Monday, October 30, 2017

Literary and Philosophical Criticisms

Note the all capital letters, which shows how important these papers are.
Welcome to readers of my latest column in the Chronicle of Higher Education, which appeared in the magazine on November 6th. 

In that column I refer to the collection of essays from my undergraduate years which I collected, during the final week of my senior year, into a yellow folder that I labeled "Literary and Philosophical Criticism."  I will note in my defense that I got this idea from one of my roommates, who actually had his papers all bound together into a book that he titled "The Collected Works."  My yellow folder paled in comparison.

Nevertheless, here it is in all its glory, along with action shots of two of the papers I referenced in the article.

Philosophizing about Aristotle in sophomore year.

Fall of senior year: the writing has definitely improved.

And the lesson to take away from all of this, as you read columns in which I include personal anecdotes: I'm not making this stuff up.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Nothing Will Save Us Or Make This Easy

This summer I met with the director of accessibility services on our campus to discuss a problem she was having.  A number of faculty on our campus had become interested in using open educational resources, allowing our students—many of whom are first-generation students struggling to make tuition payments—to save money by providing them access to free course content. 

But these resources, while so helpful to some of our students, were causing problems for others.  A half-dozen students in those courses had visual impairments that necessitated access to audio or large-print forms of these course materials.  Some of those materials came in forms that did not lend themselves easily to either of these options, and the director of accessibility services and our IT department had to scramble in the middle of the semester to provide the tools these students needed to succeed.

The conflict between these two efforts to help our students represented a case of competing goods.  Surely we want to do what we can to help make college as affordable as possible for our students.  Tuition rates are sky-high and climbing; as the father of two children in college, I know how the annual sticker-shock of textbook prices only intensifies the financial burdens our students must bear.  Open educational resources seem like they could save us from the scourge of overpriced textbooks adding to the cost of college.

Equally surely we want to provide accessible course content to all students, whatever learning challenges they might face.  If we admit them to our institutions and accept their tuition dollars, we have both a moral and legal obligation to make our courses accessible to them.  Selecting and creating course materials that can be accessed by visually impaired students (through audio or large-print formats) seems like a fundamental obligation on our part.

These goods compete.  No painless solution exists here.  In this particular case, faced between the choice of a free resource that has not been made accessible and a costly one that has been made accessible, we are morally and legally obligated to choose the accessible one.  But that doesn't mean that something has not been lost here; we have sacrificed one good (saving our students money) for another one.

This problem of competing goods exists in many other areas of higher education.  Earlier this year the Chronicle published a satirical essay in which a professor wrote scathingly about students who attempt to escape their academic obligations by fabricating deaths in the family.  The essay sparked outrage on Twitter and in the comments, with some readers claiming that we should always trust our students, even if that meant we were occasionally lied to by them.

Others pointed out that a student who fabricates a dead grandmother to gain more time on a project or an exam gains an unfair advantage over his fellow students, which violates the integrity of the academic enterprise, and integrity should matter to us.  While we may not like the fact that students are measured and compared to one another through grades, they are evaluated in these ways by graduate schools and employers, and those folks are expecting us to give accurate representations of what our students have learned and accomplished, including in comparison to one another.

These goods compete.  We should trust our students and create learning communities in which students feel they can trust us.  We should also protect the integrity of the academic enterprise by ensuring that students do their work honestly and fairly.  No magic bullet exists to reconcile these competing goods once and for all. 

In short, when it comes to education, nothing will save us or make this easy.

For the remainder of my academic life, this will be my mantra.

Nothing will save us or make this easy.

Last year I wrote for the Chronicle a series of columns about small changes we can make to our teaching, ones that were based on research from the learning sciences.  I was inspired to write those essays, and the book that accompanied them, in part because I had become frustrated with our seeming fascination with radical solutions to the complex problems we face in helping other human beings learn. Flip the classroom!  Embed your course content in games!  Chuck traditional classrooms and let students hack their own educations!

I am convinced that every pedagogical context does not require a radical re-thinking of an endeavor in which we seem to have been engaged with some success for thousands of years.  The persistence of the traditional classroom structure across times and cultures may indicate that something about it works well for us as a species.  We also have an enormous sector of our society and economy which arose around it and depends upon it.  So we may be better off evolving slowly, experimenting with small changes and continuous efforts at improvement.

And yet . . . I might well be wrong about that.  Perhaps society has changed so quickly in the past decades, driven by our astonishing leaps in technological innovation, that we have to re-think higher education entirely.  I’m skeptical, but open to the prospect.  I watch educational innovators with interest, and am glad to see radical experiments happening.  This fall I will be using community service learning in my first-year writing course, making a substantial change that I have been thinking about and working on all summer.

