PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION
Marina Skendzic
Dr. Kenneth Mendoza
Theory & Practice of K-12 Writing Instruction 465
17 March 2010
Sweet-Talking the Curiosity out of Students:
The Keys to Teaching Students to Make Discoveries Through Writing
I was with Annie Dillard when she went on her adventures at Tinker Creek, exploring the expanses of the land and of her mind. We stalked muskrats together and listened peacefully to the gentle flow of the creek. We looked over our shoulders at the peaks of the mountains towering behind us, and we felt the dew of the grass between our toes. We inhaled the creek’s smell, and looked with wonder at dark and starry night skies, characteristic only of rural locations in today’s world. Annie and I—we go way back. We are both ever the botanist in a garden, ever the biologist under a microscope. We are both inexhaustibly curious.
At least, it feels like I was really there while I read her narrative. Because when I read Annie Dillard’s narrative non-fiction novel, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I went with her along her journey of self-discovery. Not as a student, not as anything inferior to Dillard herself. No, I came along with her as her silent companion in her curious world. Her style, uninhibited as it is, enabled me to engage in her learning alongside her, actively and in real time. Annie will not let readers sit on the sidelines.
For Dillard, stimulation of the mind is a way of life. This constant learning is beautiful and she wants it, craves it—unlike so many today (who are lazy learners). The beauty of watching Dillard learn is realizing that you a sentient being capable of critical thought, too. For Dillard, it is only natural to engage in critical thought. Perhaps learning should come as naturally as Dillard makes it look. It is odd to think about the fact that in today’s society people think that learning is somehow produced by magic—that it is supernatural. Learning is definitely not supernatural. I share Dillard’s philosophy, that learning is the culmination of many tones and feelings that, when provided with a catalyst, converge and make learning a curious and exciting thing to discover and enjoy through writing.
The catalyst for learning must be the desire to discover and to make meaning. There is no other way to go about it—one cannot teach a student who does not want to learn. A student will learn only if they are engaged on some level of curiosity. This curiosity does not need to overflow; it can just be a hint. If the seed is there, something will grow. Sometimes, the student is not even aware that they are curious about what they might be learning. Often it is the teacher’s job to look through their students and examine those who are “plugged in,” those who are connecting with what is being taught in the classroom—it is also the teacher’s job to make sure that those students who are not engaged in the learning process do get with the program, so to speak. The question staring all teachers in the face then is, so how do we get our students in the right mindset to learn? The answer lies in learning what fuels the learning process—and that is curiosity.
The recipe for learning and making discoveries is one hundred per cent curiosity. That is all one needs to begin. Learning is fueled by curiosity—something that is inherent in all human beings. If a student does not seem curious, then their curiosity is simply hibernating like a bear in the Winter months. All a teacher needs to do is wake the curiosity up from its deep slumber. Humans are a curious species by nature. There are many examples that prove this: we conduct scientific experiments, construct philosophies, are captivated by the mysteries of our universe—we are full of wonder. We are born curious, but somewhere a disconnect occurs. Annie Dillard comments on this idea:
An infant who has just learned to hold his head up has a frank and forthright way of gazing about him in bewilderment. He hasn’t the faintest clue where he is, and he aims to learn. In a couple of years, what he will have learned instead is how to fake it (Dillard 13-14).
Annie’s observation is not just a simple reflection. It does not take a scholarly authority, a scientist, or a psychologist to tell us something that we already know—we lose our curious spirit (some of more than others) as we grow up. We shed our inner Peter Pan; we “grow up,” become entrenched in our jobs, and we forget our curious spirit. This destructive process begins very early on in the lives of children, who are constantly influenced by the expectations of the “real world.” To teach someone anything at all means the instructor must wrench out that hint of curiosity from the student. To teach someone how to write, then, begins with encouraging (and possibly restoring) the natural curious spirit inside every student.
To coax the curiosity out of a student is a very difficult thing. Once it is successfully done, the student does the “hard part.” A teacher has to nurture the curious spirits in students to get them to open up to the possibility of learning. But once the student is curious, the student is actively engaged in learning. The student will gorge himself or herself with knowledge. The desire to learn moves the student towards his or her own conclusions, his or her own ideas. What this means for learning to write is that the student gets into a cycle of writing to discover. When curiosity meets discovery, the synapses start packing more signal than ever before.
