The CEA Forum
Winter/Spring 2007: 36.1
_____________________________________________
MAKING LEMONADE:
AN ASSISTANT ENGLISH PROFESSOR'S PERSPECTIVE ON THE PROFESSION
_______________________
My Trip to the Real World
_______________________
Well, I did it. I left campus this last June and paid a brief visit to the Real World, where I discovered quite a lot about the ivy-covered tower I had left behind as well as more than a little about myself as teacher. Here's what happened—
I took a cab to the airport, chatted up the driver just to show him that I wasn't in the least bit out of my element, grabbed my own bags, thank you very much, and dutifully took my place in line first at the check-in counter and then at security. After dancing briefly with the guard wielding the magic wand, I put on my shoes and belt, bolted to my gate, and then waited for 90 minutes, having arrived early just to be safe. While waiting, I studied the exotic people in business suits talking into their tiny cell phones while hunching over their laptops; and then, when the time came, I took my seat on the plane with these seasoned travelers, pulled out a novel, and flew for nearly two-hundred pages before touching down (a euphemism akin to “a water landing”) right in the middle of reality. In this case, oddly enough, reality was Helena, Montana, where I spent two days teaching a writing workshop to members of the Montana School Board Association, an insurance group staffed by the nicest people in the world.
I had never taught outside of a traditional high school or college—places often considered something other than real, something outside of, or in contrast with, the “real world”—and in the weeks leading up to my business venture I was a nervous wreck. This fact would likely come as a surprise to my students because I have always been of that outspoken group of educators who proclaim that the real-world-vs.-college idea represents a false dichotomy. I professed this belief, in part, because as a student and later as a teacher I truly felt that there was no actual difference between the two: in college, as in the business world where people get paid rather than pay to work, individuals must show up on time, work hard, and produce if they are going to succeed. I suppose I also enjoyed challenging the clichéd comparison between college and what happens after it because it gave me an opportunity to throw out the term “false dichotomy”—which, if you think about it, probably undercut my case, since nobody in the real world talks this way.
Still, despite of my smug assurances that there were, in reality, no differences between college and reality, I worked frantically and uneasily when putting together what would amount to an eight-hour workshop for bona fide professionals working and writing in adult situations (these, of course, are not to be confused with adults who work in adult-type industries, which, from what I can imagine having had absolutely zero exposure to that industry so help me God, have very little to do with the real world). And it was while prepping that I started to realize that I might be wrong about the real-world thing as it relates to college.
I have spent thirty-one of the last thirty-two years in school (the one year I worked as a ski instructor, which is hardly a legitimate foray into the realm where the proverbial rubber meets the road), and prior to that I had spent my first five years hanging out with my mom making cookies and watching Mr. Roger's Neighborhood (again, activities that lacked a certain compulsory connection to the genuine article). In other words, I didn't know a great deal about the working world of which Jackson Browne seems so fond.
I began suspecting, moreover, that from a teaching standpoint, I was going to be operating without the many safety nets to which I had become accustomed. There would be no leverage in the form of grades (which we often hold behind our backs like a parent hiding a partly-visible paddle), no position of implicit privilege built into the teacher/student relationship, no understood, unspoken requests for letters of reference, no bells, no imperious looks, no attendance sheets, no participation points, and no time to work out the kinks…“That's a great question. Next time we meet, I'll be sure to come back to it…Or, better yet, why don't you do some research and report on what you find to the class?”
Ironically, I also realized that I would be without the benefit of the real-world/college dichotomy I was so quick to dismiss but often willing to wield—“I'm telling you right now. When you get out there [in the real world], you're going to wish you had taken the time while in school to learn to identify and correct such problems as dangling modifiers and split infinitives; and, what's more, you're going to wish you remembered how convert passive voice prose into active.” (I've actually heard myself say that. How sad.)
And these feelings of unease and these related fears were not assuaged in the least by my attempts to put together handouts and to amass and recall links and tricks and tried and true teaching techniques. In fact, it seemed to me as I sat there pinched between two suits pecking away madly at their laptops that when I left campus a few short hours earlier with my bag full of photocopied materials I more than likely left behind my all-important de facto power as professor—a scary thought when I considered that the people with whom I would be working were not students. They were professionals, like the ones on either side of me. They were, more precisely, clients, paying customers, and they wanted and likely needed something significant in exchange for their time and money.
And while trying to sneak a peek at what the guy on my left was writing (I think I was hoping to see some mechanical errors so that I might feel superior and somehow relevant), I realized with a rush of dread (accompanied appropriately by a “little turbulence”) that hadn't really thought about how I was actually going to teach. I wondered, Would I stand? Would I sit? Would they be sitting? Would they be sitting at desks? No, of course not! Would they be at tables? At a table? And after we work out the seating arrangements, how shall I begin? Should I introduce myself as Dr.? Professor? Should I wear I tie? Shall I eat a peach? And how should I assess them? Should I give them quizzes? Can I? Would that would be weird? Could I insist that they participate? Could they refuse? I wouldn't for a second think about turning to this guy next to me and demanding he talk about whatever topic I think is important? So why tomorrow would I—and with a bump and screech we were on the ground and taxing toward reality.
Three days later, I rejoined my colleagues in business class, took my seat, made small talk about this and that, and felt generally less out of place than I had before. The trip had been a complete success, and I most definitely had learned more than I had taught.
About writing in the real world I learned this much: font is not as important as teachers would like it to be, nor is the position of the staple, the size of the margin, or the place where the writer puts his or her name. Big words bore, little words rock, confusing words confuse. Bullets are perfectly fine, as are graphs, four-dot ellipses, singular use of hyphens, and sentences ending with with, by, for, and of.
And about teaching writing in the real world I learned this much: people, like students, enjoy laughing while learning; people, like students, need bathroom breaks, and people, like students, understandably struggle to write clear, concise, coherent prose because doing this is difficult. I likewise (re)learned that lecturing doesn't, that teaching people to write well is hard work but work worth doing, and not surprisingly perhaps, I discovered that in reality, as in college, teaching is absolutely the greatest job on earth. Oh, yes, I also learned that cell phones work as well in conference rooms as they do classrooms.
The big difference I discovered during my sojourn: pay. I earned as much money in eight hours as a consultant I as do teaching one overload course three times a week for an entire semester. That's unreal.
_______________________
Colin Irvine is not an expert on any topic related to composition, literature, pedagogy, or tenure. He is, however, an assistant professor of English at Augsberg College, where he specializes in American literature, ecocriticism, and English/education methods. He says, "I am interested in talking in and through a column to other professors about various issues related to teaching freshman and sophomore-level courses. I'm also interested in exploring issues related to what it means to be a non-tenured assistant professor of English. My hope is that I could touch on serious, significant topics pertinent to these subjects in a sincere, insightful, and, perhaps, original manner."
Return to Table of Contents