ChatGPT, write a novel about a dystopian society that has been consumed by technology. Include book burning, and the death of creative thought.

When my daughter was a freshman in high school, she was assigned to read Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. I admitted to her with great shame that I’d somehow navigated two degrees and a life-long love of reading without ever reading this classic. I decided to right this wrong immediately, and so we read the novel in tandem. 

I expected to like it. (It’s “a classic!”) It turns out I loved it. ADHD in tow, I promptly went down a Ray Bradbury rabbit hole, learning all I could about the life he lived and his beliefs about technology and the future. In my “research” (See also: Googling), I learned that he refused to release any of his work in digital form until 2011, a year before his death at age 92. He held a belief so strongly that he said no to publishing his writing in a way that would put his ideas into the minds of millions of people (and generate a significant bit of income to boot). 

How punk rock is that?

Did his protest against the future of technology do anything to stop it? Not in the least. I still respect the stand he took. I’ve been thinking about Bradbury’s boycott of digital publishing a lot lately as I grapple with my own feelings about technology and the future of creative and critical thinking. 

I recently attended a Zoom training hosted by a popular company that offers AI writing assistance. The woman leading the session enthusiastically shared how the AI components offered in their premium education accounts shepherd students past “the fear of the blank page.” Students can use generative AI to give them a list of possible ideas to write about or generate an outline for them to follow. It can check their tone or make a paragraph “stronger.” It can also, given a little nudge, write the whole damn thing for them. 

As a teacher of rhetoric and composition, I believe the point of what I teach is the process, not the finished product. I value my role as a coach, guiding students through the hard work of the writing process, starting with that frightening blank page all the way through to publication. Grappling with hard questions, carving new neural pathways of creative thinking, and showing yourself that you can do a really hard thing and survive it, or better yet, come out a little stronger in the end, are essential life lessons. I feel honored to guide my students through those experiences. 

But now our students can look at that long walk from the start to the finish of a writing assignment and opt to take the AI sky tram instead. They can arrive at their writing destination without breaking a sweat. 

As the future of AI in education breathes down my neck, I find myself wondering, do I want to be a Bradbury, digging in my heels in respect for my deeply-held principles about teaching, learning, and the craft of writing, knowing that my protest will do nothing to change what’s to come? Do I want to give in and say there's nothing I can do to stop what's coming, so let me grade this robot’s essay? Or might there be a space in between? 

~~

So, when I say I read Fahrenheit 451, I mean to say that I listened to it on my phone using the Audible app while commuting several hours each day to and from work, my kids’ two schools, and various music lessons and therapies. (Bradbury rolled his eyes in his grave, I am sure.) And, as I write this, I write it not with a pencil and a pad of paper with a dictionary at arm’s reach but on my laptop computer where I look up synonyms for words, move entire paragraphs around the electronic page, and allow the little red line to catch the spelling and punctuation errors I leave in the wake of my tapping fingers. 

Punk rock, I am not. 

Luckily, I peddle my philosophy of teaching here at GCC, where I am surrounded by educators who are devoted to the craft of teaching and student success. I teach on a campus that values the act of thinking and writing so deeply that every year, faculty and staff volunteer to do the hard work of wrestling ideas out of their heads and into the blogosphere for all to see. I know that my fellow Gauchos are scouting the horizon for that middle path forward into our future with AI in education, and if we don’t spot it, I am sure that we can tramp out a new path together.

5 Tips for Creating a Productive Environment for Studying by Lisa Moore

102 Mini-Syllabus

MiniSyllabus ENG 102 Spring 2024 by Lisa Moore

MiniSyllabus ENG 102 Spring 2024 by Lisa Moore

A Little Vulnerability

Little did I know when we crafted the Write 6x6 prompts that, during the week where we would
explore how we talk about current events, America would be struggling, once again, with grief and
anger after the 129th school shooting of 2023.

As I write this, my fifth grader is across town taking the state science test, and my high schooler
is conjugating verbs in French class. They are engaged in tasks that they probably won’t
remember–moments experienced by a million kids before them, nothing that should cause me
any worry. However, every time there is (yet another) school shooting, I spend suffocating under
the weight of anxiety and sadness until I can gather them home again.