Getting students to care is the most difficult step in the process of teaching in general, but especially in writing. If a student does not care about mathematics, he or she can still do the work and get the grade they want. There is only one way to go about mathematics to get the right answer. The student can, in fact, remain very distant from the learning process when it comes to simple mathematics. With composition, though, distance is an extremely negative thing (especially in the early stages of learning to write). This is because composition requires that the student gets close to a piece of text to successfully write a paper—it does not matter which style of writing that is; it could be textual analysis or personal criticism or even a simple book report. The student needs to search inside himself in order to write a coherent and interesting piece. Writing is a very involved, very personal act—and that is why a student who is apathetic about the process is not likely to produce anything valuable, to them or to their instructor. The whole point of building up curiosity is to destroy apathy so that the student realizes that yes, writing is difficult and involved, but writing is also rewarding and valuable. Martha L. King says that “writing in the early years surely impacts later writing because children learn its value—and that they can do it” (Graves 27). Surely her comment on first time learners of composition holds water when we apply this idea towards the idea of apathy. How can a child learn to write if he or she is hell bent on simply playing in the sandbox all the time? In the sandbox the child is free to think about whatever they want, to build sand castles and to discover joy in the act of doing so. When apathy towards writing is erased from a student’s mind, then the student is free to explore their own limits through their writing and thus realize the heights they can achieve in composing words. They find that there is a sandbox for their words. There, they are they are free to play with their words, mold them into a message that is important to them, and to successfully communicate that message to others.
Students who discover the joy in writing are the students that care about what they are saying—they are students who have something to say. James Moffett tells us that “we have learned that writing has to be learned in school very much the same way that it is practiced out of school. This means that the writer has a reason to write…” (Graves 30). Does not every human being need a reason to do anything? We work because we get a paycheck. We exercise to stay in shape. It is easy to see how a student might end up asking themselves, why do we write? It is so rare to see this question answered in K-12 classrooms. If this question is not answered properly, though, and at the right time, a student can lose interest and fall by the wayside of his or her peers very easily. An attitude can develop where writing does not matter at all to the student, is painful, and is only engaged in to pass a class.
It has been determined, then, that apathy towards writing in any dose is lethal to learning the writing process. Apathy is like rust—if there is a smidgen of it, it will grow and consume. The only solution is to stop it in its tracks. The best way to do this is to explain to students that ideas run the world. Going to the Moon, advances in medicine, the great works that compose literary canons of today—these were all just ideas at one point in time. To eliminate apathetic attitudes I would ask my students for ideas; I would ask them to run the world. I would open the floodgates of discussion and let the stampede begin. I would go in head-on with the intent to get my students riled up, frisky and asking questions. If a teacher can get the synapses packing more signal per punch by eliminating apathy and engaging the curious spirit, then they have successfully laid the groundwork to begin teaching writing.
Laying this groundwork is one of the most difficult things I expect to encounter as an educator. Looking out into the classroom, and seeing some students engaged, and others with their eyes glazed over in pure boredom is a daunting thought. Why then, is “the teacher of writing is the luckiest person on Earth?” (Graves xi). It must be the delight of guiding students and watching them discover (we all know it is not the money). I am absolutely positive that teachers live for the light in the students’ eyes when they comprehend a tough subject, break through a concrete writer’s block, or solve their own problem by using the tools they have gleaned from their teachers.
Once the proverbial “lights” are on in a student’s eyes—that is, once they are curious and open to learning, then the teacher can engage the process of teaching composition as a craft. The key is always to loiter, to talk it over. After all, writing is essentially communication. Students should show, tell, and engage. Discussions should come from all angles—student versus student, student versus teacher. After romanticizing writing a little by making students curious about it, then the class is ready to discuss what writing means, why people do it, and why we should all respect it. These are very important questions to answer, because it will make writing matter to students.
Another way to make students see that writing matters is to explain that the potential of discovery through the process of writing is always inexhaustible. The feeling we get when we know we have written something “good,” something we know we are proud of is awesome. The best part is that this feeling is renewable forever. There is no end to the amount of knowledge we can gain and subsequently make meaning out of through composition. The blank pages stretch from the tip of the pencil to the expanses of the universe. The canvas is multi-dimensional. Writers can paint it in twelve dimensions if they want to. Writers can ball the canvas up, roll it—bounce it. Stretch it out, wrap themselves in it. They can wear it, decorate it. The canvas is always there, the possibilities endless!
