In 1981, I taught my first two freshman composition courses as a graduate student at Texas A&M University. Since then, I have taught college students in writing and literature classes from Texas to Louisiana to Minnesota to Georgia. I taught my last class in May of 2007. Now I tutor students part-time, and I'm a news junkie in my spare time. But I can't shake the schoolmarm in me.
As a teacher of over twenty-five years' experience, I have heard every excuse, observed every dodge imaginable, and witnessed the thinking processes of students of all ages and skills. And so I've watched the 2008 presidential race with increasing, dismayed recognition.
Barack Obama reminds me of the thoughtful, ambitious student who comes to class having read the assignment, prepared to discuss the issues. He declared a major early on and has a plan for his life worked out, maybe even in a timeline jotted down in a personal journal. Some of the students dislike him for his preparation, his focus: they snicker behind his back when he speaks, lounge nonchalantly at their desks, and make disparaging remarks under their breath to other students. But they want him assigned to their group for team assignments. In group work, he tends to be the leader, but he is careful to encourage input from other students. On group evaluations, he specifically describes the contributions of each student, giving credit where credit is due.
As a teacher, I like this Barack Obama student. I've worked hard to prepare my assignments and to make the class engaging. The Barack Obama student asks questions, and I can rely on him to get a class discussion going. His essays are a thrill to read because he supports his claims, and it is clear that he is trying to incorporate in his writing some of the skills we've discussed in class. I've got to try hard, though, not to let him dominate class discussion. At times he is cocky, but I suspect that experience will teach him a self-awareness that will smooth the sharper points of his personality.
At the state universities and community colleges where I've taught, I've sometimes had a John McCain student in my classes. This student has career experience already. He is sometimes former military or a business owner. Sometimes he's older than I am. He almost winks when he smiles at me that first day in class (or, the flip side John McCain student: he looks at me suspiciously, calculating my age and experience, looking for chinks in the teacher armor). He makes a point to linger after class and engage me in some personal anecdote. His background and experience often provide for lively class discussion, but he often contradicts the Barack Obama student. He doesn't like the kid's confidence; he tells the kid he will change his tune when he gets in the "real world."
For all his comments in class about maturity and responsibility, however, the John McCain student often fails to turn in work on time. Each time he has an excuse: he had an important meeting to attend; he was called away on a business trip--but forgot to e-mail me, his teacher, about these plans and his need for an extension. And because he has had authority in the past--he commanded people, and they jumped without question--he doesn't understand the academic requirement of supporting his claims with facts and details. Or he fills his essays with such convoluted nonsense that the younger students, peer-reviewing his essays, are completely bamboozled. They see the big words and long sentences and think their older and more experienced classmate must be communicating deep and important thoughts that they are just too stupid to understand. They begin to question their own abilities. They take what he writes on faith.
As a teacher, I like this John McCain student. He is personable; the experiences he shares in class often give the younger students a valuable perspective. However, he tends to showboat; in his stories he is always the hero, the one who saved the day, who saw the bad thing coming and tried to warn others. He often does not give younger students credit for their ideas. He can be dismissive, at times very cutting and sarcastic. If he's the more suspicious John-McCain student, he challenges me, the teacher, at every opportunity. He tries to get the more gullible students to back him up. Sometimes the challenges are invigorating, helping me to articulate my ideas more clearly and convincingly. At other times the challenges are just a distraction, creating situations where I have to pull rank as a teacher to bring the class back on course. And I know that if I don't exercise my authority carefully, thoughtfully, and successfully, this student can derail the class for the entire semester.
And, yes, I've often had the Sarah Palins of the world in my classes. They are cute and perky and were voted Homecoming Queen or Belle of the Barbecue. They are used to getting their way, and they know why. Some days it's just a delight for us all to see their smiling, well-constructed faces in the classroom. They lean forward in group meetings to touch the arm of another student, emphasizing a point. They have learned how to say nothing very well. Less socially-admired students too often take the Sarah Palin student's advice at face value, not realizing that that's the total extent of the value.
Because what she has achieved has often been the result of her good looks, the Sarah Palin student has learned to be manipulative. Because her ability to connect emotionally to people often persuades others to support her goals, she thinks what she knows is sufficient for every circumstance. She has learned a few happy phrases that she thinks describes all of experience. Whatever passes as good in her little social circle is good for the rest of the world. In fact, she knows what's good. She is the epitome of good. She looks with suspicion on people who are different than she though she is smart enough to mask her misgivings.
As a teacher, I like the Sarah Palin student. She's just so....likable, so cute, so smiley. But I have a difficult time getting her to see any viewpoint other than her own. When asked to describe her world view, she reverts to those happy phrases. When required to support claims with specific details, she tends to pile up one general statement after another. She doesn't understand why she receives a "C" on an essay: Didn't she follow directions? Isn't the format of the paper correct? Doesn't it meet the required word count? When I point out claim after claim that lacks examples and facts for support, she looks at me blankly. "But this is the truth," she says. "I state it right here."
As a teacher, I know that the student who leaves my classroom is not a finished product. The Barack Obama student may not live up to his potential. The John McCain student may learn to temper his self-importance. The Sarah Palin student may learn to love and credit a world far different than her own social circle; she may work hard and learn that good looks is not enough. But, really, when I think of who I would want to become my president, I'm rooting for the Barack Obama student. I can trust him to do his homework. I can depend upon him to be prepared. I can rely on him to listen to the advice of others older and more experienced than he. I know he will give credit to others, thus ensuring allies for future endeavors.
Does this preference make me elitist? I don't think so. I'm just an ordinary American, a first-generation college graduate who attended community college and a state university. I paid my way through school with jobs or scholarship money. And while I love arugula and brie, I also like turnip greens and gravy and mashed potatoes. I want a president I can trust to do the job. Everything the real John McCain and the real Sarah Palin have done so far in this campaign has eroded any trust I might have had in their abilities and in their good will. I do not want to gamble on what they might be after the class is over and real life begins.