Though it is statistically unlikely that one of my kids would be involved in a school shooting, gun violence
is now the number one cause of death in America for children ages 1 to 18. This is an important issue,
and one I know my kids and I should be talking about, but I am ashamed to say that I feel
unequipped to talk about it. Do I bring it up? Do I wait for an invitation to talk about it? Is there
a “right” thing to say or a way to help them make sense of the tragedy? How strong should I appear
when inside I am sad and angry?

It feels like there are more ways to mess it up than there are to get it “right.” My heart tells me that the best approach is to be honest and open. I know that I don’t have to have the answers, because what answers are there in the face of such senseless terror and loss?

I wrestle with similar feelings of inadequacy when I consider discussing current events in my
classroom. Though we have student-led discussion circles every other week, I do not purposefully
set aside time for discussing current events. When they arise organically, I make space for the
conversation. I try to rise to the occasion, again, with honesty, openness, and a little vulnerability.
I know I am doing my students no service by going on with business as usual when the world outside
our classroom door has been pitched into chaos. Everything from incidents of police violence to the
price of gas impacts their lives, and learning doesn’t occur in a vacuum.

Write 6x6 offers such a unique space for us to share with and learn from each other, and so I
am hopeful I might gather a few bits of wisdom or tools for my toolkit from the posts of others this week.
In the meantime, I prepare to fumble my way through a hard conversation with my own kids this evening.
I cannot tell them that everything will be okay, but we can sit together in our not-knowing.

Don't Stop Believin'

Don't stop believin'

Hold on to that feeling

In the spring of 2001, with years of internships and the trial-by-fire that is student teaching behind me, I had my first-ever paying gig teaching lit and comp at a nearby high school. The job didn’t pay enough for me to move out of my childhood bedroom, and instead of my own classroom, I was given an AV cart and a forgotten corner of a teacher workroom to call my own. Because I was hired to fill the shoes of a teacher who quit with little warning, I’d had next to no time to plan out my semester. Every day, I showed up, foundered convincingly, and counted the days til summer break with one shining jewel of a thought in mind: “I know next semester will be better.”

I’ve taught in some sort of classroom every semester since that first one, and every semester, I’ve clung to the belief that “oh yes, next semester is gonna be better.”

Photo by Apelcini 

In 2001, “better” meant I knew I’d trade that clunky cart for a room of my own, and I’d have time to plan out my curriculum over the summer. Over the years, “better” took on a more nuanced meaning. As the semester’s end was in sight, I’d begin to think about how I’d tweak a writing assignment, teach a new novel, or try a new project when the new semester dawned.  Now that I have set down roots at GCC, “next semester will be better” has meant pivoting to OER, building new course shells, and finding new ways to make writing relevant to my studens. Next semester, I am trying out a Learning Community with one of my colleagues, and it’s gonna be awesome. 

In no other career than teaching does one have so much creative freedom paired with periods of time where the “doing” stops and gives way to time to think, marinate, and plan. Every semester, we run full steam ahead at the hard stop that is the date that grades are due, then we slow down, we rest, and we plan with feelings of excitement for the semester to come. 

This rhythm of teaching–the deep well of creativity and the jolts of excitement–are my favorite thing about this career that I chose before I even knew anything about work or being an adult. In 22 years of teaching, I’ve never stopped believing that next semester will be better. That feeling of excitement and promise always arises in me as one semester draws to a close and I see the next waiting on the horizon.

Pandemic Lessons: Sit, Stay

Inside my brain, there are two entities locked in battle for control of my life. 

The first, surprising exactly none of my friends, is a Golden Retriever. Spry, eager to please, always in pursuit of snacks. This is the side of me that is in love with life, who signs up for everything, who nods eagerly in meetings. Yes! That’s a great idea. YES! Let’s totally do that! Oh, there will be cookies? Even better! Ever the optimist, this side of me lives by the mantra, JUST SAY YES, and it’ll all work out. 

