I'm officially one of the world's worst bloggers, since I haven't posted since the summer. Yes, I suck.
But now I'm compelled to share what I see as a bit of an ethical dilemma. Maybe it's an ethical dilemma. I'm not sure. Maybe you can tell me.
I teach at a university. I don't friend students on FB, but if they friend me, I accept. This semester quite a few students friended me at the beginning of the year. Now, my university has a strict attendance policy which I adhere to. A certain number of absences and I can drop students for non-attendance--even if they were legitimately sick. There are no official excuses except for university-related events.
A few students exceeded their allotment (which is generous--six days for a MWF class) and I dropped them. They claimed a variety of illnesses, but because they friended me, I could see they were well enough to hang out, post pics, and go to dinner with friends.
I didn't mention to the students that I could see their activities, because, duh, they friended me. But I wanted to say something like: You were well enough to go to the park on Thursday and pose with the sun in your eyes and a fall flower in your hand, so why not class?
And this is where FB gets tricky. It's an intersection of their private lives and their role as students (or employees or daughters or spouses). I would feel like a jerk if I brought it up, as if I'd been stalking them or crossed a privacy line. But we all know FB isn't private and I don't have to stalk them to see their posts. They just show up on my wall. That's kinda the point.
Would I have been more inclined to cut them some slack if I hadn't seen their activities? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Would you?
The best advice for students is quite simple: Don't friend your profs until after the class is over.
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Freedom is like a book without many metaphors.
In the past few weeks, I've read Swamplandia!, The Illumination, and a new Joyce Carol Oates short story collection whose name I've forgotten and I've already returned it to the library so I can't check. Currently I'm halfway through Freedom, which I won't even link to.
I've enjoyed all of them, but the one that has been freeing (ha! no pun intended) to me, as a writer, is Freedom.
The book has a refreshing lack of similes and metaphors, an obsessive attention to characters' interior lives, and it occasionally tells not shows. What? Tells not shows? Yes, yes indeed. And it works, too.
Both Swamplandia! and The Illumination are beautiful books with careful writing. Subject-wise, they're closer to what I typically read and what I aspire to write--stories that are magical, lyrical, and not rooted in psychological realism. In The Illumination, pain becomes manifest as an ethereal white light; Swamplandia! follows a family of alligator wrestlers who are too eccentric to be real, plus there are ghosts (who turn out to not be real, I think).
Freedom is none of these things. It is old school Russian-style soap opera. And I love it.
While Swamplandia! was a wonderfully imagined tale, at times the story was weighted down with its metaphorical language. I was too often aware that I was reading something that the author labored over. Karen Russell sure spent a lot of time thinking about words.
And here's a confession: sometimes as I write, I am guilty of the same thing, spending way too much time thinking of the apt, poetic simile and not chugging forward with the story. And the story is king.
But with Freedom, the writing style disappears, as if the novel just sprung forth (like in the beginning was the word and the word was...Franzen?), so that what the reader focuses on is the action (which is sometimes inaction). We become invested in the jealousy and struggles and desires of the extremely human characters.
Now, I like words. Love them. I read my share of poetry. Heck, I even read and teach L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets. I understand and support the idea of playing with and manipulating language.
Freedom is teaching me that sometimes language gets in the way. Sometimes a word is just a word, and a character can just cry, not cry tears that sparkle like sweaty diamonds left strewn across a table which is draped in a black tablecloth like a shroud thrown over the casket of someone you once loved.
What's important is that the character cried, darn it. (Jesus wept.)
I've enjoyed all of them, but the one that has been freeing (ha! no pun intended) to me, as a writer, is Freedom.
The book has a refreshing lack of similes and metaphors, an obsessive attention to characters' interior lives, and it occasionally tells not shows. What? Tells not shows? Yes, yes indeed. And it works, too.
Both Swamplandia! and The Illumination are beautiful books with careful writing. Subject-wise, they're closer to what I typically read and what I aspire to write--stories that are magical, lyrical, and not rooted in psychological realism. In The Illumination, pain becomes manifest as an ethereal white light; Swamplandia! follows a family of alligator wrestlers who are too eccentric to be real, plus there are ghosts (who turn out to not be real, I think).
Freedom is none of these things. It is old school Russian-style soap opera. And I love it.
