Prizing the Literature Essay

Should seventh graders write essays analyzing Steinbeck’s techniques or what’s wrong with Holden? I’m of two minds on this one. In one mind, I believe literary analysis to be a great way for kids to sharpen their ability to make an argument and support it with specific evidence. As Carol Jago, president of the NCTE, explained eloquently in a recent article, reading fiction allows kids to empathize with characters who are very different from themselves and to think about ethical dilemmas that they might encounter as they build their own lives. Writing about fiction allows them to dig deeper into the text, make meaning, and create a logical argument based on the meaning they see.

In the other mind, I keep thinking about authentic purposes for writing. Better writing usually comes from a more authentic purpose—so says pretty much every writing book I’ve read, and I also know it from experience. The seventh grade essays are pretty consistently painful. But, if I’m writing an email to complaining parents, I’m going to write a beautifully-crafted argument for why their child is actually doing fine despite the B- besmirching her record. The email will probably be better written than the briefs I wrote for law school. You don’t get much more authentic a writing purpose or well-defined an audience than those emails warding off evil parents. And I hope that’s not the best writing I do, but for certain it’s good writing—better than if someone gave me a prompt to write a pretend email.

That’s what some of our assignments are, right? “Pretend you’re writing this op-ed for a newspaper.” Or, “Pretend you’re writing this podcast for NPR.” For most others, we don’t even pretend there’s an audience: “Write a paragraph explaining a symbol in The House on Mango Street. Be sure to use at least two well-blended quotations.” Only occasionally do we give them real reasons to write: “Write an email to your congressional representative arguing for a more aggressive stance on an issue that matters to you. Remember to cc me on the email.” I’ve got to wonder, though—are those emails really going to be better written than the symbolism paragraphs just because the emails have an authentic purpose and audience? I suspect not, but I couldn’t put my finger on precisely why.

Yesterday, one of my colleagues made an interesting point about authentic writing. It’s not so much about purpose and audience—though these matter—as it is about the writer’s investment in the writing. Nell knows her vignette collection isn’t getting picked up by Random House, but she cares about what she’s writing because they’re about her life and the topics matter to her. She’s invested. And the writing is brilliant. Scout, Kate, and Sara know their podcast won’t air on NPR, but they care about the issue they’ve chosen—whether people act more like themselves with their families or their friends—so they’re invested. And the reason my email to those obnoxious parents is so brilliant isn’t that I have an authentic purpose and an authentic audience; it’s that I care about the writing. The writing matters to me. If we want students to write well, we have to get them to care about the writing: its purpose, its content, its effect.

Very often, the reason writing matters to the writer relates to how it will affect others. I want that parent email to have the effect of convincing those complainers that their child is learning and they need to get out of her way. I used to say to my classes that all writing is persuasive; authors are trying to convince us that their message is true or right. So sure, the purpose and effect of the writing make the writing matter. But the content can also make it matter. I’m writing this blog not because I want to convince anyone that I’m right, but because I care about what happens in my English classroom and I want to reflect upon my practices. I write books both because I hope others will read them, eventually, and because I care about the characters and their stories.

So I guess the way to resolve the literature essay problem is to make sure my students are invested, both in the text itself and in the thesis of the essay. Now that they’re finished with their Steinbeck books and the time has come to write their essays on “What makes Steinbeck Steinbeck,” I’m asking them to look through their notes for topics, themes, and techniques that they want to explore further. When many of them chose topics we’ve discussed to death in class, I urged them to think about who they are and what aspect of Steinbeck’s writing they connect to. “Look in your notes for items you wish we’d had more time to discuss,” I urged them. “Don’t pick foreshadowing or the power theme just because we talked about it in class. Find something that matters to you. Like, if you really care about nature, maybe you want to write about how Steinbeck portrays the natural world and the human relationship to it. Or if you’ve been in a conflict with a friend, maybe you want to explore the conflicts between friends in Steinbeck books. Find something that matters to you.”

It doesn’t feel quite as real as when I asked them to write vignettes on episodes from their own lives. With that project, it was easier for them to connect the assignment to what matters to them. But then again, and contrary to what they might think with their 13-year-old brains, the world isn’t just about them. Maybe, if we’re all lucky, they’ll choose topics they care about and learn something about how the world beyond themselves works. And maybe I will actually like reading them. Here’s hoping.