Sound corny yet? Well, it sort of is. But it is all the truth. Has a K-12 instructor ever told this to students? I am sure there are teachers out there who do tell this to students. But, were you ever let in on “the secret” that writing can be used as catharsis, as a means to make discoveries about the world and yourself, as a tool for interpretation, and for keeping up one of humanity’s greatest traditions and achievements—language (Graves 54)? How many of your own teachers looked at you square in the eye, full of passion, and told you: I want you to be curious! I want you to meet these Great Expectations. I want you to know how to write so you can communicate what you want to say clearly, but also so you can discover things about the world and yourself that you never knew existed. Chances are, your teachers were tired and they taught you the standard, cookie-cutter Writing Process (one introduction, one thesis, three body paragraphs, and a conclusion. Oh, yes—do not forget the famous “hook” in the introduction!) Looking back on my own education, I have tried to pinpoint the exact age I was when I started to care about my writing. I really cannot attribute a date to it—honestly, I simply always remember loving words. This is not the case for all students, obviously. Writing is difficult to both learn and teach, so it can be also difficult to get excited about doing either one of those activities.
It is important to note, though, that some preexisting notions about how to teach children to write are simply outdated. The truth of the matter is that there are a lot of teachers in America who are simply reaching their benchmarks. They are not asking their students to engage actively with their own minds—rather, they are simply telling student to fill in the blanks. I have observed, as many of my peers have as well, some teachers who put up a sentence on the board with a blank such as “I like…” And students are simply supposed to fill in the blank. This is not active learning. This is not learning that is stimulating the maximum growth potential of students. More importantly—this is boring, causes students to tune out, and (here is the kicker), it is way too easy. Martha L. King reiterates this idea very well, commenting on the environment of learning:
…the most surprising, exciting, and stimulating ‘thing’ we know is that children can, will, and do write very early if they are in an environment where writing is done and their efforts are received as containing a real message… (Graves 27).
At the expense of sounding pompous and sarcastic, I say duh. The key is to set the bar, and set it high—that is my philosophy. Asking students to fill in the blanks, to use a standardized Writing Process, and to respond to texts in a way that is meaningless to them as individuals makes me wonder, why did educators ever think that the right way to educate children in composition was to “dumb things down?” The formula seems simple—encourage students to be curious about writing, and then throw them into an environment that promotes literacy and writing. I have learned this, and discovered this, through my own writing and learning. Peter Elbow comments on his own teaching experiences with writing, “...we gradually learned that they [students] were remarkably intelligent and talented. I can sense something deeply wrong with an educational system that made people who were smart feel stupid” (Elbow, xiv). Elbow is essentially telling us that when thrown into a positive writing environment, students will perform and reach higher standards.
In my own education, I have known this to be true. During my time at a community college I wrote satisfactory papers. For some of my professors, my satisfactory papers make me look like I was an exceptional writer. I knew myself that I could achieve higher standards, that my writing could be of a much higher caliber. I did not produce my best work in those classes, though. The reason my writing was not exceptional was because satisfactory writing was all that was expected out of my. In contrast, when I arrived at CSU, San Marcos during the Fall of 2009 I was floored with what was expected out of me. On simple discussion boards I had to struggle to create writing that was analytical, interesting, captivating and insightful. In short, I actually had to produce good writing if I wanted to be a successful student. I realized this quite early in the semester and worked to improve in areas of my writing where my skills were weaker than they should have been. By the end of the semester, I had improved in my writing incredibly. I rose to the opportunity to be a successful writer. Because I did this, I know other students are capable of this as well.
I had to learn how to learn again after my transfer from the community college level to the university level. Learning involves trying various methods and strategies—it is a lot of guess-and-check, if you will. And no one’s learning strategy is the same. It is not as in mathematics, where the format is universal and there is only one answer. No, when it comes to writing there are an infinite number of pathways one could explore. There are an infinite number of roads to take to an infinite number of destinations. And so the teaching of writing is the teaching of exploring. One can teach a student spelling and grammar and give them a formulaic format for writing essays. But one cannot teach students to explore. An educator can only show them the wonder of discovery; a student must embark on the path of discovery with intention. A teacher can only inspire students with the possibility of discovery. But once a student makes one single discovery—they know. The cat is out of the bag. They know what to write, then—so, “get the hell outta the student’s way” and let them learn and explore (Mendoza).