While Swamplandia! was a wonderfully imagined tale, at times the story was weighted down with its metaphorical language. I was too often aware that I was reading something that the author labored over. Karen Russell sure spent a lot of time thinking about words.
And here's a confession: sometimes as I write, I am guilty of the same thing, spending way too much time thinking of the apt, poetic simile and not chugging forward with the story. And the story is king.
But with Freedom, the writing style disappears, as if the novel just sprung forth (like in the beginning was the word and the word was...Franzen?), so that what the reader focuses on is the action (which is sometimes inaction). We become invested in the jealousy and struggles and desires of the extremely human characters.
Now, I like words. Love them. I read my share of poetry. Heck, I even read and teach L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets. I understand and support the idea of playing with and manipulating language.
Freedom is teaching me that sometimes language gets in the way. Sometimes a word is just a word, and a character can just cry, not cry tears that sparkle like sweaty diamonds left strewn across a table which is draped in a black tablecloth like a shroud thrown over the casket of someone you once loved.
What's important is that the character cried, darn it. (Jesus wept.)
Of Pots and Men
Warren Mackenzie is my father-in-law. To most people, that means nothing. Just some dude. To those into crafts and pottery, however, Warren's the man.
And when I say the man, I mean it. Warren's a living legend. He has pots in the Smithsonian and the Met. He's big guns. Big pots.
The first time I visited him and Nancy, my husband's mother, back in 1998, I was so nervous I had crying fits in the upstairs bedroom. Then I drank too much at the dinner party--the Mondales were there, fer chrissakes, Walter and Joan Mondale!--and spent the next morning sick in bed. Okay, more than the next morning. It was an embarrassing episode I'd just as soon forget.
Point being, the whole scene was a little too heady for this working class gal from Jersey. Here were real-life artists, internationally recognized artists, whose home was filled with art. And I grew up thinking Hummels were the shit--and I'm not dissing on those adorable figurines. Just a point of contrast.
Over the years, I've stopped crying and over-drinking. Because it's not about me (gasp!). It's about them. Also Warren and Nancy are such warm and open humans, it's hard to be nervous around them. And I've learned a lot from them--about being an artist, absolutely, but also a good human being.
1. Work every day. Warren is a star at this. He's in his pottery every day because he's a potter. That's what he does. About five years ago he was diagnosed with silicosis, which is a lung disease caused by inhaling clay. It slowed him down at first. Not anymore. The dude is 86 and you can't even tell he has it.
2. But it's okay to take time off if family's in town. Work is important--no doubt. But people are too.
3. A drink or two in the evening never hurt anyone. My husband Mark and I visited over Christmas, so there were lots of parties. Did I mention Warren is 86? Did I mention he can drink me under the table? He even drank the curd-like, old and skanky Baileys. It was so thick it wasn't cream anymore. It was cheese. He and Mark also sat around one night and drank absinthe. One time I had a shot of that stuff and immediately got a headache.
4. Dessert never hurt anyone either. Especially chocolate ice cream.
5. Sit down and eat your meals together. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, if possible. Don't watch television or stand up at the sink. Put flowers on the table. Listen to your jaws pop.
6. When you're having a dinner party, get everything ready hours in advance. I learned this from Nancy. Do as much as you can--even set the table! It saves heartache. Also, no one really cares about the food. It's not a contest. They're there to be with you.
7. Trust that you have greatness inside of you. This is the big one. Warren is a utilitarian potter, meaning he makes a lot of pots, mostly for everyday use. Mark and I eat off his work daily. But with each firing Warren sets a few pieces aside for museums. The pots that sing. When asked how he creates those pots, he said he doesn't worry about it, because he doesn't set out to make a great pot, just one that's useful. He said to trust that there's something inside you, something simultaneously human and divine, that will come out in the work. When you find a pot that exhibits the ineffable, then you've made art. It's easy to pick the functional pots from the brilliant pots. The brilliant ones glow from within. And yes, I'll say it: Just like him.
The Silent Seether
I had a Silent Seether in one of my classes last semester. That's my name for someone who hates your class--and probably you--and you don't know it until course evaluations.
This Seether gave the course below average marks in everything--including my command of spoken English. That's how I know they were really unhappy. I'm a native English speaker.
What bothers me--even scares me--about Seethers is you have idea they're there. For example, I know when a course has gone off the rails. I've been teaching 13 years. In that case, I expect lower evals. Or when I get into it with a student and she and I clash all semester despite my best efforts. Or a student is reprimanded for acting out. Or I won't accept their late work. Or they get a grade they don't think they deserve.
