It’s the end of the term here this week; another semester, another school year, come to a close, one that I was happy to see end. That said, I was reminded this week why I love teaching. To wit:
1) The perfectionist student in my composition class who finally had enough faith in herself and her ideas that she brought a messy, working, fantastically drafty draft of her paper to our peer review workshop–something that she wouldn’t (couldn’t) have done six weeks ago.
2) A former student from my Literature, Medicine, and Culture class who thanked me for advising them to begin a new essay by sitting down and just writing for an hour. That is: to write first, and then go back and deal with what’s on the page, rather than trying to get it “right” the first time. “It’s really helped,” he told me, “in more than one of my classes this term”–and with the personal statement he’s writing for med school.
3) Another student from Lit, Med, and Culture who’s continued on her own to pursue one of the ideas we discussed in class (that of narrative medicine) because she’s freaking annoyed and yet intrigued by it, by what she sees as the dissonance between the concept and its practical implementation. She told me: “Your class was one that left the impression on me that it’s important to keep asking questions and learn more beyond the classroom.”
I sat down, I’ll admit, to write a post about a frustrating discussion I had with a senior faculty person this week about how to respond to student writing. But then my students, bless them, redirected my energies and reminded me what’s far more important: them.
Truly, one of the strange things about teaching is that, at some level, you don’t usually get to see the fruits (or not) of your labors, of your 16-week long collaboration with your students. But, then, sometimes? You do.