The other entity dwelling within me is the bedraggled and tired old sap holding the leash. This is the side of me who has to make sense of each calendar day filled with wildly conflicting commitments. (I have to be in two places at once AGAIN?) This side of me drags her feet when it’s time to leave the house for that thing we said we’d attend and feels paralyzed when that deadline approaches. This side of me is tired of being dragged down the street by that damned Golden Retriever and would love to sit down for a spell. 

In March of 2020 the Golden Retriever was strapped into a cone of shame for its own safety and forced into a kennel. 

The keeper of the leash set the leash down, stopped moving, took a deep breath, and listened to the birds. 

When the world stopped and we all stayed home, I was prepared to feel itchy and twitchy. Those feelings never arrived. I was shocked to discover that I liked slowing down. I craved balance. It was then that I realized for the first time that there are these two sides to me. (I guess the dog never looked over its shoulder at who was trailing behind?) It was at this time that I also realized that the side that holds the leash to my life is also the side that writes, that reflects, that notices. 

Through this pandemic, I learned that there is value in doing, and my life is rich for saying yes, yes, absolutely yes to the opportunities that come my way, but there is also great value in allowing space in my life for peace and rest and thought. 

This balance that I want in my life won’t happen accidentally. I understand now that I have to work for it. I must occasionally say no. I must occasionally keep my hands in my lap. The eager pup must learn to heel. 

Postscript: 

The side of me that charged full steam ahead to bring back Write 6x6 was absolutely the Golden Retriever. The side of me finally sitting down to write this belated post is the keeper of the leash. 

The Golden retriever also humbly requests that you still ask her to participate in things. (Especially if there are snacks.)

Coffee Talk: Class Discussion as Formative Assessment

When we talk about formative assessment, what usually comes to mind is a quiz, a ticket out the door, or a temperature-taking tactic like "thumbs-up/thumbs down."  Sometimes when I am feeling a little extra, I break out a Kahoot.

However, my favorite kind of formative assessment is the kind where students don't even realize that it's happening. I love it when students let their guard down, and instead of trying to produce The Correct Answer, they show me what they know. This is why I am a fan of using class discussion as a form of formative assessment.

Whole-class discussion works well enough on the fly when I am tired of the sound of my own voice, but it's far from perfect. Foremost, there are always a few students who regularly chime in, but there are many more students who are all too happy to sit back silently and let others do all the chatting.  I also find that many students don't feel comfortable in this setting to ask for clarification of a point, and so, again, they may sit back silently, hoping that the clouds will part and a ray of sun will illuminate whatever is confounding them. Another issue I experience with whole-class discussion is that, because I am the one leading it, students are less likely to take risks with the ideas they share. Instead, they are inclined to say what they think I want to hear.

A strategy I find myself relying on more often than when I first started teaching college is small group discussion.  Think-pair-share is a great strategy because it takes very little preparation. Sometimes I'll step up my game and grab the Student Sorting Pencils from the CTLE. These allow me to keep the groups moving in unexpected ways by breaking them into groups by color, numeral, or symbol. This method takes a few minutes of prep time, but it feels more exciting for everyone than being asked to turn and talk to a neighbor.

In these small group discussions, I am able to hang back and listen to what students are saying. Students seem to feel more comfortable asking classmates for clarification on a finer point that they might not ask the whole class. They also feel more comfortable calling me over for 'official' clarification. In small group discussions, I can overhear not only whether or not they understand the material, but I can listen to their thought process as they arrive at an answer. Furthermore, if I am tired of the sound of my own voice, surely they are too. The small group discussions break up the class time and allow students to relax a little.

Even in these small groups, when I sidle up to them, sometimes the conversation will cool, like I've removed the lid from a boiling pot. I don't know if they are worried that I might overhear The Wrong Answer and frown disappointedly? Or maybe they think I am there because I want to chime in, so they are making space for my interjection? Either way, I regularly find myself assuring students that I am just listening in and to continue as though I am not there.

