For Madame X

by Jean Roberta



[A modern writing device, since 1873]

Like everyone else here on the Grip (I assume), I loved to write from the time I was first introduced to the alphabet.

Years later, when I decided to major in English at university, I thought of the study of language and literature as a kind of green pasture full of meditative types. The English Department seemed far removed from the political conflicts I had heard about in the social sciences, or the fast pace of change in the natural sciences, where every new discovery could make the knowledge of an older faculty member completely outdated.

Being a literary scholar and a writer on the side (or vice versa) also seemed more sociable, in some sense, than being a visual artist. The exhibits I saw always looked like displays of eccentric individualism.

I thought I could earn a living in a fairly uncontroversial way by teaching young adults to understand what they read and to improve their ability to express themselves in writing. Who could disapprove of that?

The establishment of the 1700s (the “Age of Reason”) and early 1800s, that’s who.

Nowadays it’s hard to imagine how radical the demand for universal literacy was in the English-speaking world before 1837, when Queen Victoria came to the throne and brought in a compulsory public school system which would teach basic skills even to the children of domestic servants and coal miners (e.g. my ancestors).

When my mother did some digging into her family history, I saw the signature (so to speak) of my great-great-grandmother, Margaret Nichols, on the baptismal record of her newborn son. Her name was printed beside her “mark,” an X, which was the only way she could sign. No one had taught her how to read or write. I noticed that her husband, the baby’s father, could at least write his own name.

I wondered how a “signature” like could even be legal. Surely a person who couldn’t write her name couldn’t read what she was signing. If someone asked her to sign a binding promise to hand over all her worldly goods to someone else, how would she know what she was agreeing to? Of course, marriage in those days was that kind of a contract. It was a legal covenant in which the wife’s identity was “covered” by that of her husband, and all the couple’s joint property was his to dispose of as he saw fit.

Early nineteenth-century marriage was really a form of identity theft in which the wife lost her family name and the few rights she had had as an individual. And keeping women of the “servant class” illiterate was part of a deliberate strategy to keep them in their place. To a lesser extent, even literacy among lower-class men seemed threatening to their employers.

What would happen to the social order if the people at the bottom could not only read but write? What if they could negotiate contracts? What if they could pen editorials and circulate them as pamphlets? What if they could write autobiographies in their own words? What if they could debate Scripture?

I’ve come to change my mind since I believed that literacy was politically neutral. Although written language is a tool that can be used to express an almost infinite number of messages, literacy is empowering. And power is political by definition.

Modern English-speaking culture is now spread through the written word at a speed that would amaze even the most radical reformers of 1800. Almost every adult in the “civilized” world can now sign his or her name. However, we can’t afford to take this skill for granted.

Those in power have never approved of what their underlings have to say if it is based on personal experience and self-interest. If literacy could be taken away from the oppressed or marginalized, I’m sure that efforts would be made to clear the alphabet from certain minds.

George Orwell was clearly aware of the importance of language when he wrote his dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four in 1948. The appendix to the novel, “The Principles of Newspeak,” is often published on its own, and is taught as a plausible theory of how a fascist state could control a whole population by limiting the language.

I’m grateful for the ability to express myself in words, both spoken and written. The concept of universal literacy as a basic precondition for democracy is surprisingly recent, in historical terms.

I’m sure I’ve inherited something from the illiterate peasant women of the past. I just wish I could offer them a gift in return, by enabling them to write letters and journals describing their world for the generations to come.
--------------------

Everybody's a Critic

by Jean Roberta

Please forgive the lateness of this post. I've been working my way through piles of student assignments.

I tell myself that other people’s opinions of me can’t pierce my armour. Not any more. Who am I fooling?

I recently got three sets of anonymous student evaluations from my Fall (September-December) classes. The questionnaire asks a lot of questions, to be answered on a scale of 1-5. (Example: How heavy is the workload in this class? How knowledgeable is the instructor? How fair are the grading standards?) Then there is space for written comments.

In all fairness to the hordes of random students who are herded into my mandatory first-year English classes, I get consistently high scores in certain areas. Most of them think I know my subject quite well, and most of them admit that I rarely cancel classes. Many of them say I’m friendly and approachable. This year, a few said they found me funny and entertaining.

Then there are the haters.

The most common complaint was that I’m completely disorganized, and I ramble on about irrelevant topics.

According to current rules, I have to plan out my whole semester in advance, and get my course outlines approved by a committee. (Ironically, I now belong to that committee because the English Department has shrunk so much due to government cutbacks that “conflict of interest” seems like an outdated principle.)