Teaching writing is almost synonymous with teaching exploring and discovery. It is a process of piquing curiosity and then provoking discussion. This is sort of like a two-step process that must precede writing itself. My future students and I will go through a learning process together. (That is the answer to the question that I have to answer in this space about how I have “made meaning”). As they learn, I will learn and vice versa. Being curious about learning and about writing and engaging in the learning process together is how I make meaning today and how I will make meaning with my students.
To motivate students to want to create meaning through composition means teachers must practice what they preach. Teachers must be curious and determined and have all the characteristics that I have outlined here. Teachers that are apathetic will create apathetic students. I want my students to explore like Annie Dillard—I want them to walk through the expanses of their lives and be able to synthesize what is going on around them into words that matter to them and to others. In the final chapter of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Dillard writes: “there is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end” (Dillard 274). I do not want the students who take my class to give into this “enormous temptation” to be ordinary. I do not want my students to simply use a cookie-cutter process to make the grade they want. I want my students exploring their past, present and future through their writing—I want them engaging in texts actively. I feel like I may end up like that one teacher you hated in high school because he or she pushed you so hard. You did not sleep until one o’clock in the morning because you were up finishing one of the most difficult papers of your high school career. You complained to family and friends. You toiled and whined; but you finished it. Perhaps you had that experience—when, years later, you looked back on that essay that you labored so hard over and realized it was probably the best thing you ever wrote in high school. And it was only that good because someone demanded the best out of you. That is where you will find me—up in front of students, demanding the best out of them and stirring up their curious spirits.
Works Cited
Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim At Tinker Creek. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics , 1998. Print.
Elbow, Peter. Writing Without Teachers. 2nd. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Print.
Graves, Richard L. Writing, Teaching, Learning: A Sourcebook. Portsmouth: Boynton/Cook, 1999. Print.
Mendoza, Dr. Kenneth. Lecture. Theory and Practice of K-12 Writing Instruction, LTWR 465. California State University, San Marcos. San Marcos, Spring 2010.
Dr. Kenneth Mendoza
Theory & Practice of K-12 Writing Instruction 465
17 March 2010
Sweet-Talking the Curiosity out of Students:
The Keys to Teaching Students to Make Discoveries Through Writing
I was with Annie Dillard when she went on her adventures at Tinker Creek, exploring the expanses of the land and of her mind. We stalked muskrats together and listened peacefully to the gentle flow of the creek. We looked over our shoulders at the peaks of the mountains towering behind us, and we felt the dew of the grass between our toes. We inhaled the creek’s smell, and looked with wonder at dark and starry night skies, characteristic only of rural locations in today’s world. Annie and I—we go way back. We are both ever the botanist in a garden, ever the biologist under a microscope. We are both inexhaustibly curious.
At least, it feels like I was really there while I read her narrative. Because when I read Annie Dillard’s narrative non-fiction novel, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I went with her along her journey of self-discovery. Not as a student, not as anything inferior to Dillard herself. No, I came along with her as her silent companion in her curious world. Her style, uninhibited as it is, enabled me to engage in her learning alongside her, actively and in real time. Annie will not let readers sit on the sidelines.
For Dillard, stimulation of the mind is a way of life. This constant learning is beautiful and she wants it, craves it—unlike so many today (who are lazy learners). The beauty of watching Dillard learn is realizing that you a sentient being capable of critical thought, too. For Dillard, it is only natural to engage in critical thought. Perhaps learning should come as naturally as Dillard makes it look. It is odd to think about the fact that in today’s society people think that learning is somehow produced by magic—that it is supernatural. Learning is definitely not supernatural. I share Dillard’s philosophy, that learning is the culmination of many tones and feelings that, when provided with a catalyst, converge and make learning a curious and exciting thing to discover and enjoy through writing.
The catalyst for learning must be the desire to discover and to make meaning. There is no other way to go about it—one cannot teach a student who does not want to learn. A student will learn only if they are engaged on some level of curiosity. This curiosity does not need to overflow; it can just be a hint. If the seed is there, something will grow. Sometimes, the student is not even aware that they are curious about what they might be learning. Often it is the teacher’s job to look through their students and examine those who are “plugged in,” those who are connecting with what is being taught in the classroom—it is also the teacher’s job to make sure that those students who are not engaged in the learning process do get with the program, so to speak. The question staring all teachers in the face then is, so how do we get our students in the right mindset to learn? The answer lies in learning what fuels the learning process—and that is curiosity.
