp prick broke my concentration. Even at the age of five I was accustomed to this menace and an instinctive slap left the pest a red smear on my arm. From then on I alternated between fighting off the cold and scratching the tiny welt. The more I scratched, leaving small white zigzag lines on my dry skin, the more it itched.

Finally, the moment I suffered for arrived. The sun fell on me, banishing the goose bumps and shivers. I soaked up the yellow warmth like a Bounty towel and felt the heat in my tight lungs. Once sufficiently thawed, I became aware of the chattering coming from our Elm tree. When I peered up, I just saw leaves. Then slowly I discerned the small dark, fluttering shapes of sparrows and robins amidst the leaves and branches. Beneath their songs I picked up a constant bass line reverberating from the lilac bushes. At first, the buzzing seemed to be coming from the lilacs themselves. But as I watched carefully, I detected minute movements among the purple flowers. Soon everywhere I looked on the bush I saw the gold and black insects. Normally I would flee in terror, but since the bushes and bees were across the yard, I sensed no immediate peril.

The odd thing now, some 20 years later, is I can't recall leaving. I remember sitting and reveling in the wonder of morning, but other than morning I don't know when it was. It had to be summer, but I don't know what month. I don't know what time it was. It was early, but I don't know how early. I don't really know why I even sat there. I don't know how long I sat on that step. It could have been fifteen minutes. It could have been an hour. I didn't have a watch. Even if I did, I couldn't yet tell time. Time seemed to flow into one great unforgettable state of being: Life.

Whatever happened to my wonder? Somewhere along the way I went and lost my sense of wonder. Our culture, I believe, works to abolish the sense of wonder in adults. The imagination is an endangered specie. Stay focused and determined. No time to day dream or ponder. Amongst jobs, lists, classes, routines, bills, errands, cars, computers, televisions, that sense of awe I had as a kid was lost. Or stolen. Every adult day seemed to become a new exercise in disappointment.

I miss how time distorts itself to children. I remember practically drying up and turning to dust waiting to see the doctor. Summers were decades. A trip to the mall in Grand Forks, an hour's ride imprisoned in the car, seemed to me a lifetime. The six weeks I had to wear a cast after breaking my ankle seemed to me two lifetimes. The year between my birthdays was a century. A single Sunday church service was a millennium. Christmas Eves, when my parents insisted I wait until morning to open my presents, were an eternity.

How many times as a child did I get up and not even know what day it was? The only day I ever kept track of was Saturday. And that was just because of cartoons. I remember once I must have forgotten it was Saturday and slept right through cartoons. The next morning I got up early, thinking it was Saturday. Instead of "Godzilla," "He-Man," and "Sigmond the Seamonster," I got Jerry Fallwell on one channel, the 700 Club on another, and Meet the Press on yet another. I never lost track of a Saturday again. Now, however, my life is dictated by the days of the week. And there aren't enough hours in any of them. Somehow life went from a crawl to a sprint.

I miss reveling in the mundane. Living in a constant state of shock. Experiencing everything like it was the first time, because it was the first time. How can I forget my first movie, The Empire Strikes Back? Playing with my first race car track? Wailing my first time perched in Santa's lap? Donning my first Halloween costume? Fearing for my life while subjected to my first haircut? These events are etched permanently in my mind. How many movies have I seen in the past year? How many haircuts have I had? Now they all blur together with everything else into one great indistinguishable event: life.

I remember going with my mom and grandmother to Grand Forks when I was around six. My mom took me across the street to a large building. It was some thing called a department store. All I remember, or cared about, was that it had the most incredible thing I had ever seen in my six years on this planet: an escalator. I rode up and down those shiny, folding metal stairs all day. I remember trying to storm them in an attempt to beat them to the top and walking backward trying to work my way against the flow. I remember thinking how dreadful it would be to get an errant shoelace caught in the stairs as they collapsed and folded back under and came out the bottom again. A security guard came up to my mother. I remember her saying, "you never could guess that we come from a small town?" When we finally had to go, I begged and begged, tugging with my small arms and planting my tiny feet firmly, for one more ride, just one more as if my entire life depended on one more ride.

A few summers ago I went to the Mall of America. There were escalators there. I know we rode on them. But I can't recall riding on a single one. Too many places to visit. Too many things to buy. Too many things too see. So much for the wonder of the escalator.

Throughout grade school, I spent winter afternoons sliding down the hill behind our house with my friends. My mom bundled me up in my snowsuit, moon boots, and a damn sissy scarf and sent me out into the cold. Once down the hill I promptly took off the scarf and stashed it in the knot of a tree. Then and only then I hopped on my red plastic sled and roared down the hill for 10 seconds of genuine bliss. Then I grabbed the white rope my dad tied to it and lugged it back up the hill. After what seemed like 10 minutes, I hopped back in my sled and raced down the hill again.

Now I rarely venture outside in the winter. It just feels too cold to my 28-year-old skin. But when I was eight, the worst thing that mom could do to me was quarantine me to the house. I even sacrificed watching afternoon cartoons to go sledding. The last time I went sledding? Nine years ago. It was with my girlfriend at the time and her brothers. I remember having fun but looking forward much more to her and I lying beneath the blankets in front of their fireplace, instead of reveling in the joy of sledding.

Sometimes I would lie in our back yard with tiny shards of grass poking through my T-shirt and dandelions rustling in my ears and just stare at clouds. I heard somewhere that every cloud looks like something. I watched the white fluffy pictures in the sky completely awestruck. The biggest TV set I had ever seen: God's TV, maybe. Images formed and tumbled above me. There was a car, a fire hydrant, an eagle, a beehive, an eraser, a tiger, a bat, and a spoon. I spent hours just lying there.