So here too we find that no right answer exists.  Small changes or major innovations—neither will save us from the hard work of greeting each new group of students, bringing them the courses we have planned, and then trying to adjust those courses according to how well they seem to be helping students learn.  Nothing will make that any easier.

But now for the joyful turn: the fact that no easy solutions exist, and that absolute positions have no place in our discussions, is precisely what makes teaching such an intellectually challenging, fascinating, and important endeavor. 

Although I grew up in a family of teachers, I had no desire to teach when I first entered graduate school.  I wanted to read literature and become a writer.  Graduate school was a place for me to bide my time until my writing career broke.  But something about the challenge of teaching, when I first stood in front of the classroom, lit an intellectual fire in me that has continued to burn more than twenty-five years later.  Every semester I enter the classroom with hope and excitement; every semester I leave it feeling like many things went well, but I didn’t quite get it right, and I’d like just one more crack at it to see if I can make it better. 

The new semester approaches again (already!), and I view my upcoming first-year writing course with that same mix of hope and trepidation with which I greet each new semester.  I likewise view it as another opportunity to be both right and wrong about my pedagogical convictions.  Either way, I’ll come out the other side having learned something new about myself, about them, or about writing and how to teach it.  Either way, I’ll be ready to try again.

Only one thing can close off this kind of attitude toward teaching, which I believe we must adopt if we want to continue doing the best we can for our students: belief in absolutes of any kind in relationship to your students, the practice of teaching, or the nature of education.  That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have convictions; it means we should always remain open to the possibility that our convictions might be wrong. 

We’ll never have the answers for what will help every student learn most effectively, no matter how much data we gather.  We’ll never find the one secret strategy that motivates every students.  We’ll always have to keep experimenting, keep trying new things, and keep being upended by the endless individual differences that exist within our students and individual classrooms.

We will never get teaching quite right. 

And how wonderful that is!

Friday, June 16, 2017

Some Reflections on Angela Duckworth's Theory of Grit and its Critics

When I was 26 years old, I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease, which produces inflammation in the colon and small intestine and can produce symptoms that range from annoying to life-threatening.  In the early conversations I had with my then-doctor about the disease and its causes and effects, I remember with sharp clarity one thing he told me: "No food or drink that you put into your mouth will effect the course of the disease."  I took him at his word.  The disease was caused by a problem in my immune system, and that didn't have anything to do with my diet.

Over the next few years, I heard this same thing from other doctors, and found it in books and articles I read about the disease.  So I didn't really make any changes to my diet other than to eat bland foods when the disease was active in order to avoid unpleasant symptoms.  New disease activity meant changes or additions to my medications, not changes to my diets or lifestyle habits.

At the same time, I was aware of the fact that a community of people promoted diet as a way to both improve and even cure the disease. I chose to believe my doctor instead, and even argued in my book Learning Sickness: A Year with Crohn's Disease that when people claimed you could cure Crohn's disease through changes to your diet or other lifestyle choices it constituted a kind of blaming-the-victim mentality.  It implied that those of us who were experiencing illness were somehow at fault for not doing more to cure ourselves.


In my mid to late thirties, after I had been living with the disease for a decade or so, I decided to make some changes to my diet.  I didn't follow any particular Crohn's disease diet guru.  I had just become less and less convinced that my diet had nothing to do with my disease.  Maybe it wasn't the sole factor in causing it, but surely the food and drink I put into my mouth would have some impact on a disease in my digestive tract?  So I took some very simple steps.  I stopped eating foods with lots of artificial ingredients or high-fructose corn syrup. I looked at lists of ingredients on packaging, and if I saw a bunch of words that I didn't recognize, I didn't eat it.  I ate lots more fruits and vegetables.  I just tried to eat mostly what Michael Pollan would call real food.  I combined this with regular exercise; by the time I put this diet into effect, I was swimming a half-mile or more a few times per week.

Two years passed as I followed this regimen, still taking my medications faithfully, and having no active disease.  And then--although I would not recommend this to anyone--I just stopped taking my medications.  Nothing happened.  I have basically kept up my dietary and exercise habits from that point on, and have not experienced active disease for the past seven or eight years. It could, of course, be complete coincidence that my disease cleared up around the time I made these changes; I have no way of knowing that.

But what I can say for certain is that making those changes in my diet made me feel a little bit more in control of the disease, and my life, than I had been before.  The worst part about the disease was not having always to know where the nearest bathroom was, although I didn't enjoy that much either. The worst part about the disease was this terrible, helpless feeling that my body was no longer in my control.  When I made those changes to my diet, I was not just watching my body and waiting for it to sabotage my life; I was doing something to help myself, and that felt good.  It still does.