But the Silent Seether.
They smile. They laugh at everyone's jokes. They take notes. They turn in their work on time. They could be making an A or a B. And all along, inside their guts or hearts, hate is boiling.
There's nothing I can do about the Seether unless they let me know their pain. Then, perhaps, maybe, we can address it and reach an understanding. Until then, I'm sorry you hate me and the class, Silent Seether. And, please, be careful! I worry about your health.
This Seether gave the course below average marks in everything--including my command of spoken English. That's how I know they were really unhappy. I'm a native English speaker.
What bothers me--even scares me--about Seethers is you have idea they're there. For example, I know when a course has gone off the rails. I've been teaching 13 years. In that case, I expect lower evals. Or when I get into it with a student and she and I clash all semester despite my best efforts. Or a student is reprimanded for acting out. Or I won't accept their late work. Or they get a grade they don't think they deserve.
But the Silent Seether.
They smile. They laugh at everyone's jokes. They take notes. They turn in their work on time. They could be making an A or a B. And all along, inside their guts or hearts, hate is boiling.
There's nothing I can do about the Seether unless they let me know their pain. Then, perhaps, maybe, we can address it and reach an understanding. Until then, I'm sorry you hate me and the class, Silent Seether. And, please, be careful! I worry about your health.
Girls Girls Girls AKA Books Books Books!
It's summer, I'm a teacher and a writer, so bring on the books.
I like to read a few books at a time, in different genres too. Here's what I'm reading right this very moment.
With
Another book by one of my all-time favorite authors, Donald Harington. This one is a superb blend of fantasy and reality. A redneck Ozark Humbert Humbert kidnaps a beautiful seven-year-old girl named Robin. (Love that name!) He brings her to the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with the intent of becoming her "husband." Once up the mountain, however, he can't get his "thingie" up and she kills him with the shotgun he taught her to use. Robin then lives in a magical world with a smart dog, a ghost of sorts, and her Ouija board for company.
Honestly, I don't know how Harington does it. He breaks so many many writing rules, but it still works. Love it.
The Tipping Point
I read Blink a few years ago and liked it a lot. I've been meaning to read this one and then I saw it for 2 bucks at a library sale. Gladwell's greatest strength is his lucidity--he is crystal clear and the book has some interesting ideas.
But such clarity has an evil side. The book is repetitive, as if it were written for high schoolers, as if he's afraid we'll forget what we just read! I'm about halfway through and I'll finish it, but big chunks I'll skim. How many times can he explain why the Manhattan hipsters are wearing Hush Puppies?
Thrilling Tales
I adore short stories. I love to read them before bed and while I'm waiting for dinner. I saw this one at that same library sale and it had some of my favorite contemporary authors--Aimee Bender, Michael Chabon, Dave Eggers, Kelly Link, Neil Gaiman--so I bought it. I haven't read all the tales, but so far they're not all that thrilling. I didn't even finish some of them--but I won't say whose! My favorite at this point is Dave Eggers' story about some chick climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. But I haven't read Gaiman's or Stephen King's yet. We'll see!
I like to read a few books at a time, in different genres too. Here's what I'm reading right this very moment.
With
Another book by one of my all-time favorite authors, Donald Harington. This one is a superb blend of fantasy and reality. A redneck Ozark Humbert Humbert kidnaps a beautiful seven-year-old girl named Robin. (Love that name!) He brings her to the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere with the intent of becoming her "husband." Once up the mountain, however, he can't get his "thingie" up and she kills him with the shotgun he taught her to use. Robin then lives in a magical world with a smart dog, a ghost of sorts, and her Ouija board for company.
Honestly, I don't know how Harington does it. He breaks so many many writing rules, but it still works. Love it.
The Tipping Point
I read Blink a few years ago and liked it a lot. I've been meaning to read this one and then I saw it for 2 bucks at a library sale. Gladwell's greatest strength is his lucidity--he is crystal clear and the book has some interesting ideas.
But such clarity has an evil side. The book is repetitive, as if it were written for high schoolers, as if he's afraid we'll forget what we just read! I'm about halfway through and I'll finish it, but big chunks I'll skim. How many times can he explain why the Manhattan hipsters are wearing Hush Puppies?
