Maybe They're Writing Poetry

As a life-long English teacher, one might think that I would have a cherished collection of stories to share about the English teachers in my past who inspired me, pushed me to do better, and guided me on this path. The truth, however, is that I have memories of past English teachers, first in middle school, then in high school, who actually chose to put barriers in my way. I keep these memories in my back pocket, not out of resentment or spite, but because they inspired me to be better.

I first fell in love with reading at the age of 8. My family was on a cross-country road trip, and because it was the 1980s, I rolled around in the back of my dad's pickup truck all the way from Phoenix to Washington, D.C. (There was a camper shell ensuring I didn't leap to my demise--we weren't animals.) I read E.B. White's classic children's novel, Charlotte's Web, for the first of a dozen times on that trip. It was the first time I felt the now-familiar butterflies of awe and magic that still wash over me to this day when I read something beautiful. From that point on, I became a voracious reader--my mom would literally hide my books to get me to do my chores--and I soon took up the mighty pen to capture the delight and the agony of youth in poetry.

By the time I entered middle school, I frequently sat in the back of my classes reading and writing. I'd quickly complete the day's assignments, then retreat once again into my own world. Thanks to excellent test scores, I took honors English in middle school, and I earned good marks. Despite this, my 8th-grade English teacher recommended I not carry on with advanced English classes in high school due to my inattentiveness. It's funny to me that what I was actually doing in her class was carrying on a love affair with the written word, but she made a different assumption about me.

I began Freshman English at Independence High School in 1992. I was bored out of my everloving mind. I hated. that. class. The teacher advised me that I should speak to the department head, Ms. Lipscomb, and ask to take a placement test for the honors and AP track. Though the prospect of having this conversation terrified me, I did it anyway, and she gave me a date to come by after school to take the test. The week of the test, the advisor for the (VHS!) video yearbook informed me that we had a deadline to meet and that I absolutely could NOT take an afternoon off--not even for a placement test. Trapped between two competing authorities, I went back to Ms. Lipscomb to ask if we could reschedule. She said no. It was now or never. 

I decided that meant never.

I mean, that was so worth it, right? Thirty years later, I just know everyone still cherishes their fuzzy VHS memories of the 1992-1993 school year.

Needless to say, I continued to languish in English classes for the rest of my time in high school. I also traded in my books and poetry for the lofty pursuits of making signs and balloon arches for StuCo and convincing people to give me a lift to Taco Bell for the 59, 79, 99-cent menu.

Four years of middling English classes later, during my senior year, I found myself as Ms. Lippy's--yes, the very same Ms. Lipscomb's--student. Oh, how she loathed that class… but she liked me. I sat in the first seat of the first row (as I did in all my classes with a last name like Akers), so we'd talk sometimes about current events. She was also the first of my English teachers to require that I read a novel. I chose Wuthering Heights. I was hesitant when I started reading it, discouraged by the language that felt stuffy to me, but soon the book swept me away in a flurry of those old familiar butterflies and magic. I devoured it, and came to class ready to talk her ear off about what I suspected the moors might symbolize and the role that nature played in the story.

I remember so clearly that she looked up from her desk, smiled, and said, you, my dear, should have been in Honors English.

Womp womp.

When I started my own teaching career as a high school English teacher, I returned to these two memories at least once a semester. I could see that both teachers, instead of nurturing a big nerd into an even bigger nerd, chose to make assumptions about me and what I was capable of. They were wrong about me. What a gift!

When I was the honors English teacher, every semester, someone would come to me with a paper slip in hand, nervously asking if they could "bump" into my class. And every time, I clicked my pen, smiled, and welcomed them to class as I signed the form.

Did all of them succeed? No. But I rest easy knowing I never closed the door on anyone's chance to see what they are capable of.

Here at GCC, I don't make choices about who can take what course, but I do continue to check my assumptions about my students. The student in the back who looks like they are fiddling with their phone--maybe that student doesn't care. But maybe they are writing poetry?

The Gradebook Is Fine. Everything Is Fine. (It's Not Fine.)

For years, I have had this nagging feeling that my gradebook, filled with hundreds of scores at the end of the semester, is serving neither me nor my students. What's the difference between a 92% and an 88%? Does that parade of assignments support student learning? Would they learn less if I asked them to click fewer buttons? Am I offering the best feedback when I am always underwater with my grading?