The recipe for learning and making discoveries is one hundred per cent curiosity. That is all one needs to begin. Learning is fueled by curiosity—something that is inherent in all human beings. If a student does not seem curious, then their curiosity is simply hibernating like a bear in the Winter months. All a teacher needs to do is wake the curiosity up from its deep slumber. Humans are a curious species by nature. There are many examples that prove this: we conduct scientific experiments, construct philosophies, are captivated by the mysteries of our universe—we are full of wonder. We are born curious, but somewhere a disconnect occurs. Annie Dillard comments on this idea:
An infant who has just learned to hold his head up has a frank and forthright way of gazing about him in bewilderment. He hasn’t the faintest clue where he is, and he aims to learn. In a couple of years, what he will have learned instead is how to fake it (Dillard 13-14).
Annie’s observation is not just a simple reflection. It does not take a scholarly authority, a scientist, or a psychologist to tell us something that we already know—we lose our curious spirit (some of more than others) as we grow up. We shed our inner Peter Pan; we “grow up,” become entrenched in our jobs, and we forget our curious spirit. This destructive process begins very early on in the lives of children, who are constantly influenced by the expectations of the “real world.” To teach someone anything at all means the instructor must wrench out that hint of curiosity from the student. To teach someone how to write, then, begins with encouraging (and possibly restoring) the natural curious spirit inside every student.
To coax the curiosity out of a student is a very difficult thing. Once it is successfully done, the student does the “hard part.” A teacher has to nurture the curious spirits in students to get them to open up to the possibility of learning. But once the student is curious, the student is actively engaged in learning. The student will gorge himself or herself with knowledge. The desire to learn moves the student towards his or her own conclusions, his or her own ideas. What this means for learning to write is that the student gets into a cycle of writing to discover. When curiosity meets discovery, the synapses start packing more signal than ever before.
Getting students to care is the most difficult step in the process of teaching in general, but especially in writing. If a student does not care about mathematics, he or she can still do the work and get the grade they want. There is only one way to go about mathematics to get the right answer. The student can, in fact, remain very distant from the learning process when it comes to simple mathematics. With composition, though, distance is an extremely negative thing (especially in the early stages of learning to write). This is because composition requires that the student gets close to a piece of text to successfully write a paper—it does not matter which style of writing that is; it could be textual analysis or personal criticism or even a simple book report. The student needs to search inside himself in order to write a coherent and interesting piece. Writing is a very involved, very personal act—and that is why a student who is apathetic about the process is not likely to produce anything valuable, to them or to their instructor. The whole point of building up curiosity is to destroy apathy so that the student realizes that yes, writing is difficult and involved, but writing is also rewarding and valuable. Martha L. King says that “writing in the early years surely impacts later writing because children learn its value—and that they can do it” (Graves 27). Surely her comment on first time learners of composition holds water when we apply this idea towards the idea of apathy. How can a child learn to write if he or she is hell bent on simply playing in the sandbox all the time? In the sandbox the child is free to think about whatever they want, to build sand castles and to discover joy in the act of doing so. When apathy towards writing is erased from a student’s mind, then the student is free to explore their own limits through their writing and thus realize the heights they can achieve in composing words. They find that there is a sandbox for their words. There, they are they are free to play with their words, mold them into a message that is important to them, and to successfully communicate that message to others.
Students who discover the joy in writing are the students that care about what they are saying—they are students who have something to say. James Moffett tells us that “we have learned that writing has to be learned in school very much the same way that it is practiced out of school. This means that the writer has a reason to write…” (Graves 30). Does not every human being need a reason to do anything? We work because we get a paycheck. We exercise to stay in shape. It is easy to see how a student might end up asking themselves, why do we write? It is so rare to see this question answered in K-12 classrooms. If this question is not answered properly, though, and at the right time, a student can lose interest and fall by the wayside of his or her peers very easily. An attitude can develop where writing does not matter at all to the student, is painful, and is only engaged in to pass a class.
