I used to say you weren’t doing teaching right
until you had made a student cry.
Here’s what I meant by that: I still remember
the tears that quivered at the edge
of Samantha’s lower eyelids. I remember wondering
if they were going to fall or just sit there.
She wasn’t alone, but somehow had become
the spear tip of the class’s frustration.
“I don’t understand. This is how I was taught
to write. This is how an essay works,” said Sam.
“Okay,” I conceded, “You were taught that structure,
and now it has yielded an average paper.”
And I knew what she wanted, what all of us want,
for excellence to come easily, for a recipe
to follow that earns us praise. To do the work
and earn the paycheck, but also to be loved.
I told them that the rules they’d learned
for essay writing had been functioning
like training wheels to keep them stable
and off the ground. Stay in place if you want,
but no one’s really impressed.
“But without the rules, what does an A paper
look like?”
“I can’t tell you that. It will be unique to you.
I’ll know it when I see it, and honestly, you will, too.
But it won’t happen because you followed instructions.
The rubric can only describe a C.”
“What does that even mean? You’re asking me
to walk in the dark without a flashlight or map!”
“Yes. Learning is a struggle. We decide to be excellent,
or we prefer not to try.”
“So what’s your advice? How do I get there?”
“Two things: Observe and Experiment.
First, read a lot and listen. Great voices stand out
and are easy to find. Some of what is theirs is yours,
and some of what is theirs is mine. Be willing to be shaped
and to borrow, to become familiar with the many voices
in the chorus, and attempt to hear your own.
Then, write a lot and listen. Your voice will emerge,
and you will notice that it can be wild and uncontrolled.
It will say things you regret or that fail to capture what’s in your mind,
that cause your audience to drift away, or cringe, or cross their arms,
and you will learn that language is social, that your voice
can be tuned to context, can have moments of eloquence,
and flashes of inspiration. You will have music, in time,
that you can use as a tool to cultivate gardens,
raise armies, inspire questions, and master fear.
And you will write A papers and not even care.”
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