When The Words Are Spoken

Chapter 2-1

CHAPTER 2

The next morning, Michael found himself staring blankly at a new crop of sophomores—fifteen in all—who each held a syllabus. Eyes flitted from the paper to his face and back. As always, he wondered what they were thinking.

“The world of college English is far from settled,” he told them. “Many professors steer students into literature courses. You are all English majors or minors, so I suspect a heavy dose of lit courses in your future. However, in order to be successful, you not only have to be able to read literature and understand it, you also have to be able to make arguments about it and articulate them in the written word. Of course, the expectations of you will be much higher than students in many other fields because reading and writing are your future career, not just a corollary to it. Freshman composition isn't enough.” He regarded the faces before him.

They stared in rapt attention.

“I'm sure you've heard about this class. It won't be easy. I'll expect you not only to complete the assignments I've laid out in your syllabus on time, but also to think about each step of the process. You should not expect to write a paper or article the night before it's due and pass. Adequate writing, and by that, I mean not only the structure but the depth of thought behind it, will earn you a C. To get a B you'll have to dig deeper, beyond the obvious, and make connections to other sources. If you want an A, you'll have to select one of the many ongoing conversations in the field, situate yourself in it, and defend your position. I don't give that high a grade often. Showing up to class will not do it.”

Michael lost his momentum as a memory of Sheridan—of exactly how her lips felt pressed against his— welled up in his mind. Not now, Burke. Class, man, teach the class. Finish your lecture before you lose them.

He made eye contact around the room and realized suddenly his students, rather than glaring mutinously, were actually nodding in agreement with what he had outlined. It's as though they know what to expect and are eager to begin honing their skills.

A hand shot up.

“Yes?” Michael asked, eyeing the slender young man. “Mr.…”

“Matsuda. Jack Matsuda. I've been reading over some journals and I'm interested in transfer theory. Do you think that would be a good topic for the end-of-term research paper?”

Michael's eyebrows drew together. A sophomore exploring composition pedagogy theory? “Yes, that would be an excellent topic.”

Another hand flew into the air. Michael turned to a baby-faced girl with long brown hair drawn into two childish braids. “I'm interested in the alignment between linguistics and feminism. Can I research that?”

This time the shock took Michael's breath away. Are these students or some kind of mutant aliens? “Yes, that would be fine, but it's a bit broad. You'll need to narrow your focus a bit. Remember, a mile deep, an inch wide. Those broad five-paragraph essays you wrote in high school no longer work for our purposes.”

All over the room, heads bobbed in eager agreement.

“Dr. Burke?” Another young woman broke into his thoughts. “Can you tell me more about your expectations for the journal article we'll need to write?”

Blinking, Michael leafed through the syllabus to a chorus of rustling paper.