It has been determined, then, that apathy towards writing in any dose is lethal to learning the writing process. Apathy is like rust—if there is a smidgen of it, it will grow and consume. The only solution is to stop it in its tracks. The best way to do this is to explain to students that ideas run the world. Going to the Moon, advances in medicine, the great works that compose literary canons of today—these were all just ideas at one point in time. To eliminate apathetic attitudes I would ask my students for ideas; I would ask them to run the world. I would open the floodgates of discussion and let the stampede begin. I would go in head-on with the intent to get my students riled up, frisky and asking questions. If a teacher can get the synapses packing more signal per punch by eliminating apathy and engaging the curious spirit, then they have successfully laid the groundwork to begin teaching writing.
Laying this groundwork is one of the most difficult things I expect to encounter as an educator. Looking out into the classroom, and seeing some students engaged, and others with their eyes glazed over in pure boredom is a daunting thought. Why then, is “the teacher of writing is the luckiest person on Earth?” (Graves xi). It must be the delight of guiding students and watching them discover (we all know it is not the money). I am absolutely positive that teachers live for the light in the students’ eyes when they comprehend a tough subject, break through a concrete writer’s block, or solve their own problem by using the tools they have gleaned from their teachers.
Once the proverbial “lights” are on in a student’s eyes—that is, once they are curious and open to learning, then the teacher can engage the process of teaching composition as a craft. The key is always to loiter, to talk it over. After all, writing is essentially communication. Students should show, tell, and engage. Discussions should come from all angles—student versus student, student versus teacher. After romanticizing writing a little by making students curious about it, then the class is ready to discuss what writing means, why people do it, and why we should all respect it. These are very important questions to answer, because it will make writing matter to students.
Another way to make students see that writing matters is to explain that the potential of discovery through the process of writing is always inexhaustible. The feeling we get when we know we have written something “good,” something we know we are proud of is awesome. The best part is that this feeling is renewable forever. There is no end to the amount of knowledge we can gain and subsequently make meaning out of through composition. The blank pages stretch from the tip of the pencil to the expanses of the universe. The canvas is multi-dimensional. Writers can paint it in twelve dimensions if they want to. Writers can ball the canvas up, roll it—bounce it. Stretch it out, wrap themselves in it. They can wear it, decorate it. The canvas is always there, the possibilities endless!
Sound corny yet? Well, it sort of is. But it is all the truth. Has a K-12 instructor ever told this to students? I am sure there are teachers out there who do tell this to students. But, were you ever let in on “the secret” that writing can be used as catharsis, as a means to make discoveries about the world and yourself, as a tool for interpretation, and for keeping up one of humanity’s greatest traditions and achievements—language (Graves 54)? How many of your own teachers looked at you square in the eye, full of passion, and told you: I want you to be curious! I want you to meet these Great Expectations. I want you to know how to write so you can communicate what you want to say clearly, but also so you can discover things about the world and yourself that you never knew existed. Chances are, your teachers were tired and they taught you the standard, cookie-cutter Writing Process (one introduction, one thesis, three body paragraphs, and a conclusion. Oh, yes—do not forget the famous “hook” in the introduction!) Looking back on my own education, I have tried to pinpoint the exact age I was when I started to care about my writing. I really cannot attribute a date to it—honestly, I simply always remember loving words. This is not the case for all students, obviously. Writing is difficult to both learn and teach, so it can be also difficult to get excited about doing either one of those activities.
It is important to note, though, that some preexisting notions about how to teach children to write are simply outdated. The truth of the matter is that there are a lot of teachers in America who are simply reaching their benchmarks. They are not asking their students to engage actively with their own minds—rather, they are simply telling student to fill in the blanks. I have observed, as many of my peers have as well, some teachers who put up a sentence on the board with a blank such as “I like…” And students are simply supposed to fill in the blank. This is not active learning. This is not learning that is stimulating the maximum growth potential of students. More importantly—this is boring, causes students to tune out, and (here is the kicker), it is way too easy. Martha L. King reiterates this idea very well, commenting on the environment of learning:
…the most surprising, exciting, and stimulating ‘thing’ we know is that children can, will, and do write very early if they are in an environment where writing is done and their efforts are received as containing a real message… (Graves 27).