Now the only time I look at the sky is to pray for shade when I am sweating to death on the asphalt on the highway working road construction or praying for them to go away when we are tubing on the river. When I do see a cloud, it doesn't resemble anything other than a big fluffy cloud. Maybe a big fluffy marshmallow. For the life of me I can no longer see cars, fire hydrants, or anything else. The wonder of clouds has passed me by too.

When I was ten, every bus ride home was an adventure. I sat in a different seat every time delighting in the many perspectives. Every day something new leaped out at me: the huge tree outside a house with weathered planks nailed to the trunk leading up to a tree house, someone's dog chained to their porch, the flag hoisted high and flapping in our school yard with the cord dinging against the pole, the Yoda back pack an older kid had, the songs "Physical," "Billy Jean," and "Jessie's Girl" which the bus driver turned up to drown us out, a pile of orange, brown, yellow, and red leaves in someone else's yard, the painstakingly trimmed shrubs bordering the court house lawn, the elaborate couches and lamps and dressers in the window of Wilcox Furniture Store, the different cars parked along main street.

Now I am so wrapped up in planning supper, what I'm going to do for the evening, lesson plans, when I have to send in my bills, or what I'm going to do on the weekend, that I hardly even notice traffic on the way home. It's a miracle I don't get into an accident. I never once wondered what ever happened to the excitement that used to be inherent in the ride home.

Because children still have their imaginations intact, before teachers or televisions can suck it out, they attempt the impossible. When I was nine my parents left me alone for the weekend with my brother. He left me watching "Wild Kingdom" while he went to his room to lift weights, crank up Deep Purple, and probably smoke a couple of joints. I was enthralled in the show, especially when they showed the flying squirrels. It was at that moment that I decided I was going to fly. So after a quick trip up to my room, I paraded out into our backyard. With my Star Wars bed sheet tightly secured to my ankles and wrists, I scaled the gigantic oak tree at the very back of the yard. Once I reached a limb of adequate height, about fifteen feet off the ground, I did my best flying squirrel imitation. It was at that moment that I decided I was unable to fly. Luckily, the sheet snagged another branch on my maiden flight and kept me from breaking anything. Eventually my grandmother stopped by to check on us and found me hanging there and set me free.

Now everything seems impossible. I talk myself out of half a dozen things a day. When I finished my undergraduate degree, I wanted more than anything to go to grad school. But I told myself it was impossible. It took all of the courage I could muster over four years to eventually apply for grad school. Even then I never thought I would make it. I never stopped to wonder about all the things I was missing out on.

I never did wonder about such things, however, until I started spending time with my five-year-old niece. She can rattle off a hundred questions before we leave the house. I am amazed at how she will devote an hour to baking sand pastries in her sand box, how she will squeal in pure rapture as I give her an underdog on the swings at the park, how her pupils threaten to burst when I give her a dollar to buy candy, how she will be fascinated watching the squirrels in our yard, or how there is no greater thrill in life than an impromptu trip to the playland at McDonald's.

Now I can see the innocent, wide-eyed amazement in kids all around me. In the super market a month ago, I saw a young pig-tailed girl treating a shopping cart like it was a jungle gym. She was enthralled at how the bottom tier would pop up when she stepped on the front of it, despite the clang it made when she took her foot off. Of course, all the adults were annoyed by the disturbance and twisted their faces into scowls at her. Nevertheless, soon she was on her hands and knees completely beneath the cart examining it close up for herself. Who else would think to do that? When it snowed heavily for the first time in October, I saw a young child trudging through a snow bank like he was hiking through Yellow Stone National Park. He would sink in to his snowmobile suited knees, lift one leg out and plop it back into the knee deep snow again. He didn't give a second glance at the neatly shoveled sidewalk two feet to his left. Again, who else would think to do that?

I finally realized something. When I was a child, I couldn't wait to grow up and be important. Now as an adult, all I want to do is revisit my childhood and revel. Is that the irony of life? Well, my solution is this: every day since I discovered the loss of my wonder, I try to recapture it. The inner child has been there all along; he just needed a little dusting off. Now sometimes I take the elevator to my office, just to enjoy the ride. Sometimes I run down the stairs as fast as I can, taking two and three steps at a time, just to see how long it takes me to reach the bottom. At least twice a week I park several blocks away and walk to school. I relish how the morning air assaults my newly scrubbed face, how it tastes in my mouth, and how it stings my still awakening eyes. I even revert to old legends that were scripture to me as a child. I avert stepping on any cracks or seams in the sidewalk. I must have reduced every vertebrae in my poor mother's back to dust over the past twenty years of neglecting such rules. Sometimes I won't even walk on the sidewalk, taking the yard or boulevard less traveled. On my way home every day, I make it a point to notice something new in the homes, the yards, the woods, the lake, the children, the joggers and walkers, the streets, or the squirrels I see on my way home. Then I write them down in my journal.

I try to soak up the splendor in both the sunrise and sunset. The snow is long gone, but it will return next year. I need to get a sled. I wonder if they still make the red brand?

I try to attempt the impossible. After I get my MA here, I want to try the Red River Valley Writers Program at UND. I'd like to work on an MFA in creative nonfiction from MSU. I want to try sky diving. What is a parachute but a glorified aerodynamic sheet anyway?

Just today I created a new ritual. I went into the lounge here on the third floor of my department building and looked at the sky. It took awhile. I didn't look at my watch, on purpose. I might even stop wearing it. But anyway, I think I saw a muffin, a dragon, and possibly the continent of Africa . . .