. . . that I've found yet is that having an archive of your entries helps you figure out what's really on your mind: the issues that come up again and again in spite of what you really meant to write about.

Like, I thought this blog would be about teaching, writing, and blogging, and how these three things might intersect in productive ways. And it is., I guess. But as I look at my posts, I realize how many of them also seem to be about issues of authority, of my authority--a topic that I've always found fun to talk about in the abstract, but that I didn't think I had "issues" with now that I'm no longer a TA. 

Guess I better think again.

From a student who chronically wanders into my class fifteen minutes late--even though my policy (and personality!) expressly conveys that doing so is a major no-no:

hi miss or mrs. [my last name],

because i came late las class, i didn't here everything you had to say, but i wrote everything i could understand on the board. there was something on the board that said "one weblog entry" and "read _______ essay", what exactly do we have to do?? and do you need it by mondays class 13th sept.??? also, the first draft, do you want the full 4 pages????

if you could reply to me a.s.a.p so i could be ready for tomorrows class, that will be very helpful.

thank you,
[your student]

So: do I respond? Is this another "teaching opportunity"? And, if so, what's the best way to go about teaching it? To write back and point out to the student how inappropriate it is to dash off a desperate email in the 11th hour (it's been five days since our last class!)? Or is the best way to "teach him a lesson" simply to ignore his email and allow him to come to class woefully unprepared?

And if I do write him back and patiently point out why his email is an [ahem] ineffective piece of writing, where do I begin? Do I simply point out that a much more appropriate time and place to ask me about this might have been after class (!!), or do I start at the beginning: "It's Ms.!"

Ah, the power of one little lonely student to put us right back at Square One!

I'm explaining the next paper assignment, when suddenly I look over and see him: the stereotypical student in the back of the classroom with the baseball cap on, Mr. Too Cool for School . . . reading the newspaper.

Reading the damn paper. The sports section, no less.

The last time that happened in one of my classes, I was just a fledgling teacher, only about four years older than my students. I remember feeling completely insulted by the gesture, but also afraid to say anything. As wounded as I was, it would have added insult to injury to give the kid the satisfaction of knowing that he'd upset me (which, I assumed--maybe narcissistically?--had been his intention). In other words, I made the mistake of entering into his game, trying to out-cool him.

This time, ten years older and no longer a contender for the title of Cooler than Thou, I had a different response:

"What the heck are you doing?! Do you not know how completely annoying that is? If you want to read the paper, go home."  The poor guy turned beet read, said "sorry," and shoved the paper under his desk without even folding it. 

I went back to the day's lesson without missing a beat, but for the rest of the class felt a kind of creeping remorse that I couldn't quite block out. To us teachers, a student's opening up a newspaper in class seems so blatantly offensive, but could it be that some students really don't know any better? I always ask students: if you and I were having a conversation about something that you thought was important, how would it seem to you if suddenly I took out a nail file and started giving myself a manicure? Or pi cked up a novel and started reading? Ouch, right?"

But maybe the act is a little more benign than my analogy suggests. Maybe students regard their teachers less as people than programming, sort of like Monday night TV. Whatever is on is on; if you don't find it completely absorbing, you talk to your friends, pick up the newspaper, balance your checkbook, whatever. Whatever you do, you certainly don't expect the TV or the program producers to get all offended.

And, come to think of it, most of their college classes encourage this attitude. Not only are there 200 students in their lectures, but professors now require students to buy these $40 "clickers," which are basically remote control-looking things that are supposed to make the class more interactive by getting students to "vote" on the right answer to questions asked by the professor. So, basically, in most of their classes, the protocol dictates that they sit there for an hour, holding their clicker, waiting for a break in the programming, when they are supposed to point their clicker at a box in front of them and "voice their choice." (A possible upside to this: maybe they'll finally get rid of FCQs once and for all and replace them with Neilson ratings--which, let's face it, is what FCQs really amount to.)

All of this was beginning to nag at the back of my mind throughout our discussion, so at the end of class, I took a few minutes to explain: "OK, here's the thing about reading the newspaper in class--especially in a small class like this [which is a very intimate 18 students]. Yes, your professors are academics and eggheads, and yes we're here to give you knowlege. But teachers are essentially performers. Live performers. And like all performers, we thrive on your attention. Yes, we want you to learn, but it's also important to us--sometimes ridiculously so--that you're engaged, interested, and maybe even entertained by what we have to say. So when you open the newspaper or balance your checkbook or walk in late or look out the window while we're talking, it's like getting a bad review. No, worse: like having someone get up and walk out in the middle of a performance. It stinks.

"Okay, enough said. Have a great weekend, everybody."

I just got the following email from one of my students:

Ms. Pushover*,
Hi, it's Mandy* from your MW 4:30-5:45 writing class.  I am emailing you because I am currently in rush.  We have been going through it this entire weekend and bid day is Wednesday at 4.  Although not told to do so, it is encouraged for us to be there and this would then mean that I would miss our Wednesday class.  Is this ok?  

Also, if this were to happen, is it ok if I email you my writing assignment before class on Wednesday?  I am so sorry for the conflict. Just wondering what your input is on this subject.  Thank you.

Sincerely,
Mandy*

*names changed to protect the innocent

My "input," she wants. My permission, in other words. My approval. My agreement that, in this case at least (because "no, really, Ms. Naive, it'll this is the only time this semester when my friends will ask me to choose between school and social life"), her social life is more important than writing class. That, in this case at least, abstract peer pressure ("although not told to do so, it is encouraged for us to be there") should appeal more than learning to shape an argument for an audience.