At the expense of sounding pompous and sarcastic, I say duh. The key is to set the bar, and set it high—that is my philosophy. Asking students to fill in the blanks, to use a standardized Writing Process, and to respond to texts in a way that is meaningless to them as individuals makes me wonder, why did educators ever think that the right way to educate children in composition was to “dumb things down?” The formula seems simple—encourage students to be curious about writing, and then throw them into an environment that promotes literacy and writing. I have learned this, and discovered this, through my own writing and learning. Peter Elbow comments on his own teaching experiences with writing, “...we gradually learned that they [students] were remarkably intelligent and talented. I can sense something deeply wrong with an educational system that made people who were smart feel stupid” (Elbow, xiv). Elbow is essentially telling us that when thrown into a positive writing environment, students will perform and reach higher standards.
In my own education, I have known this to be true. During my time at a community college I wrote satisfactory papers. For some of my professors, my satisfactory papers make me look like I was an exceptional writer. I knew myself that I could achieve higher standards, that my writing could be of a much higher caliber. I did not produce my best work in those classes, though. The reason my writing was not exceptional was because satisfactory writing was all that was expected out of my. In contrast, when I arrived at CSU, San Marcos during the Fall of 2009 I was floored with what was expected out of me. On simple discussion boards I had to struggle to create writing that was analytical, interesting, captivating and insightful. In short, I actually had to produce good writing if I wanted to be a successful student. I realized this quite early in the semester and worked to improve in areas of my writing where my skills were weaker than they should have been. By the end of the semester, I had improved in my writing incredibly. I rose to the opportunity to be a successful writer. Because I did this, I know other students are capable of this as well.
I had to learn how to learn again after my transfer from the community college level to the university level. Learning involves trying various methods and strategies—it is a lot of guess-and-check, if you will. And no one’s learning strategy is the same. It is not as in mathematics, where the format is universal and there is only one answer. No, when it comes to writing there are an infinite number of pathways one could explore. There are an infinite number of roads to take to an infinite number of destinations. And so the teaching of writing is the teaching of exploring. One can teach a student spelling and grammar and give them a formulaic format for writing essays. But one cannot teach students to explore. An educator can only show them the wonder of discovery; a student must embark on the path of discovery with intention. A teacher can only inspire students with the possibility of discovery. But once a student makes one single discovery—they know. The cat is out of the bag. They know what to write, then—so, “get the hell outta the student’s way” and let them learn and explore (Mendoza).
Teaching writing is almost synonymous with teaching exploring and discovery. It is a process of piquing curiosity and then provoking discussion. This is sort of like a two-step process that must precede writing itself. My future students and I will go through a learning process together. (That is the answer to the question that I have to answer in this space about how I have “made meaning”). As they learn, I will learn and vice versa. Being curious about learning and about writing and engaging in the learning process together is how I make meaning today and how I will make meaning with my students.
To motivate students to want to create meaning through composition means teachers must practice what they preach. Teachers must be curious and determined and have all the characteristics that I have outlined here. Teachers that are apathetic will create apathetic students. I want my students to explore like Annie Dillard—I want them to walk through the expanses of their lives and be able to synthesize what is going on around them into words that matter to them and to others. In the final chapter of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Dillard writes: “there is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end” (Dillard 274). I do not want the students who take my class to give into this “enormous temptation” to be ordinary. I do not want my students to simply use a cookie-cutter process to make the grade they want. I want my students exploring their past, present and future through their writing—I want them engaging in texts actively. I feel like I may end up like that one teacher you hated in high school because he or she pushed you so hard. You did not sleep until one o’clock in the morning because you were up finishing one of the most difficult papers of your high school career. You complained to family and friends. You toiled and whined; but you finished it. Perhaps you had that experience—when, years later, you looked back on that essay that you labored so hard over and realized it was probably the best thing you ever wrote in high school. And it was only that good because someone demanded the best out of you. That is where you will find me—up in front of students, demanding the best out of them and stirring up their curious spirits.
Works Cited
Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim At Tinker Creek. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics , 1998. Print.
Elbow, Peter. Writing Without Teachers. 2nd. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Print.
Graves, Richard L. Writing, Teaching, Learning: A Sourcebook. Portsmouth: Boynton/Cook, 1999. Print.
Mendoza, Dr. Kenneth. Lecture. Theory and Practice of K-12 Writing Instruction, LTWR 465. California State University, San Marcos. San Marcos, Spring 2010.