Every summer, I take time to reflect on the academic year that was. The classes I taught, the workshops I either facilitated or attended, what I learned from failures and successes in and out of the classroom–when it comes to my teaching, I try to be a critically reflective practitioner. Directing a teaching center on my campus gives me a chance to also ground that reflection in the larger discourse about teaching and learning in higher education.
That discourse often doesn’t give one grounds for optimism; we’re continually reminded of the toll neoliberalism has exacted from higher education. Kansas, Louisiana, Wisconsin, and Illinois are only the most dramatic examples of a larger trend where higher education is a hostage to governing elites’ Randian economic fantasies. The fetishizing of “efficiencies” continues to erode faculty effectiveness, morale, and labor conditions. A narrow and misguided rhetoric of marketability and utility slowly chokes the Humanities. And, like a constant refrain above the din, we’re repeatedly told that students aren’t prepared for college, that technology makes them stupid, that none of them knows how to read or write or declaim or interact or balance a checkbook or do laundry or whatever. It’s easy, then, to slide into a sort of existential despair. Why bother teaching when it doesn’t matter? When no one cares about what you do or why you do it?
And, honestly, that’s where I was earlier this summer. It’s hard enough to cope with the challenges inherent in higher ed; coupled with the greasy dumpster fire that is our state of public affairs at the moment, it seems downright impossible. So I did what comes naturally to a historian–I went to my books, and then I wrote. Reconnecting with some of the books that have shaped me as an educator, and taking the time to write reflectively about where I think I stand, was a reminder that despite all of its problems, higher education is still a place of transformation and possibility. But it remains so only if we continually and intentionally hold it to the standards we know it should meet. And at the heart of that enterprise is what we do in the classroom. It comes down to, as it so often does, a conversation about teaching and learning.
In that spirit, I share here the products of my wrestling with angst and dismay, and the renewed drive it ultimately sparked.
This is my Teaching Manifesto.
If I want my students to take risks and not be afraid to fail then I need to take risks and not be afraid to fail.
It is tempting to think that “upholding disciplinary standards” is the only thing standing between us and the collapse of western civilization. It is also comically inaccurate.
Remember what Paolo Freire meant when he criticized the “banking model” of education, and take those insights to heart.
Learning cannot occur without metacognition and reflection. This applies to both us and our students.
Kids These Days are just like Kids in My Day, or Any Other Day, if we choose to remember honestly.
Our students are not us. If we merely teach to how we prefer to learn, we exclude a majority of our students.
I cannot assume my students will be able to do something that they have not been asked to do before coming to my class, and I cannot blame them for struggling with a task that’s new to them–no matter how ingrained that task is for me.
I am not the one to decide if a student is “ready for college.” That’s the student’s decision. If they’re admitted to my university and they’re in my class, I am ethically and morally obligated to give them my best.
They’re not deficiencies, they’re data points for our pedagogical decisions.
Just as students can get better at learning, I can get better at teaching. If I expect it from them, I should expect it from me.
There is a large body of scholarly research on teaching and learning. To not be conversant with at least its major findings is to commit professional malpractice.
If pedagogy and professional development are secondary priorities for you, don’t be surprised when your class is a secondary priority for your students.
It doesn’t matter how much I know if my students aren’t learning; knowledge must be used, not set up on a shelf to be admired but not touched.
Much of what we do in the classroom cannot be quantified.
And yet…“cannot be quantified” is not the same as “cannot be measured.” If we can’t demonstrate student learning, we aren’t doing it right.
Reclaim assessment for what it is meant to do: to show what our students can do as a result our classes. If we don’t tell our stories, someone else will tell them for us.
If universities truly value education, they cannot undercompensate or adjunctify the faculty and seriously claim to adhere to that commitment. As someone in a privileged academic position, I am obligated to speak this truth loudly and often.
Everyone is fighting their own battles, some on multiple fronts. Compassion and flexibility >>> being a hardass
Things whose pedagogical impact is often underestimated: empathy and humor.
Things whose pedagogical impact is often overestimated: shaming and rigidity.
When you say “rigor,” I think of corpses.
“Coverage” for coverage’s sake is where learning goes to die.
No matter what: Teaching is a radical act of hope.