Hmph. Well, at least she didn't ask for my "imput," which puts her at least one letter better than most of the millions of other students who send me such emails.

I get emails like this all the time; all of us teachers do. And it always takes me way longer than it should to answer them, because before I can compose a real reply, I sit there for awhile, fingers poised, mentally entertaining and then dismissing one snide fantasy response after another. ("My input? That gre at big F I'll be entering in my gradebook for your participation grade. That's my input! Put that in your put and smoke it!")

And then I remember that they aren't supposed to come into our classes with all the rhetorical savvy we wish they had. That's what we're there to teach them. If, that is, we can just convince them to come to the damn class.

Last week in class, I showed my students how to blog. By this Wednesday, they'll have set up their own blogs and published their first two (at least) posts. I'm looking forward to seeing what they do.

A number of my colleagues have expressed interest in seeing how this "experiment" goes, and even more have expressed concern: "What if they write something really offensive, or terribly personal?" they want to know.

As much as I'd like to dismiss such concerns as the worry-wart handwringing of so many control-freak writing professors, I'll be honest; these questions have crossed my mind, and they do concern me. (Maybe now would be a good time to come out of the closet as the control-freak that I am? But then: like most comings-out, this would come as a surprise to no one!)

But this seems like an important risk to take. What better way for students to learn how to write for real audiences than to . . . write for real audiences? Besides, the fact that giving students so much freedom scares us speaks volumes about just how much control we normally keep over students' writing, just how few risks we normally allow student writers to take. And that's scary, considering that most of us would agree that truly effective writing (and teaching and learning and loving and living and etc.) requires . . . risk.

That said, I'm eager--and anxious--to see what they come up with.

So ithe biggest surprise of the semester so far is that only about four out of my 36 students have ever heard of weblogging! I don't know what to make of this. Is it because Coloradans spend more time outside than in front of a computer than people in other states? Do they have less angst? More outlets for their creative energy? Less creative energy? (Just kidding, guys; just wanted to see if you were reading. . . .)

Whatever the explanation, this is an interesting twist in the course I had plotted out for us. I guess I assumed that my students would have grown up in an atmosphere where blogs are as pervasive as the air they breathe, and the reasons for their existence just as self-evident. And then along I would come, all cranky and Andy Rooney-like, and ask the question that every other blog only begs: "Why Blog?" But now the tables are turned. Suddenly the question in my own blog title is no longer rhetorical--and I'm being called on to answer it. Not only that, but the more time my students spend (at my behest) exploring the blogosphere, the more they're bound to discover one really good reason not to blog: namely, the sheer multitude of really bad blogs already out there.

So, help me out here, good bloggers: Why blog? Here's a few to get us started. . .

#1: We can't all have our own TV show, newspaper column, or seat on the senate floor.

Reason # 2: So many who do have their own TV show or column or seat on the Senate floor are real horse's asses. Worse: they're horse's asses who claim to be speaking for us. . . .

Reason#3: They don't make soap boxes like they used to, and high horses cost too much to maintain (not to mention way too easy to fall off of. . . ). 

Reason #4: Because when you have a blog, everything in your life becomes a potential subject to write about. And when you look at everything as a potential subject to write about, you tend to be more sensitive, engaged, and critical. All good things to be--in our personal, political, and professional lives.

Reason #5: Because you can't pass my class without one.

Reason #6: Because if writing for an audience can be inhibiting (though you'd never be able to tell it from some of the blogs out there!), it also forces you to weigh your thoughts carefully, communicate more clearly. (Again, there are worse things for a democracy.) Sometimes writing for an audience can make it harder to tell the truth, but sometimes it's what keeps you honest.

Other reasons? (Is this thing on?)

. . . and even though it's way to early for summer to be over, I'm actually looking forward to teaching this semester. I'd like to say that I always look forward to teaching, but the truth is, I rarely do. On the contrary: as rewarding and fulfilling as I know my classes always are once they're actually underway, I usually dread them right up until the minute I pass around the first attendance sheet.

Which only goes to show just how much the teaching of writing is actually a lot like writing itself, in that there are so many more reasons to resist it than to look forward to it. It's hard. It's risky. You have to keep some control, some sense of a direction, but you also have to let go and let things happen. The more of yourself you put into it, the better it is . . . and also the more vulnerable and exposed you feel.

(Geez. Remind me again why I do this for a living?)

Speaking of risk, this will be the first semester that I'll keep a class blog (which I'll probably link to here) and also require my students to keep a blog of their own. We'll see how it goes.

I find it amusing that the username "badwriter" wasn't already taken. The first time I tried to create a blog, it took over an hour to find a username that wasn't already in use. "Diotima," "Rhetorica," "Doglady," even my own real (and highly unusual) name had already been claimed by somebody else. By the time I finally came up with an original name, it was so original that I immediately forgot it because it had no connection to me or anything or anyone I care about. So the blog died of its own originality before it could even begin.

This time, rather than trying to construct some super- clever and original persona, I tried instead to think of the most common ways that people (including me) identify themselves . . . and BINGO. Come to think of it, this is true of the other blog I keep as well, which is also named for an identity that lots of people have in common but nobody wants to claim. (I suppose I should link to it here, but for some reason I feel shy about letting these two worlds or parts of my identity collide.)

Somewhere in this, there's a good lesson for bad writers; and maybe if I weren't such a bad writer, I'd be able to tell you what it is. . . .