I just won a grant for grant from my university to re-develop the music theory curriculum. In our grant proposal, we emphasized two major developments: a more thorough integration between theory and performance, and a modular design that gives students flexibility and choice.
My last post was Jan 5, 2018, which was during the winter break between the Fall and Spring semesters. Now almost five months later, I’ve finished the Spring semester and thus my first year in my tenure-track job at George Mason. As my decreased posting frequency should tell you, I’ve been extremely busy this year getting oriented to my 3/3 teaching load (3 courses in each semester, Fall and Spring) and my new environs.
These next three days, I’m participating in a lovely Faculty Writing Retreat that Mason has put on. After each day concludes at 5pm, I’ll write up a short blog post with my observations reflecting on the 2017–2018 school year (today’s topic), my goals for Summer 2018, and my goals for the next year. Which brings us to my current topic: how I’ve grown in my first year on the job. They’re all interrelated, and I think they all come from the kind of inevitable boost in maturity and confidence that your first big-time job can sometimes slap into you.
Instead of teaching college classes, for the fifth year of my fellowship, my assignment is to work in a college writing center. I have long told my students to take their papers to the writing center for help, without having actually gone myself. Now, I help students with their class essays in any subject, or sometimes I help them with graduate school application materials.
Working at the writing center gives me a new window into students’ perspectives on writing. Students tend to vent or otherwise open up to writing tutors—they feel safe with us. Every day, I listen to students who are trying their very hardest to succeed in school, but they are stretched incredibly thin and pulled in many different directions. The students I tutor are, almost always, not just going to school; they are working, they have children, they are immigrants who travel back to their home countries regularly. Students are also often facing immense barriers to their success: they are suffering from illnesses; they are broke; they are being evicted. Their teacher wants them to write a paper, though, so they are at the writing center asking for help.
So when I am scrolling through Twitter to take a break between tutoring students, and I come across a tweet like this…
Dear Student: your life isn't more complicated than mine. Trust me. I'm trying to potty train twins. So get your ass to class on time.
— Anonymous Professor (@anonymousprofs) March 25, 2017
…it’s hard not to get immediately incensed, on a personal level.
One of my longest-standing research interests is in ear training pedagogy. Conventional wisdom says that the point of ear training class is not to train students’ ears in the classroom, exactly—everyone realizes that the majority of work must be done outside of class (though it’s hard to convince students that this is a good use of their limited time when ear training is a 1-credit-hour course)—rather the point is instead to give students methods for practicing. But what also takes up a large portion of class time is assessment. This assessment comes in the form of solo singing in front of their peers, and dictation tests. Both of these assessment activities are not ideal, as most pedagogues will admit. So then why do they persist?