*dramatic sigh*

I long to step away from… whatever this is… and shift to something that feels simpler and more honoring of how humans learn. But the questions felt too big to sit with alone — so I didn't.

In response to this feeling of dis-ease with my current grading practices, I invited a few colleagues to join me in exploring the pros and cons of the most common approaches to alternative grading. In our first few meetings, it became clear that we are all a little frustrated with our current grading practices, which can feel, at times, like they are sucking the life out of us (and the joy out of teaching). As we talked about what brought us together, even more questions arose about how alternative grading could work in our classes (in addition to a healthy dose of skepticism).

Here are some of the questions that arose in our discussions:

• Would alt grading impact how we meet the requirement of a three-hour course having six hours of work outside of class?

• Would something like portfolio grading just push the work of grading to the end of the semester?

• How might alternative grading impact grade inflation?

• Can alternative grading increase transparency? Or would it make grades more foggy?

• We need to be certain that our students meet our course competencies and are prepared for the next course in the sequence (for example, ENG 101 moving to ENG 102). Which alternative grading practices best address this?

As I write this, I do not have the answers to these questions. We've each chosen one or two strategies to dig into, and in future meetings, we will share what we learn in service of addressing these questions.

I am going to dig into portfolio-based grading (paired with minimum standards for accepted work). To me, this feels like the most natural fit for a writing class. Instead of assigning a grade to each piece of work as it comes in, students collect their work over the course of the semester and are assessed on the whole body of it at the end, often alongside a reflection on their growth.

What draws me to this is that it mirrors how writers actually work. Mature writers don't finish a first draft and call it done. Writing is recursive — you circle back, you revise, you see things differently after some distance. A portfolio supports this cycle of writing.

I am also drawn to the reflection component of this approach. Students have to look back at what they produced and articulate what changed and why--they have to articulate how they’ve grown as writers.

Our PLC's other participants are exploring standards-based and mastery-based grading, specs and labor-based grading, contract-based grading, and equitable grading. I am eager to learn from their discoveries! If you want to know how this all unfolds, you are a) welcome to join our group! We meet every other Tuesday morning at 10:00 AM (reach out to me for more info), or b) watch for my follow-up posts on the CTLE blog!

UDL: An Undeniably Delightful Learning Space

In recent years, I've been learning more about Universal Design for Learning. At the heart of UDL lies student engagement, flexibility, and choice. As I learn more about all the ways I can use the principles of UDL to strengthen my courses, I admit I also find myself indulging in a little daydream about my perfect classroom. Currently, I teach in the LA building. It's a little dingy and the fluorescent overhead lights might steal a little bit of my soul every day that I stand beneath them, but the rooms have desks with wheels, so that's cool. However, I dream of a classroom that is bright, welcoming and flexible: UDL IRL.

iStock: Varijanta

Let me paint a picture for you of my dream classroom. And, this is my dream, so I reserve the right to go nuts.

First, the room would be large, and not overly crowded with furniture. It may sound elementary (pun intended for a college blog...), but when my students enter the space, there would be space for them to store their massive backpacks that hinder movement around the space and that we (I) frequently trip over. Next to that storage area, I'd have a coffee, tea, and snacks to welcome students. I would encourage them to take a break from their cell phones and get cozy in the learning space.

Around the room, I dream of windows, so many windows, cut high into each wall to let in lots of natural light. Somehow, working in perfect harmony with all the windows, multiple screens would hang around the room allowing everyone to see the day's slides without squinting. Each wall would also be lined with whiteboards for gallery walks and standing group work. I'd make the room feel a little cozy with an area rug and some lo-fi music in the background.

In the learning space, I envision tables that roll so that I can divide them for small-group work, line them up when it's time for notes, push them into long rows for class discussions, or move them entirely out of the way for Socratic seminars. Again, since this is my dream, I am going to go nuts: I'd mix in some other seating options like beanbag chairs and stools, maybe even a few standing desk options along one side of the room. I'd have ChromeBooks in the room that we'd pull out only when polishing our final drafts—no stationary computers hiding everyone's faces and making it hard to connect with one another. This magical room would also never run out of whiteboard markers and the instructor's computer would never freeze or crash.

When class ends, I imagine a Free Little Library awaiting students just outside the door, and maybe a Pharmacy of Poems, offering art for whatever ails the student heart or mind.

