Category Archives: Stories

“I Bought Surfing Lessons”

“I took your advice and bought surfing lessons,” my friend Paul told our professor, Dr. Sugie Goen-Salter, and the fourteen first-semester teachers in our Monday-night course called ENG 718: Supervised Teaching Experience. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf.”

Two weeks earlier Dr. Goen-Salter had given our class one of the most arduous assignments of my academic career. “Write down when you’re open and closed,” she said. “Report back next week.”

Two weeks into my first semester teaching at San Francisco State University, I found myself fixated on my twenty students, all of whom were bright, 18-year-old Californians transitioning from high school into the academy. As I prepared to stand confidently in front of their sharp stares and minds at 8 a.m. each class session, I read and reread and planned dozens of lessons I would not have time to teach. Even as I put my head on my pillow each night, I found myself open and rethinking the next morning’s lesson. I am always open. I thought. When can I be closed?

Monday evening moved in as quickly as the San Franciscan fog. “Who wants to share their open and closed hours?” Dr. Goen-Salter asked. Several heads hung down before mine drooped down.

“Well,” Rebecca said as she cleared her throat. “I’m having a tough time.” She spoke about the situation we were all in—the incessant planning and the long hours. We were all learning that teaching composition and caring about our students as writers and as human beings was deeply fulfilling yet taxing and tiring.

Sympathetically, Dr. Goen-Salter said, “Composition is an intense field and it will consume you to the extent that you let it. We could spend forty hours each week planning one class.” My colleagues and I laughed with relief. In addition to coursework as full-time graduate students, we were spending thirty or thirty-five hour each week on our first-year composition courses but surely not forty.

“It’s important that good teachers stay teachers,” she continued. “You need to know when you’re open and when you’re closed, so that you don’t burn out in five years. You need a life outside of school. If you have family, friends, or a spiritual practice that is important to you, you need to make time for it.”

The truth in her statement shook me like the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. Teaching student-writers is the finest career for an ever-curious lover of learning and language like me. Since I knew I didn’t want to be defeated in one semester or in five years, I knew I had to learn how to nurture myself as teacher, writer, and human being. If I pour into my students each day and care deeply about their academic and personal successes, I knew I must care deeply for myself, too, by taking time to restore my well-being as both an academic and as a happy, healthy woman who enjoys making meals for loved ones, moving in exercise and play, taking photographs, and listening to the stories in modern folk music.

“If you have to, schedule time for yourself,” Dr. Goen-Salter said. And I did, putting concerts and Skype dates and dinners on my iCal. When she came to observe my class the next month, I was rejuvenated and ready. After the observation, she told me, “If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t be able to tell that you’re a first-semester teacher.”

I was fortunate to learn this lesson in my first semester teaching from a woman who not only taught me about integrated reading and writing but how to thrive as a compositionist. Now, as I prepare to return to Orange County, I vow to be a teacher as wholehearted as Dr. Goen-Salter. When I’m not teaching and mentoring student-writers, I plan to rollerblade on the boardwalk and play in the Pacific Ocean. And I think I, too, will finally learn to surf.

Note: I wrote this piece (still a draft) in response to a job application that asked for a short essay that discusses advice I received from another instructor or colleague and explains how it shaped my professional life.

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Coming Out

After they shared their first-time stories, I came out to my students today.

One student shared about a friend tattooing an emblematic sad face on his quadricep. The experience was horrible. Another shared about her first season of basketball, as a short young lady, getting towered over by the other players. She got better. Another shared about writing her first screenplay. She looks back on it in horror. And another shared about a round of golf in which she hit her dad in the head. She probably won’t play again.

“We always remember our first time,” I told them, “and I will always remember you. You are my first class of students.”

Students are our best teachers « bluyonder

Students are our best teachers « bluyonder.

Students were part of a panel where our teachers asked them a series of questions including: ‘what would you say to your teachers to help you to learn better?’; ‘tell us about a time when you found it easy to learn something?’; and ‘tell us about a time when it was difficult to learn something?’.

Some comments from the students were:

• wanting teachers with a sense of humour
• teachers having good control but also challenging students
• teachers being good listeners and giving students scope for input
• developing appropriate relationships
• getting to know and caring for the students

—Greg Whitby

Magic

I erased the whiteboard after class, mortified but grateful I could at least turn my reddened face away. I didn’t even want to face the now empty chairs. Had I really just shown my 18-year-old students a photograph of me in my bathing suit? I was in first grade in the photo and it was a one piece and I was telling them a story about taking a reading class at—oh, never mind. I had only twenty minutes to change hues before a student conference.

She sat down next to me on my office’s couch and said, “My [peer response] group couldn’t believe it,” seeming to confirm my horror. “It was magical—the way you tied your story together like that. We were all like, ‘Wow, how did she do that?’”

I then helped her dig through her memories to find her literacy story—one that began with a very hungry caterpillar who made a magical transformation.

No longer red, I left the office sanguine.

Explosive Joy

To get to know each other on the second day of class, we shared photo stories. Here’s mine:

They called the contagious charge that permeated each part of my body before appearing as a wide-mouthed grin on my face “explosive joy.” In August 2010, I spent two months writing, volunteering, and traveling in India and Nepal with twelve other vagabonds. Here, riding on the trunk of an elephant, I am at Chitwan National Park in Nepal, where I traversed the forest by elephant, canoed to the animal sanctuary, slept in a bungalow, and visited the local villages, where a young girl put an “E” in henna on my hand—“e” for Emily, and, you could say, “explosive joy.”