Questioning Assumptions with Steinbeck

My Steinbeck author study continues. In today’s lesson, the students examined the theme of appearances vs. reality and had a chance to think about assumptions and labels in the three books and in their lives.

First, the students folded a sheet of paper and into four sections and wrote the names of four characters, depending on which book they’re reading. Students reading Of Mice and Men used Lennie, George, Curley, and Curley’s wife. Those reading The Red Pony used Jody, Carl Tiflin, Billy Buck, and Gitano. For Cannery Row, they wrote Doc, Dora, Mack, and Lee Chong. In the boxes, students listed things people might assume about each character without knowing him or her well. I asked, “How might people label or judge this character?” I urged the students to consider appearance, job, living situation, interactions with other characters, and other behaviors.

Perhaps because they’re in a middle school minefield of assumptions and judgments, the groups had no trouble coming up with labels. Some felt uncomfortable and asked if it was OK to label Lennie as retarded or Curley’s wife as a slut. I reminded them that the purpose of the activity was to dig deeper into the theme of appearances but that they were right to feel uncomfortable about using offensive terms. I wish they’d picked up on the race prejudices in how characters view Lee Chong in Cannery Row and Gitano in The Red Pony. We’ll definitely be coming back to that when we talk about forms of power in Steinbeck’s books.

After about 10 minutes of students identifying labels and assumptions, I asked, “Which of the assumptions you listed about your character are true? False? Unknown?” They marked each item T for True, F for False, or U for Unknown based on textual evidence. Interestingly, many of the assumptions they identified turned out to be false or unknown; for example, there isn’t one shred of textual evidence that Curley’s wife actually sleeps around. Careful reading will reveal that far from being greedy, Lee Chong is very generous and cuts off credit only when it becomes necessary. Neither Mack, who is homeless and unemployed, nor Lennie, who is disabled, is stupid. Then again, some assumptions turn out to be true: Doc really is smart and kind, and Curley’s wife does in fact cause trouble.

Next, I asked groups to consider which of these characters they actually like. On the board, I circled these characters’ names. Then I went back to the labels. I said, “If these are the characters Steinbeck wants us to like—a mentally disabled guy, a simple farm boy, a homeless and unemployed man—what is Steinbeck trying to tell us about appearances and assumptions?” Students wrote their answers in paragraph form, and I asked them to share insights. Lots of kids said variations on, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Others said that if we can like people who are different from the way we are, maybe we shouldn’t judge them on those outer characteristics. One student said something like, “We like the characters who we know the most about. But maybe if we knew more about Curley, like why he feels the need to be so insecure and hate people, maybe we’d like him too.”

I found that last point particularly compelling, that we can empathize with others and like them more when we know their stories. (It will be interesting to see whether, after hearing more of Curley’s wife’s story, the students reading Of Mice and Men begin to like her more.) I’d like to ask students to think about their own stories that they reveal, conceal, repeat, revise, remember, and forget. A friend of mine pointed out that stories are social currency: which stories we tell, who we tell them to, and how we tell them plays a large part in how our images are constructed. Elections are won and lost because of stories. Defendants are convicted or acquitted based on how their stories are told. Romances and business deals are built and destroyed with stories. And, as my student pointed out today, we can reach out across the wide valleys that separate us from each other with our stories. When we tell stories, we give others a chance to ask questions instead of making assumptions, to understand instead of judge. I believe Steinbeck wrote his books at least in part so he could tell stories that weren’t being told, so readers would label a little less and relate a little more.

I closed the class by asking the students to close their eyes and picture a student in the middle school that they don’t really know and don’t really like. I asked, “What assumptions are you making about this person? How are you labeling him or her? How are you judging? Maybe if you knew more of this person’s story, you’d like the person better. Just something to think about.”