Thrilling Tales
I adore short stories. I love to read them before bed and while I'm waiting for dinner. I saw this one at that same library sale and it had some of my favorite contemporary authors--Aimee Bender, Michael Chabon, Dave Eggers, Kelly Link, Neil Gaiman--so I bought it. I haven't read all the tales, but so far they're not all that thrilling. I didn't even finish some of them--but I won't say whose! My favorite at this point is Dave Eggers' story about some chick climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. But I haven't read Gaiman's or Stephen King's yet. We'll see!
Arnie's Leg
Found out that a friend and former colleague died of cancer last week. I don't write a lot of poetry anymore, but I wrote this for Arnie a few years ago.
Arnie's Leg
First Arnie had a mole
removed from his face.
It was malignant, we heard,
but contained.
Then, they said,
it was in his prostrate or stomach
or colon or everywhere.
Reports varied.
Now, we hear, they're cutting off
his leg. They'll leave
enough hip for a fake leg.
A peg leg, we heard,
like a pirate.
The new rumor is that Arnie's leg
has its own plan
to grow wings like it grew cancer
and fly off to Mexico or Paris
to write poetry with its toes.
We set up a notification system
so we can look at the sky
as it sails over town
each of us with our hands
shielding our eyes and the same thought:
My, what a shapely leg!
How free it looks
untethered to a body.
Bon Voyage, Arnie's leg,
we'll miss you.
Arnie's Leg
First Arnie had a mole
removed from his face.
It was malignant, we heard,
but contained.
Then, they said,
it was in his prostrate or stomach
or colon or everywhere.
Reports varied.
Now, we hear, they're cutting off
his leg. They'll leave
enough hip for a fake leg.
A peg leg, we heard,
like a pirate.
The new rumor is that Arnie's leg
has its own plan
to grow wings like it grew cancer
and fly off to Mexico or Paris
to write poetry with its toes.
We set up a notification system
so we can look at the sky
as it sails over town
each of us with our hands
shielding our eyes and the same thought:
My, what a shapely leg!
How free it looks
untethered to a body.
Bon Voyage, Arnie's leg,
we'll miss you.
Oooh Cher, Dat's Some Good Cookin
I'm here in the Bayou for a gar conference in Thibodaux. First order of business was to visit one of my dearest friends, Sharon.
Sharon and I have been in a few bands together: InstruKtor, Humpback Guardian Angel and Imminent Victorians. They were all sort of the same band, though, with different names. She's so cool.
My husband was the keynote speaker for the conference and I went to his reading. He rocked, of course, and the scientists love him. They're glad to have a non-biologist spreading the gar gospel.
Today we went fishing. I was expecting to see damage from Katrina and maybe from the oil spill, but Bayou Beouf was spared. Apparently Thibodaux and Houma were too. I lived in Louisiana from 1997-2002, and the swamp was as magical and surreal as ever.
It looked untouched by those disasters--but I knew that it wasn't in some areas. New Orleans is still recovering from the hurricanes, Grand Isle and many other places from the oil. It's a region that's seen more than its share of heartache in the past five years--it's doubly heartbreaking that they could have been avoided. And we just learned, the gar population is in danger from the oil spill.
But let's end on a happy note: Cher, the food is to die for! Here's Mark eating fried alligator.
Rocking Writing Prompts
My friend and colleague Monda blogs a lot--at No Telling and Fresh Ribbon. Plus she teaches writing and is a mom and a grandma and is also the faculty adviser for the award-winning UCA journal Vortex.
As if that's not enough, her third blog, Easy Street Prompts just made Writer's Digest list of 101 Best Writer's Sites--at number 3, no less.
Monda is an inspiration, wickedly funny, an excellent hall-mate, and my hero. I'm also JEALOUS of her! Which is high praise indeed. Check out Easy Street for some rocking prompts.
As if that's not enough, her third blog, Easy Street Prompts just made Writer's Digest list of 101 Best Writer's Sites--at number 3, no less.
Monda is an inspiration, wickedly funny, an excellent hall-mate, and my hero. I'm also JEALOUS of her! Which is high praise indeed. Check out Easy Street for some rocking prompts.
Can MFAs write good books?
I've never blogged about another blog post before--but I've been thinking about this one all week. It's the post about MFA programs over at Editorial Anonymous (one of my favorite blogs).