I say all of this as a way of trying to communicate my reaction to finally reading Angela Duckworth's book Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance, which first took the world by storm and then provoked a predictable backlash from people who leveled two serious criticisms at the theory of grit and Duckworth's promotion of it.  In the book, Duckworth argues that people who have the quality she calls grit have two major character features: they have a passion for something that drives and sustains their life, and they persevere in the face of whatever challenges life throws in their way.  The book details a mountain of research studies conducted by Duckworth and her peers that demonstrate the power of grit, and fills out that research with anecdotal accounts of gritty people who have been successful in all arenas of life, from academics to business to professional sports.  It's a well-written and inspiring book. (You can find a basic summary of her theory through her TED talk, which has been viewed like a billion times.)

It has been so inspiring that many educational institutions and teachers have taken up the mantra of grit and attempted to fold instruction and curricula around it.  My wife, a kindergarten teacher, used to receive regular pep talks from her principal about the importance of instilling grit in her students. You can now find books about the use of grit in education such as Grit in the Classroom or The Grit Guide for Teens, and the list goes on and on.  These are understandable impulses: if grit helps people become successful, we should give this gift to our students.

But critics of grit have raised two problems with both the theory and its application in practical contexts like parenting and education.  First, many have questioned whether grit can be taught.  As you can read in the final section of this article summarizing one major critique of grit, it may be that grit represents more of a character trait--something that tends to be a more stable feature of our characters--than a state that can be changed.  Second, emphasizing the power of grit to make people successful doesn't take into account all of the other circumstances that might hold people back from success, including barriers created by socioeconomic status, institutional racism and sexism, and many other factors that are out of people's control. We shouldn't be lecturing the poor child in my wife's classroom who has been abused by her drug-addicted parents about how she needs to become more gritty; we should be helping improve her circumstances.

On the first objection, Duckworth concedes at multiple points throughout the book that evidence for our ability to cultivate grit in others, whether our children or our students, is incomplete, and we need more research on the question.  In a discussion of the role that extracurricular activities can play in cultivating grit in students, for example, she writes these two sentences on the same page: "The evidence on extracurricular activities in incomplete." "Like I said, the evidence for such a bold recommendation is incomplete."

But these sentences don't stop her for making recommendations.  As someone who has written advice books for educators myself, I give her credit for inserting plenty of these cautionary sentences throughout the book.  But I also know, as she probably knew, that most readers will blow right past those caveats and go right for the advice. So I would have liked to see her exercise even more caution in the recommendations she made, although I can see clearly the hand of an editor or agent at work here: "You need more practical recommendations!"  My impression has been that other advocates of grit, less than Duckworth herself, bear the responsibility for uncensored championing of grit without the appropriate cautions.

As for the second criticism, you can now probably understand the point of my opening story.  I am very sympathetic to the argument that advocating for grit should never become a substitute for advocating for the kind of structural change that would improve the terrible circumstances that often prevent people from becoming successful.  We should be very cautious about promoting grit as the secret to success when real structural barriers stand in the way of success for many people around the world.

At the same time, what I learned from my experience with Crohn's disease was not so much that I can cure my illness with my dietary superpowers--as my doctors have told me, the disease could return at any time--but that pursuing my own health through a persistent, active program relieved me of the helplessness that I had been feeling for many years in the face of my disease.  Duckworth addresses this very experience in a chapter on hope, in which she talks about the fact that "suffering without control" represents one of the major causes of reduced well-being, and can contribute to conditions like depression.  This struck a chord with me.  My dietary changes gave me a feeling of control over my suffering, something I had been missing for many years.

So I will conclude by saying to the lovers of grit that I think we have to be cautious in building courses and curricula and educational initiatives and parenting strategies around the theory of grit.  When you read or re-read the book, make a note to yourself in the margins on those cautionary sentences about the recommendations, and think carefully about what you are willing to put out to your teachers, parents, and students about grit. I think it remains plausible that we can help grow grit in people with smart teaching or parenting strategies, but from my perspective the research remains very early and incomplete.

And to the critics of grit, I will say that while we do indeed have to proceed cautiously, exposure to the theory of grit may provide a lifeline to some people who could move their lives forward with some information and inspiration, whether that comes from their exposure to Duckworth's work or from the help of a grit-preaching parent or teacher or coach.  Laboring to change structural conditions (which is necessary and essential work) doesn't exclude the prospect of also helping people by exposing them to the idea that passion and persistence can have a positive impact on their lives, even if that impact is limited to a greater feeling of control over how they interpret and respond to their circumstances, rather than a change in the circumstances themselves--and, of course, a change in attitude might lead to that change in circumstances.

My wife can't follow her students home and change their circumstances there, but if she and her fellow teachers can help even some small portion of their students find hope for a better future through the development of a passion or the power of perseverance, that seems to me like a gift worth giving to them, even and especially to the ones who face significant structural barriers in life.