What Kids Can Learn From an Author Study (That They Can't Learn from One Class Novel)

This week, I started my much-anticipated (at least for me) John Steinbeck author study where students pick one of three Steinbeck novels: Of Mice and Men, Cannery Row, or The Red Pony. In the past, I’ve taught Of Mice and Men as a class novel, but I wanted to provide more choice for my students. I’ve read enough arguments that whole-class novel studies don’t address students’ diverse needs as readers and lead to only a few kids doing most of the talking (because they like and understand the book) while the rest of the class is frog-marched through the reading—if they even do the reading—and count minutes during class. Given some choice, kids are more likely to find a book they like and to contribute to their group discussions. So far, that’s just what I’m finding.

On the other end of the choice-in-reading spectrum, I’m not quite ready to let everyone pick whatever book they want. I recognize the strong arguments in favor of total student choice: they’re more likely to enjoy reading and want to read on their own; teachers can guide students toward more appropriate choices after establishing a relationship of trust (more likely to occur when a student feels the teacher takes his or her initial choices seriously); a student is more likely to grasp sophisticated elements of literature, like motifs and symbolism, in an accessible book; a student is more likely to take risks in discussions if s/he feels s/he understands the text on the surface. I get it.

But still, having seen so many students rise to the challenge of a text on the edge of their comfort zone, I see the value in pushing them to that edge. And, I know from the “gradual release of responsibility” model of teaching reading that students need a slightly lower-level text for independent reading than for guided reading. In short, students can read more difficult books for class than they do for themselves. And, a common text helps students build community because it gives them a non-threatening starting point—and a point of comparison—for discussing deep and difficult issues in their own lives. It’s easier to talk about, say, seeking approval in The Red Pony than it is for them, at thirteen, to discuss how they seek their own parents’ approval. And giving more kids access to the same text means more of them can participate in such discussions.

So, I created my Steinbeck author study as a happy middle ground between the class novel and free student choice. Because my default model in class is to give small groups of kids an activity, I’m able to use many of the activities I used for Of Mice and Men, but now for all three books. For example, last year, one way I’ve had the student think about setting was to have them sketch a landscape, map, or “image collage” of the pool in chapter 1. Within the drawing, they write short quotations to show where they got their ideas. I explain that the activity helps them visualize the setting more clearly, appreciate Steinbeck’s precise description, and begin to notice how Steinbeck uses his settings to convey themes and set up conflicts—almost like the setting is another character in the book. To deepen this last point, I have students list adjectives to describe the setting. What kind of place is this?

Because the students this year are all reading different books—and only because they’re reading different books—I was able to take this activity one step further. In their book groups, students came to a consensus on the 3-5 best adjectives to describe their settings, and I put these lists on the board. Then I asked each group to look at the lists they had not made—the adjectives describing the settings from the other two books—and note the ones that could describe their book’s setting too. I circled adjectives that could describe two or more Steinbeck settings, words like natural, peaceful, isolated, simple, and beautiful. After reading the list out loud, I asked, “So, if these are the words that describe Steinbeck settings, what are some of the ideas Steinbeck is concerned with? What messages is he trying to send by setting his books in these kinds of places?”

The kids hit on some important points. That Steinbeck is concerned with the interaction between the human world and the natural world. That there’s always an isolation factor. That the places he describes aren’t exactly tourist destinations, but Steinbeck finds the beauty in them. All of these ideas come up in the motifs, symbols, and plot conflicts in the three books, and now we’ll be able to refer back to them. And again, the students were able to make these observations precisely because they’re reading different books.

Beginning to Fill the LGBT Gap in My Curriculum

Last Friday, I had another conversation with colleagues about what it means to “represent” kids in the curriculum. When I wrote about representation last time, I lamented the fact that the Latina girls were most silent during the unit on The House on Mango Street. But thinking further, I realized they weren’t silent at all. The culminating assignment during that unit was for the students to write their own collection of vignettes, all on different topics but all on the same theme. The best collection I read was by one of the Latina girls. Maybe she didn’t want to speak in class about the “Big 8” social identifiers, but she did speak with her pen, telling stories that were so beautiful because they were real and true and precise. They were her. In a wide, wide ocean of vignettes about camp and pets, A___’s were about the bus she took to Prep for Prep, and the piss-smelling tunnel she has to walk through. I still remember her vignettes, a year later. And this year, the best vignettes I’ve read so far are by another Latina girl, and once again, what makes them the best is how real and true and honest and specific they are. So the Latina girls are, in fact, speaking.