One discussion strategy that has been collecting dust for the last semesters is the Socratic Seminar. Although this strategy takes more than a few minutes of preparation--not only on my part, but on the part of the students as well--it solves a few issues that whole-class and small-group discussions present. In a Socratic Circle (where an inner circle of students discusses prepared questions, and an outer circle of students thoughtfully observe and jots notes), I am not the leader of the group. This clears the way for students to strengthen their connections to one another as they share ideas and moderate their own discussion. Furthermore, I don't have to meander around the room to eavesdrop--I can take a seat at the back of the room and listen. They all but forget I am there when the discussion gets rolling. This is a safer space for students to share their thought processes and to take risks than in an instructor-lead discussion. Finally, students seem to like it. Win-win.

With each of these small(er) group strategies, I am able to use the authentic information I gather from students to shape future lessons or to know when to slow down and revisit a concept that seems to be tripping them up.

The opportunity to compose this post has set the gears in my mind turning. Most instructors use Socratic Seminars to facilitate a discussion about something the class was assigned to read, but I don't see why this strategy wouldn't work in a writing lesson. Maybe students could examine a sample essay or could talk about small portions of student drafts in a modified peer review. I'll let you know what comes out of these lesson plan ponderings.

I'd love to hear your tips and tricks for using discussion as a formative assessment. Do you use Socratic Seminars in your courses? What is your favorite strategy for class discussion?

Moore's Diner: Where Inclusivity is Always on the Menu

I have this friend who, a few years ago, found herself in the hospital receiving treatment for a heart condition. Everyone who knew her was dumbfounded. She had lived her entire adult life as not only an avid runner but as a vegetarian. There was no one I would have been more surprised to learn had a blockage in her heart.

My friend is in great health today. Her treatment was successful, and the doctors said that her condition was genetic. In response to the incident, however, she graduated from a vegetarian diet to a vegan one.

Now when we get together for a bite, ordering at restaurants has become, shall we say, more complicated. Sometimes when the waiter comes to our table, she orders something from the menu apologetically asking for a few adjustments here and there. Sometimes the cooks will rummage around in the kitchen and pile something suitable on a plate. (Voila!) Sometimes she ends up with a disappointing bowl of lettuce and balsamic vinaigrette.

But sometimes? Sometimes we will open the menu and there will be vegan options hanging out right there amidst all the other entrees. On those occasions, we smile, feeling welcome, and turn our attention more pressing issues, like catching up on each other's lives.

If my classroom were a restaurant, I would want it to be the kind where every diner's needs have been considered before they walk through the door. I would want to be the kind of restaurant where no one has to ask the cooks to conjure up something on the fly. No one should feel like they are an inconvenience because they need something different than the "typical customer" in order to be successful.

I believe that inclusion means building an accessible classroom before a student who needs those accommodations ever enrolls in the course.

In recent semesters, improving the accessibility of my classroom has become one of my missions. Thanks to workshops in the CTLE, and talking with other instructors who are doing the same, I've learned how to make sure my syllabus and course documents are accessible to all students, including those using screen readers. I've learned how to edit the transcripts for the YouTube videos I post for my online classes, and I've begun to turn on Closed Captioning for all videos I show in my in-person classes, regardless of who is seated in the room. I've also begun to share a link to my Google Slides presentations with all students in the weekly overview in Canvas, not just with those who ask me for a copy of my notes. Building these habits into my teaching routines now means that I am ready for any student who joins my class. I won't have to scramble to build new habits in order to support their success in my class.

I know that building a culture of inclusion is an ongoing process--no one is ever really done with this task. However, I am proud to say that I am making progress every semester.

Cheers to that.

"Put Me In Coach"

When I was a kid, I had a knack for finding the spot in the outfield or on the basketball court least likely to see any action. I would stand, shielding my eyes from the relentless Arizona sun, contemplating which Catholic saint was the correct one to call upon to deliver me from gym class. Sometimes, despite my best effort, the ball would find me anyway, and I would feel the eyes of my classmates upon me as I failed to execute whatever maneuver was required of me. Each perceived failure just confirmed for me that I did not belong in the world of physical fitness.