Basically, EA said that having an MFA doesn't make you a good writer--but more importantly, an MFA won't make you write books for which you'll get paid.
The comments section is full of people either defending or deriding MFA programs--but EA's not talking about the MFA. She's talking about publishing--and the chances of an MFA grad writing something that a wide audience wants to read. She's talking about money.
On that score, EA's right. Lots of MFA graduates are writing for other writers and academics, other MFAs. And she's right that those books won't get published by big presses. Because they won't make money.
But there is an audience for experimental and L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E poets, for slice-of-life quiet short stories, for surreal flash fiction, for novels that are long on words and short on plot.
I just returned from the AWP conference where there were literally hundreds of small and university presses whose missions are to publish writers whose books will never be picked up by Random House and turned into HBO series.
But they don't care! Small presses don't offer five or four figure advances. Hell, the author would be lucky to get three figures, and usually, the writer takes a percentage of sales and that's it. And that's okay with them. Because they're not writing for the big score. They are teachers, mainly, and they write what interests them.
Allow me one example: one of my favorite small presses is Slack Buddha. I visited their table at AWP and came across my new favorite chapbook: Sonnagrams. Each Sonnagram is an anagram of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. The sonnets are in iambic pentameter with the ABAB rhyme scheme, but there are some wack-ass contemporary references involving Ben Stiller's feet. It's hilarious and you can read a sample here.
Anyway, the point is that Sonnagrams is never gonna win the Pulitzer. It's not for everyone. It's not gonna get published by a big New York house. But I loved it! And it's a book, by gum. An honest-to-god book.
Three cheers for the small press! Keep the flame alive.
PS: Another of EA's points was this: If your work has a limited audience, like Sonnagrams, don't even bother with an agent. Find your audience, write what you love, and they will love you back.
Basically, EA said that having an MFA doesn't make you a good writer--but more importantly, an MFA won't make you write books for which you'll get paid.
The comments section is full of people either defending or deriding MFA programs--but EA's not talking about the MFA. She's talking about publishing--and the chances of an MFA grad writing something that a wide audience wants to read. She's talking about money.
On that score, EA's right. Lots of MFA graduates are writing for other writers and academics, other MFAs. And she's right that those books won't get published by big presses. Because they won't make money.
But there is an audience for experimental and L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E poets, for slice-of-life quiet short stories, for surreal flash fiction, for novels that are long on words and short on plot.
I just returned from the AWP conference where there were literally hundreds of small and university presses whose missions are to publish writers whose books will never be picked up by Random House and turned into HBO series.
But they don't care! Small presses don't offer five or four figure advances. Hell, the author would be lucky to get three figures, and usually, the writer takes a percentage of sales and that's it. And that's okay with them. Because they're not writing for the big score. They are teachers, mainly, and they write what interests them.
Allow me one example: one of my favorite small presses is Slack Buddha. I visited their table at AWP and came across my new favorite chapbook: Sonnagrams. Each Sonnagram is an anagram of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. The sonnets are in iambic pentameter with the ABAB rhyme scheme, but there are some wack-ass contemporary references involving Ben Stiller's feet. It's hilarious and you can read a sample here.
Anyway, the point is that Sonnagrams is never gonna win the Pulitzer. It's not for everyone. It's not gonna get published by a big New York house. But I loved it! And it's a book, by gum. An honest-to-god book.
Three cheers for the small press! Keep the flame alive.
PS: Another of EA's points was this: If your work has a limited audience, like Sonnagrams, don't even bother with an agent. Find your audience, write what you love, and they will love you back.
Characters/shmaracters
I'm working on a new novel, tentatively called Mindkiller. The protagonist is an assassin with supernatural abilities. I'm trying to give a pretty extensive backstory, inspired by Middlesex.
She needed a first boyfriend and I made him a punk rocker. I did that because I was a punk in the eighties--down with Raygun!--so it's a culture I'm familiar with, plus that part of the book--her youth--is set in the eighties.
But it didn't work. I realized he can't be her age, he can't be an awkward inexperienced punk, he can't be unemployed or an artist. He's gotta be a yuppie! A pretentious yuppie from a working class background, so he's got something to prove. And he's older than she is. Kinda like Patrick Bateman but not a psycho killer. So I went back and changed it all--even changed his name. I'm only fifty pages in and the boyfriend doesn't show up until page 20, so it wasn't that bad.