It didn’t take my going to the National Equality March for me to see that one of the gaps in my curriculum is the absence of LGBT characters—unless you count the ambiguous sexuality of Holden Caulfield. I’ll get to him in a minute. But the march did remind me that I could do more to make LGBT authors and characters, and issues of sexual orientation, more visible in my English class. I don’t expect that talking about sexual orientation will mean that all my LGBT students will suddenly feel comfortable coming out, but I do hope that all my students will begin to question heteronormative views and behave in ways that promote equality and inclusion. And that, just as some of the Latina girls found their own ways to speak through the vignette assignment, so will my LGBT students find ways to speak.

One way I can make my curriculum more inclusive is to use Holden as a way into discussions of identity. Interestingly, Holden Caulfield’s identifiers fall on the privileged side in 7 (or maybe 6) of the Big 8 social identifiers: he’s white, rich, male, able-bodied, Christian, and of unknown European stock. The one identifier that’s absolutely on the targeted side is his age—he’s only 17—and age is the very thing that obsesses Holden throughout the novel as he struggles to preserve the innocence he sees around him but at the same time tries to access the power and privileges of the adult world. As for Holden’s sexual orientation, he very well could be gay or bisexual, but he certainly doesn’t come out.

It seems to me that a perfect time to talk about how identity is constructed would be during the unit on The Catcher in the Rye. Last year, I made a chart with the Big 8 (race, socioeconomic class, gender, ability, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and age) in rows and main characters (Esperanza from The House on Mango Street, Lennie from Of Mice and Men, Walter from A Raisin in the Sun, and Holden from The Catcher in the Rye) in columns. We named their identities and talked about how we “know” when it doesn’t say, like how we know Holden is white even though Salinger never actually says. This year, I want to dig a little deeper into our assumptions. Could Beneatha Younger be bisexual? Could Holden be a quarter Jewish? In short, when are we correct in our assumptions about identity and when are we wrong to assume in the first place? And how does that relate to privilege? And why does that matter in our readings of literature and our interactions with each other?

Beyond my classroom texts, I would like to use independent reading as a way to include more LGBT books. One of my colleagues puts on his syllabus a list of suggested independent reading that goes along, in genre or theme, with the class text. Immediately I thought, I must do this. What a great way to encourage independent reading and diversify the books my students are reading. So I’m thinking that starting with my next unit, I’ll give out suggested independent reading lists and that I’ll incorporate literature with LGBT characters. I realize that including these books on a list is a necessary but not sufficient step toward greater inclusion in my curriculum.

I went on Amazon and started looking through seventh-grade-appropriate literature with openly LGBT characters, and these are some books that are well-reviewed. I can’t speak personally to any of them yet. Maybe you can.

Peter Cameron, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You

E.M. Forster, Maurice: A Novel

Jim Grimsley, Dream Boy: A Novel

Keith Hale, Clicking Beat on the Brink of Nada

Brent Hartinger, Geography Club

Steve Kluger, My Most Excellent Year: A Novel of Love, Mary Poppins, and Fenway Park

Bill Konigsberg, Out of the Pocket

P.E. Ryan, Saints of Augustine

By Golly, This Lollipop is Following Me

I interrupt this otherwise stone-serious blog to say that every time someone talks about “following” someone’s blog or twitter food, this is what I think of.

I could tie this thought-association to my blog’s theme by deconstructing the gendered imagery, describing a lesson plan based on it, and saying something about my personal, contextualized worldview as a white suburban girl who watched The Electric Company in the 80s, but I’m gonna spare you.

Resolving My Grading Crisis – For This Year, at Least

My grading problem has been bugging me all summer, and now that August is half over, I need a plan. It’s not going to be perfect, but I can’t go back to pretending my point system and rubrics lead to fair and honest assessments of student writing. If my grading system is to promote my values as both a teacher and a writer, something needs to change.

My new grading system must:

1. Provide some basis of merit-based grading at the end of each trimester. At my school, the assumption is that grades reflect the quality of student work. (This assumption is flawed, but it’s what I’m working with.)