Here is a short list of things at which I did excel in my youth:

• daydreaming
• listening to a cassette tape of The Cure's Disintegration
• napping
• finding the right word in my rhyming dictionary to complete that couplet
• snacking

Given the theme of this blog post, you might assume that I am here to tell you about how, one day, I found the inspiration that would guide me as an educator within the pages of some book as I sat reading, alone in my childhood bedroom, P.E. be damned. This is not the case. In fact, I draw a great deal of inspiration for my approach to teaching from the world of fitness--precisely because I've always felt like an outsider in that environment.

Somewhere along the road to adulthood, I begrudgingly decided that I needed to exercise. I tried a number of different approaches to physical fitness over the years. I tried working out to DVDs in my living room with an audience of Cheerio-eaters lounging behind me on the couch. I tried running bleachers at Phoenix College. (There were so many ways I could have killed myself doing this.) I tried working out with a friend at LA Fitness. No matter the setting, I always carried with me those feelings of anxiety and a mean little (adolescent) voice in my head telling me that I don't belong.

About a year ago, I decided to try yet another new approach to cardiovascular health: I began taking classes at an Orange Theory Fitness near my house. I showed up with my dossier failures in sports and exercise tucked under one arm, and all my pet anxieties trailing obediently behind me. My experience at OTF, however, proved to be different. The students in class each week represent a diverse range of ages, body types, and physical abilities. The coach welcomes each of us with a high-five and remembers our names. When the coach offers a correction to a student's form when performing an activity, it is done with kindness, and in a spirit of helpfulness. I keep coming back because the coaches make it clear that every student in class belongs there, and that we are all striving for progress, not perfection.

Sometimes while I am panting through a hill on the treadmill, I think about what great teachers the OTF coaches are. With a little kindness, some high-fives a few accommodations, they have helped me to get out of my own way so that I can focus on my health. 

Every semester, just for a kick, I ask my classes who among them wants to become an English teacher. I have never had a single hand rise into the air. The students in my classes are not interested in spending their lives unlocking the mysteries topic sentences or MLA citation style for others. In fact, many of the students who show up to class on the first day feeling like outsiders to the world of English. Many of them carry around memories of a class they took where their paper was returned to them, bleeding red ink. Or one where they felt out of place because English is not their first language. Or one where they stopped coming to class because they were simply too anxious to complete the semester.

These days, I channel my inner Orange Theory coach. What can I do or say in class to show my students that they do, in fact, belong here? How can I help them to set aside their anxieties, quiet those voices in their heads, and start forging a new relationship with the world of words?

I think of my coaches, and I work to build a welcoming community in my classroom through friendly smiles, genuine interest in the lives of my students, some goofy memes, and an abundance of high-fives.

Introduction to Expository Writing

One of my favorite poems by former Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, is "Introduction to Poetry." 

I love the vibrant and clear images in the first five stanzas, as the speaker describes the many ways he wants his students to experience a poem. The speaker guides his students to "waterski / across the surface of a poem," and to "drop a mouse into a poem / and watch him probe his way out." I love how, in a poem exploring the difference between inhabiting a poem, and seeking the 'answer' to a poem, Collins's meaning is delightfully unambiguous.

"Introduction to Poetry" turns on the word 'but' in the sixth stanza, sharply contrasting the whimsical images found in the poem's opening with images of torture and violence in its conclusion. The poem closes with the image of students beating a poem with a hose.

It makes me chuckle every time I read it.

I thought it would be a fun exercise in creativity to write a poem of my own, emulating both the structure and the imagery of "Introduction to Poetry." However, I chose to steer the ending of my poem, "Introduction to Expository Writing," in a different, more hopeful, direction.

I had a lot of fun with this exercise. It is definitely a work in progress, and I have a feeling I'll keep fussing with it in the weeks to come, but I thoroughly enjoyed looking at the act of teaching First-Year Composition through the lens of poetry.




Introduction to Expository Writing


I ask them to take an idea

and roll it out before them

like a map of the world



or thump its melon hide

and listen for signs that it's ripe.



I say build a tree house, and view an idea

from above the canopy,



or shape an idea into a sandcastle,

and see what happens

when the tide rolls in.



I want them to chart a course to the heart of an idea,

using the constellations as their guide.



But they eye me with suspicion and ask,

"How many words

does this have to be?"



And then they pick up their tools

with uncalloused hands

and begin to chisel.