102 Fieldnotes
Monday, Feb. 28, 2005 (2:37)
I was high energy today, but my students were not. I wonder if I am speaking to them of material that is just painfully obvious to the whole world, except, of course, me. I was trying to draw connections between the assignment we had completed in class (writing about place, and creating a sense of that place), the reading I had assigned (an ethnography -- strike a pose), and what they are doing (fieldnotes and research into a subculture). I was trying to show them how Dowling, the author of Strike a Pose developed a sense of place in her first paragraph, and what her "message" was in her description of place, the same thing they did last Friday in writing a description of a place they know well, and developing, by the details and how they are used, the significance of the place.
The students did a fairly nice job with this, and I asked them to read through their peers' work and identify the significance of each place described. So, for example, Amy described a wicker chair she used to sit on as a child; she described all the things she did on this wicker chair, like look out the window, read, play with dolls, relax, and she created with that chair a sense of the place as refuge. It was clear that she was arguing, by extension, everyone needs a space to call their own, a "room of their own," or wicker chair of their own. It was brief, but the message was clear.
I want them to understand that in writing (ethnography), it is not enough to simply describe, but you have to make those details do some work in developing some broader, more generalizable meaning. So, if Stephanie writes about Harley riders, she can't just describe South Side bar where they hang out, but look at the place, note the surroundings, and then try to find some unity within those descriptions, and make that description say something additional about Harley riders, and what the space they inhabit says about them.
I tried to connect these things by showing how Dowlings description of the mall revealed a space that is overwhelming and busy, sensory overload, and how the "Photo Fantasies" shop used a similar tactic to lure its customers in.
Whatever. Am I foolish? Do all teachers feel so alone? I used to be so certain of myself and what I was doing in each class, but it seems the more I know and understand about teaching, about my subject matter, about the students I teach, the less secure and comfortable I get in teaching them. This is a crisis of conscience and confidence. You know what this feels like . . . student-teaching in Apple Valley. These kids didn't give a shit. Most of them came from upper-middle class or upper class homes, and many had this sense that the world would be kind to them regardless of whether they did their work or not. My students do not stem from the same SES, but they seem to have the same attitude.
I don't want to complain about my students; I need to do something differently to either engage them, or make myself care less. My office mate says it's the nature of my discipline. They all think they can write, or have had some experience with writing before, and it's all the same damn thing so why listen, whereas, with him, his students do not know philosophy prior to coming to his class, and they have had no experience with it, and, certainly, do not think they can DO philosophy, like they can, at least minimally, DO writing.
I don't know.
I was high energy today, but my students were not. I wonder if I am speaking to them of material that is just painfully obvious to the whole world, except, of course, me. I was trying to draw connections between the assignment we had completed in class (writing about place, and creating a sense of that place), the reading I had assigned (an ethnography -- strike a pose), and what they are doing (fieldnotes and research into a subculture). I was trying to show them how Dowling, the author of Strike a Pose developed a sense of place in her first paragraph, and what her "message" was in her description of place, the same thing they did last Friday in writing a description of a place they know well, and developing, by the details and how they are used, the significance of the place.
The students did a fairly nice job with this, and I asked them to read through their peers' work and identify the significance of each place described. So, for example, Amy described a wicker chair she used to sit on as a child; she described all the things she did on this wicker chair, like look out the window, read, play with dolls, relax, and she created with that chair a sense of the place as refuge. It was clear that she was arguing, by extension, everyone needs a space to call their own, a "room of their own," or wicker chair of their own. It was brief, but the message was clear.
I want them to understand that in writing (ethnography), it is not enough to simply describe, but you have to make those details do some work in developing some broader, more generalizable meaning. So, if Stephanie writes about Harley riders, she can't just describe South Side bar where they hang out, but look at the place, note the surroundings, and then try to find some unity within those descriptions, and make that description say something additional about Harley riders, and what the space they inhabit says about them.
I tried to connect these things by showing how Dowlings description of the mall revealed a space that is overwhelming and busy, sensory overload, and how the "Photo Fantasies" shop used a similar tactic to lure its customers in.
Whatever. Am I foolish? Do all teachers feel so alone? I used to be so certain of myself and what I was doing in each class, but it seems the more I know and understand about teaching, about my subject matter, about the students I teach, the less secure and comfortable I get in teaching them. This is a crisis of conscience and confidence. You know what this feels like . . . student-teaching in Apple Valley. These kids didn't give a shit. Most of them came from upper-middle class or upper class homes, and many had this sense that the world would be kind to them regardless of whether they did their work or not. My students do not stem from the same SES, but they seem to have the same attitude.
I don't want to complain about my students; I need to do something differently to either engage them, or make myself care less. My office mate says it's the nature of my discipline. They all think they can write, or have had some experience with writing before, and it's all the same damn thing so why listen, whereas, with him, his students do not know philosophy prior to coming to his class, and they have had no experience with it, and, certainly, do not think they can DO philosophy, like they can, at least minimally, DO writing.
I don't know.
posted by CA Lund at 12:37 PM
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