2. Look more like real-life writing assessment. Any time I read—an article, an email, a recipe—I’m assessing. Am I convinced? Intrigued? Disturbed? Encouraged? With rubrics, instead of thinking about what the writing says, I’m simply deciding the extent to which the work measures up to prescribed categories. My comments merely show students what they did wrong. Why not use comments to show what they did right: inspiring thoughts, ideas, feelings, and associations?

3. Encourage (or at least maintain) students’ intellectual risk-taking, deep thinking, love of learning, interest, and self-esteem. If I have to grade, I want my policy to minimize the damage of grading.

4. Honor diversity, both of the writing itself and of people’s reactions to it. What if the writing moves others but doesn’t move me? Am I the ultimate arbiter of good writing? I sure hope not.

So here’s what I’m thinking.

Each trimester, there are two major writing projects and lots of little writing assignments. For major writing projects, like the vignette collections or the Steinbeck essays, students go though an elaborate revision process. They get feedback from several readers, make sense of what the different readers said, and make choices about what to cut, keep, change, rearrange, and add. By having different people read the papers, students get to see a variety of reactions—and from people other than me.

Then, students turn in their work on a due date. When I read, I make, in the words of Peter Elbow, “a binary decision: acceptable or not.” Pass or fail. Satisfactory or unsatisfactory. The publishing industry does it: accept or reject. I expect quality writing and high effort, and if I don’t think a student is meeting those expectations, I reject his or her submission—and there’s my merit-based grading. I write S (satisfactory) or U (unsatisfactory) on every paper. Students don’t have to feel bad about their B- papers because there are no B- papers.

Instead of “justification comments,” written to prove that the grade I’ve given is fair, I’ll write what I think about as I read—the kinds of comments I would write on any other text. I’ll also write one suggestion for future writing on every single paper and have students refer back to the suggestions the next time they write. Every writer, even Pulitzer winners, can grow.

And the U papers? If a student’s writing doesn’t pass muster, I expect him or her to give me a plan for revising or redoing the assignment, along with a due date. Maybe students feel bad if they write unsatisfactory papers, but they can redo them. And then they can feel good knowing they improved.

More importantly, now that students don’t have to find a magic formula to satisfy me (or my rubric), their writing doesn’t have to be formulaic! They can take more risks in their writing. They can enjoy and personalize the assignments. I’m leaving more room for diverse interpretations of the assignment and multiple paths to excellent writing. I can still use rubrics, but as writing guidelines instead of grading yardsticks. I can point to them when students do unsatisfactory work, but I no longer have to pretend they’re some sort of scientific measuring device.

At the end of the trimester, students compile their writing (and feedback), and they write a reflection on what they’ve learned as a writer. Where did they start out? Where did they end up? Where are they going next? Each student also proposes and defends a trimester grade. Those grades and comments, along with my own observations and suggestions, form the basis of my home reports.

Because this system raises the danger of students taking advantage, I need some checks and balances. I probably need more, but here are the two I have so far.

1. Lateness is not tolerated. If an assignment is going to be late, the student must talk to me in advance, at least the night before a minor assignment and two nights before a major assignment is due. The student must tell me when s/he will turn in the assignment and how s/he will make sure it’s done by then. If a student misses school the day an assignment is due, s/he’s expected to turn in the assignment either beforehand or electronically, except in cases of illness or family emergency. And, students have to inform me themselves—not through their parents. I’m so sick of their dodging responsibility. And I’m sick of their technology excuses. How often does your toner run out, your internet go down, and your flash drive break all on the same day? A student who doesn’t follow my lateness policy doesn’t get higher than an A-. And the more unexcused late assignments there are, the lower the grade goes. Fair?

2. If a student has any never-revised “U” assignments or never-done work, that student can’t get higher than a B. Basically, “U” means the student didn’t follow the assignment, didn’t (as one of my colleagues puts it on her rubric) demonstrate evidence of my teaching, didn’t respond thoughtfully to feedback, didn’t think too hard, didn’t learn too much. The more outstanding U papers or missed work, the lower the grade. Again, this is merit-based grading.

And what are the potential problems?

· Kids like who work really hard, learn a lot, grow a lot as writers—but still are doing less-than-stellar writing—now get As. I can live with that.