But I wondered if I could have avoided the extra work by doing character sketches. I normally don't do them--or even that much planning or mapping out of plot. I have a loose idea of where I want the story to go, and then I let the characters guide me and sometimes they change the story. I do some work in notebooks, but it's usually freewriting when I'm stuck. That or I do dishes. For some reason, doing dishes helps.
Any suggestions on mapping and sketching? Does anyone out there do extensive plotting? Does it change anything or do characters do what they want anyway?
Okay. Back to work!
She needed a first boyfriend and I made him a punk rocker. I did that because I was a punk in the eighties--down with Raygun!--so it's a culture I'm familiar with, plus that part of the book--her youth--is set in the eighties.
But it didn't work. I realized he can't be her age, he can't be an awkward inexperienced punk, he can't be unemployed or an artist. He's gotta be a yuppie! A pretentious yuppie from a working class background, so he's got something to prove. And he's older than she is. Kinda like Patrick Bateman but not a psycho killer. So I went back and changed it all--even changed his name. I'm only fifty pages in and the boyfriend doesn't show up until page 20, so it wasn't that bad.
But I wondered if I could have avoided the extra work by doing character sketches. I normally don't do them--or even that much planning or mapping out of plot. I have a loose idea of where I want the story to go, and then I let the characters guide me and sometimes they change the story. I do some work in notebooks, but it's usually freewriting when I'm stuck. That or I do dishes. For some reason, doing dishes helps.
Any suggestions on mapping and sketching? Does anyone out there do extensive plotting? Does it change anything or do characters do what they want anyway?
Okay. Back to work!
I'm not a matchmaker
I have an adorable couple in one of my writing classes. They sit together and flirt with each other and are in love. Well, they were.
Yesterday I was joking with them, and I said, "What will happen to this class if you guys break up? Not that it'll happen, it'll never happen, but it would certainly change the dynamic."
Guess what. They broke up that night.
I'm bad luck. Stay away from me, couples. Or don't take my class, at least.
That Writer's a Man?
Everyone in my composition class is doing the same topic for our final argument paper: Facebook and its effect on society. We did the research together, and they can only use the articles we found in class. This way I can control MLA and plagiarism (theoretically) and focus on teaching incorporation, not research methods. (That's next semester.)
For homework, they had to summarize two articles. And here's the thing. One article, written by Gregory Jones, begins like this:
"WITH ONE CHILD in college and two teenagers at home, I learned vicariously about "being friended" and "facebooking." My kids didn't want me to join Facebook, but relented when I told them that our seminary students were forming groups on Facebook and inviting me to participate. I entered a new universe."
No fewer than five students deduced from that opening that Gregory Jones is a woman. One even started out her summary with "A mother recently joined Facebook, even though her kids asked her not to." Two other students called her a "lady" and another said a "woman."
It's no surprise that my students didn't look at the author of the essay--even though an MLA citation was at the top of the page. That's extra reading! What is surprising is their certainty that the writer was a woman, simply because the essay mentioned children. The underlying assumption is obvious: A man would never discuss his kids in an essay!
I don't mean to say that my students are sexist. On the contrary, I have a great group of bright young adults this semester whom I thoroughly enjoy interacting with. But their shared mistake reveals a lot about how far we haven't come as a society: Women are parents. Men aren't.
For homework, they had to summarize two articles. And here's the thing. One article, written by Gregory Jones, begins like this:
"WITH ONE CHILD in college and two teenagers at home, I learned vicariously about "being friended" and "facebooking." My kids didn't want me to join Facebook, but relented when I told them that our seminary students were forming groups on Facebook and inviting me to participate. I entered a new universe."
No fewer than five students deduced from that opening that Gregory Jones is a woman. One even started out her summary with "A mother recently joined Facebook, even though her kids asked her not to." Two other students called her a "lady" and another said a "woman."
It's no surprise that my students didn't look at the author of the essay--even though an MLA citation was at the top of the page. That's extra reading! What is surprising is their certainty that the writer was a woman, simply because the essay mentioned children. The underlying assumption is obvious: A man would never discuss his kids in an essay!
I don't mean to say that my students are sexist. On the contrary, I have a great group of bright young adults this semester whom I thoroughly enjoy interacting with. But their shared mistake reveals a lot about how far we haven't come as a society: Women are parents. Men aren't.