At the beginning of a semester, I explain to my classes that first-year English used to be divided into three parts, like ancient Gaul: one-third fiction or drama, one-third poetry, and one-third grammar/composition. By popular demand, non-fiction was added about ten years ago, but composition is still supposed to take up one-third of class time. So if I’m teaching three days per week, I do fiction/non-fiction on Mondays, composition on Wednesdays, and poetry on Fridays. Most students seem to understand this when I explain it aloud after handing out copies of the syllabus.

I try to find the best ways to explain literary and grammatical concepts to students who are unfamiliar with them. So I use metaphors, tell anecdotes, and draw cartoons on the blackboard, all with the goal of enabling students to understand what they read, and express ideas accurately in standard English.

Apparently, this is not what some students see or hear when they sit in the back of my classes, daydreaming, doodling, or sending text-messages on their phones.

One student complained that I spend too much time writing on the blackboard instead of teaching.

Several pointed out bitterly that I cancelled ONE class in the Fall semester, probably because I didn’t want to teach. (Actually, some workmen had to fix my furnace to satisfy the requirements of the government power company, and my spouse said she didn’t want strange men to be in and out of our house all day, possibly letting our confused pets run out to the street. No one else could be found to house-sit, so I explained my need for a day off to the department head, who told me it wouldn’t be a problem.)

Several students complained that I always started the class late. Actually, I was always there on time, according to my watch, but when the class was scheduled to begin, there was always a late student (or 3, or 6) wandering in, so I would start lecturing when I hoped there would be no more distracting arrivals.

Many students complained on the questionnaire that I didn’t spend enough time teaching grammar, which is a hard subject, and then I gave low marks for bad grammar on assignments. Other students complained that I spent too much time teaching grammar in a class that was supposed to be more fun and interesting.

Several students pointed out that I lacked the power to “engage” them, to keep them focused. One critic said he/she would have learned more if I had used Powerpoint instead of writing on slate with chalk or on vinyl with felt marker, as in Days of Yore.

In effect, an alarming number of students seemed to think I’m a boring old woman who has nothing to teach that they want to learn. And I’m a snob, if not a downright bigot, because I give low marks to students who are not fluent in written English. And I never explain what I want!!

Maybe I was especially shaken by these barbs because I had spent the last year (mid-summer 2016 to September 2017) on sabbatical, away from the daily grind of the classroom.

For years, I’ve been alarmed by the unpreparedness of first-year students who didn’t do much writing—or learn any grammar--in local secondary schools, or who were recruited in other countries, and came to Canada with a sketchy knowledge of English. For years, most of my students have asked that their shortcomings be overlooked because they need to get passing grades in mandatory classes. For years, spokespeople for the English Department (usually the department head) have begged the university administration for more resources to cope with the great unwashed horde that needs to learn comprehension and composition skills in a university where English is the default language.

Last year, the English Department voted overwhelmingly to impose a prerequisite (a certain grade point in an English-speaking secondary school, or a remedial class) on students who register for a first-year English class. The administration shot this down on grounds that it would limit students’ “freedom of choice.” Why shouldn’t they pay full tuition to take a course they can’t pass? And then pay again, as many times as it takes?

The push for more remedial composition classes needs to come from the students. I said this in an editorial that ran in the student newspaper in 2015 (which might have been read by five people), and I’ve said this directly to students in my classes. A preparatory class that would increase student literacy and fluency would be easier to pass than a first-year literature-and-composition class, and it would increase students’ chances of passing everything they would take after that. A petition, signed by many students, would probably move the administration more than the usual recommendations from the English Department.

It seems I’m screeching into the wind. The last thing most of my students want is to take another English class. They don’t see the power of the administration, and they probably wouldn’t recognize an administrator if they saw one, even though the expensive suit might be a clue.

To too many students, English instructors who use words that sound like Greek, or Klingon, then hand out failing grades like the Red Queen beheading peasants, are the monsters who prevent students from going home to Timbuktu (or the family farm near Outlook, Saskatchewan) with a university degree. We are the gatekeepers that the students need to get past, and they resent us accordingly.

It hurts, I’ll admit, but for some reason, I still feel called to this work. And I don’t have many years left before I retire, probably when I’m seventy. I have freedom of choice too.

If and when I reach my limit, I could put in my notice immediately. I could be replaced. This knowledge is both comforting and depressing.

For the meanwhile, I’ll soldier on, not expecting any miraculous changes.