· Kids who don’t work that hard or think that hard but write “satisfactory” (but not great) papers also get As. I have a problem with that, but a lower grade isn’t going to motivate those kids to do any better. If a kid is underperforming in my class, I need to figure out how to get that kid to open up and take some risks. I can do that without, in the mean time, docking her or his grade.

· Kids who do poor work inflating their own grades. I think my checks and balances take care of that problem. If their work is really that bad, they’ll get a U. And if they go back and rework the paper to do better, why shouldn’t they end up with a better grade?

· Kids who are being modest and lowball themselves. Well, that’s why it’s a proposed grade. I can always make it higher.

· Complaining parents. Too bad for them. I will need administrative support, though, if this is going to work.

So, is this going to work? Is it going to get me in trouble? What will students think? What problems am I not thinking of? And are they worth the risk?

Leaning into Writing Discomfort

In her book Designing Writing Assignments, Traci Gardner quotes a line I can’t get out of my head: “Students translate an instructor’s goals into processes they can handle.” The line comes from the Mānoa Writing Program’s study of almost 200 writing students, which further concludes that students use “strategies they devised to deal with earlier writing assignments, and they may try to use these strategies again rather than risk something new.”

I’ve seen this phenomenon plenty of times. Last year, one new project I gave students asked them to make a podcast on a social issue that comes up in A Raisin in the Sun. For the project, each student was to interview someone and then analyze the interview. So if, for example, I interview my dad about his experiences with race, I might compare his experiences to my own, hypothesize why he had certain experiences, or fit his experiences into a larger framework I’ve studied. I was expecting wonderful insights in the podcasts, but instead, I got lots of summaries and descriptions, with very little analysis. If you want to talk Bloom’s Taxonomy, the podcasts were at the very bottom level of thinking, simple reportage.

I was disappointed then, and I sketched up some new lesson plans to give students a clearer sense of what “analysis” means. But now, having the problem framed for me as students doing what they think they can do because they’ve done it before, I realize my task is more complicated than defining “analysis” for students and showing them good models.

Here’s another example of how a learner changes the assignment into something surmountable. My daughter, who is two years old, calls the playground, “peegound.” It’s not an obsession with toilet training that makes her say it this way; it’s that she hasn’t yet figured out how to pronounce Ls, long As, and Rs. She deals with the L and the R in playground by simply omitting them. And the long A sound, she converts to a long E. So what is my daughter doing? She’s translating the implicit assignment, “Say the word playground,” into something she knows she can handle, “Say peegound.” And her coping mechanisms, changing or omitting problem elements, are exactly the methods my students use.

So, how can I make my students see that, as Barack Obama and César Chávez before him put it, YES THEY CAN do analysis? How do I show them they don’t have to pretend the instruction, “analyze,” isn’t there or hope their well-integrated quotations will satisfy me? Giving mini-lessons defining analysis wasn’t sufficient, nor was stating my expectations in clear and precise language. What will I do differently when I assign the podcast this year?

Not only do I need to share more models of analysis, I have to devote more class time to letting students discover what makes the good ones good. I didn’t have student models last year because it was a brand new assignment, and even this year I don’t have many student models because last years’ weren’t all that good. I’ll have to look on NPR and other radio sites for segments that analyze.

(Incidentally, I’ve been looking at The Norton Sampler as a source of good essays. It’s meant for college student writers, but the way the analogy frames techniques might help, and there’s a good companion website with links to more essays. I always say that students don’t write good essays because essays aren’t part of their reading repertoire. Time to change that. And, if reading good analytical essays translates into writing better analytical essays, maybe it’ll also translate into writing better analytical podcasts.)

Also, the purpose and audience of the podcast needs to be clearer. Why should they take a risk on writing if their only goal is to please the teacher? Why should they try something hard that they might do badly if they can do something easier and more familiar and still get an OK grade? If they’re writing their podcasts for a more authentic reason—say, to prove to their parents how much (or how little) has changed between the early years of the Civil Rights Movement and the early years of the Obama presidency—perhaps they’ll have more incentive to analyze the problem. If they’re going to bother with higher levels of thinking like comparing, categorizing, and theorizing, they need to know who they’re trying to convince and why. Perhaps I can get the podcasts published on the school website. What other audiences might motivate them?