My dream room would communicate to students that, not only are they welcome there, but that the space was made for them and their scholarship. It would be designed for our community, and it would be ready for whatever adventures in writing and thinking we could conjure up.

We don't have to wait to hear from DRS

If you drop by my house on any given day, it is equally likely that you'll be pinned to a chair while someone lovingly infodumps on you about their latest special interest (like Severance, or lasagna gardening) as it is likely that you'll have to watch one or more of us search wildly for some lost possession (car keys, a left shoe, that one top that will complete an emergency pirate costume). We are all what the internet affectionately calls neurospicy.  My daughter was diagnosed with ADHD around 4th grade, but didn’t experience the cheat code of medication until high school. My son was diagnosed with autism also around 4th grade. I clued in and got my own ADHD diagnosis in my 40s, and my husband’s spiciness is... “peer reviewed.”

Why am I sharing this? Well, this means that each of us, at one time or another, stumbled our way through the world of education without support for our neurodivergence. I know that each of us wondered what is wrong with me? and why can I just _______?! Here at GCC, our DRS team does so much behind the scenes to support our students, but the story I want to shine a light on is that of our students who, for one reason or another, are living with an undiagnosed neurodiversity. 

According to the American College Health Association (2024), around 3% of college students report that they have an autism diagnosis, around 15% of students report an ADHD diagnosis, around fewer than 3% of students report a learning disability. When those students bring documentation of their hidden disability to DRS, they are able to receive support to make their learning experience equitable with students who do not live with a disability. Sounds simple, right? Get a diagnosis, get support!

However, here's an un-fun fact: a typical diagnosis will cost a family between $1,500 and $3,000 dollars? Many of our students simply cannot pull together that kind of money to identify (or rule out!) a hidden disability. Another barrier that impacts whether a student may seek an official diagnosis is, simply, a lack of awareness about ADHD and Autism and how they can present differently from one person to another. Autism and ADHD also have very commonly run in families (eh hem, see my intro paragraph). It is common for a parent to see a child struggling in a similar way to how they struggled in school and assume that struggle is normal and fine. (“Oh, you can’t focus on math and your backpack looks like the inside of a trash compactor? Totally normal!”)   

We all have neurodiverse students in our classrooms who have not qualified for support through DRS. Without access to accommodations that create an equitable educational experience, many will earn poor grades and some may withdraw from their classes. Some undiagnosed learners wrestle with immense anxiety and depression causing them to disappear from our rosters. So what can we as classroom instructors do to meet the needs of all students, regardless of whether or not they have a formal diagnosis? 

Here are a few tips to consider:

1. In the first week of school, ask students two questions: First, what barriers do they foresee that might impact their ability to be successful in your class? (This question helps us understand a lot of things about a student—do they work? Do they work two jobs? Kids? Ailing family member? Unreliable transportation? No computer at home?) Next, what have instructors done in the past to support them? Here’s where you may see hints of undiagnosed neurodivergence. Students often say a clear agenda and fixed due dates helps them, or a grace period with a due date, one on one help helps them, the ability to handwrite their work or, alternatively, type their notes. The need for headphones in class.
2. Can you find spaces in your pedagogy to allow a little flexibility? I have a consistent but very generous late-work policy. I accept all late work for one week after the due date for 10% off. After that, the assignment closes, and I no longer offer points, but I do offer feedback if the student comes to see me during support hours.
3. Get to know each student as an individual  as much as possible.Getting to know each student’s life circumstances, their strengths and their struggles allows me to offer each student the support they need.
4. Share tips and tricks for focus (like the Pomodoro method, Lo-fi YouTube channels, Binaural Beats, focus apps, time boxing) and continually remind students of our campus resources including tutoring and basic needs support.
5. Finally, a reliable class structure helps all students. In my ENG 101 classes, assignments are always due on Tuesdays and Thursdays and writing assignments are due on Sundays. Each week, they have assignments that fall under the categories of “read”, “learn,” then “apply.” I give a clear agenda at the beginning of each class and end every class with a closure activity and the opportunity to ask questions out loud or on their ticket out the door. This consistent structure reduces anxiety for neurodiverse learners and traditional learners alike.

I view myself as a coach rather than a 'sage on the stage.' My job is not to get every student to perform at a certain level, but to unlock potential in each student and help each student grow as a scholar. This approach helps me do my best not to lose a student because of an undiagnosed disability. 

Simply put, we don’t have to wait for the email from DRS to help a student who is struggling.