Grit may not make all of us into Jeff Bezos or Katie Ledecky, but it may help some of us adopt a more healthy and positive outlook toward our circumstances, whatever those might be. So I hope we can continue to reflect upon grit and its potential to help people thrive, even if we do so with circumspection--and I look forward to learning more from Duckworth, and continuing to read her work, in the years to come.  .

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Making Connections with British Literature (Survey II)

This week marked the conclusion of the spring 2017 version of British Literature Survey II, a course I teach every spring here at Assumption College.

A few years ago I became interested in some research on human learning which suggested that students learned material more deeply when they could forge connections between the course material and things they had learned or experienced in other contexts. After reflecting on that research, and how I could use it to help my students learn, two years ago I began using connection notebooks in the survey course, which covers material that can often seem remote from the lives of 21st century American students.

As I explained in an article for the Chronicle of Higher Education and in my book Small Teaching, these are blue books that the students bring to class every day.  At the end of class, once a week, I ask them to pull out their connection notebook and write a one-paragraph response to a question designed to help them connect what we discussed that day with something outside of the class.  Questions might include:

  • How do today's readings connect with something you have learned in another course?
  • Which of the works we read today has the most significance for your personally, and why?
  • Have you ever encountered the theme we discussed today in another book, or a movie or television show?

Sometimes I leave a little time for us to discuss their answers, but at other times I simply use this as a closing class activity.  I collect the notebooks three times per semester, and the students receive a very low-stakes grade just for completing them--no right or wrong answers in the connection notebooks.  I absolutely love reading them, though; seeing the fascinating connections that students make gives me fresh enthusiasm for the works we are reading. I always vow not to allot much grading time to them, but find myself writing appreciative comments to almost every student in spite of my intentions.

This semester I ended with the following question: Of all the works we have read this semester, which one was the most interesting or meaningful to you?  Here's what the responses looked like, in order of popularity:

"We Are Seven," by William Wordsworth (6 votes)

The students love this poem.  I do a dramatic reading of it early in the semester, trying to convey the frustration of the speaker with the persistent little girl in his final lines.  For their final semester project, a group of students videotaped a staged reading of the poem in a nearby cemetery, complete with a blooper reel.

The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells (5 votes)

Especially in the wake of the 2016 election, the students found this novel's morality lesson on the evolutionary consequences of income inequality a fascinating story.

"Goblin Market," by Christina Rossetti (3)

This one appeals to the symbol hunters in the class. Since the goblin fruit in the poem has multiple possible symbolic meanings, we spend a whole class period considering a variety of possibilities, and the students work in groups to come up with lines that would support the different readings. Always a fun, interactive class.

"Professions for Women" and "A Room of One's Own," by Virginia Woolf (3 combined votes)

In spite of the difficulty of Woolf's prose, a number of students really connected with Woolf's arguments about killing the "Angel in the House," and with her story about what would have happened to Shakespeare's sister if she had possessed the same level of talent as the immortal Bard (hint: it would not have been a happy ending).

"No Thank You, John," by Christina Rossetti (2 votes)

Two students really connected with Rossetti's brief poem in which the speaker tells the man who is pursuing her that he should get a grip--they'll never be anything more than friends.

"Shooting an Elephant," by George Orwell (2 votes)

Happy to see a couple of students sharing my love for Orwell. One student commented that it was interesting to see how a British colonizer felt so conflicted about his work, when she had assumed that the British colonizers were just evil racists.

"Araby," by James Joyce

Shocked to see this on the list; the student explained that she had read it in another class and not seen much there, but within the context of the Irish history we had covered she saw it in a whole new way.

"The Garden of Love," by William Blake

Students are surprised to see the conflict between spirituality and organized religion emerging two hundred years ago in a poem by William Blake; they assumed this was an entirely modern phenomenon.  Perhaps students at a Catholic college also empathize with a speaker complaining about "priests in black gowns" who are binding his natural "joys and desires."

"Dover Beach," by Matthew Arnold

Another one in which we discuss the gradual decline of religious faith in modern Britain.

"The Waiter's Wife," by Zadie Smith

The short story which eventually became White Teeth, which this student was reading in another class.

"To a Louse," by Robert Burns

So happy that a Burns poem made it on the list.  The student commented that this one had a timeless message: no matter how great you think you are, everyone still can suffer from life's little indignities.

I will definitely continue to repeat this question at the end of future survey courses, to see if the responses change over time. Whether or not this question produces any additional learning for the students, which I hope it does (in that they will have written in depth about one final work as they are preparing for the final exam), it will prove very helpful to me in recognizing how I can help each new group of students find meaningful connections to the works we are reading.