At least a few of us have dealt with criers--or students who are anxious, frustrated, or angry--and those tutoring sessions are never easy. This article, by Gayla Mills, gives us some pragmatic advice for dealing with very emotional students.
I agree with the author that giving students a few minutes to talk about what's bothering them may be the best option for getting them back on track. On the other hand, we need to acknowledge that we aren't therapists. When students have seemed deeply troubled, I have referred them to Madonna's counseling services (Amy Halstead, ext. 5766). I once had a student who seemed potentially suicidal, and I contacted MUBIT (Madonna University Behavioral Intervention Team) about him. -- I also like the author's suggestion that we offer the student the option of rescheduling.
When each tutoring session and student tutor is unique, how do we find the best balance? We're here to focus on writing, not emotional issues. Still, it would be inhumane to respond to a distraught student with a purely let's-get-down-to-business attitude. Yes, we want to address writing, but we're also called upon to offer some measure of comfort to another person's pain.
How have you dealt with emotional student writers?
Monday, January 30, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
"Watch and Learn: Peer Evaluation and Tutoring Pedagogy"
Author Jane Van Slembrouck addresses a critical question: Do we learn more from our peers than from authority figures? We keep trying to ensure we're offering consistently high quality tutoring to our student writers, but we haven't yet tried peer observation yet. (Don't panic. If I do try this, it won't be until fall semester.)
I was struck by Slembrouck's comment, "Suspecting that at least some of this productive exchange disappears when the director comes calling, I wondered how I might reduce my role in the evaluation process and find a means of assessment that would take advantage of this nonhierarchical flow of ideas." The author seems to feel that--peer to peer--the flow of ideas is more of a rushing river than a trickling stream (not to torture the metaphor).
So, we're not talking about Writing Center Specialist-to-student tutor or Writing Center coordinator-to-student tutor. Do you believe it would be easier--perhaps less threatening--to learn from each other in this way? Would you feel less self-conscious?
I was struck by Slembrouck's comment, "Suspecting that at least some of this productive exchange disappears when the director comes calling, I wondered how I might reduce my role in the evaluation process and find a means of assessment that would take advantage of this nonhierarchical flow of ideas." The author seems to feel that--peer to peer--the flow of ideas is more of a rushing river than a trickling stream (not to torture the metaphor).
So, we're not talking about Writing Center Specialist-to-student tutor or Writing Center coordinator-to-student tutor. Do you believe it would be easier--perhaps less threatening--to learn from each other in this way? Would you feel less self-conscious?
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
"It Was Just That I Was Afraid": Promoting Success by Addressing Students' Fear of Failure
I realize this article is torturously long, even by my standards. I promise to find a shorter one next time.
We know that writing anxiety is an equal-opportunity affliction for our students, but this article suggests racial and socioeconomic factors may influence strategies students use to cope with that fear. Although the research focuses mostly on Black and Latino students, I wonder if the author's findings also apply to any first-generation college student.
Sadly, these strategies--"postponing matriculation, scaling down, avoiding assessment, and redefining success"--often impede student success. They may allay fear and anxiety in the short run, but they keep the fearful student from completing her program.
We do see some of these strategies in the Writing Center, and not just from students of color. Vulnerable students may be reluctant to share their work because they're afraid of exposing their imagined inadequacies. They may drop out of school because they don't know how to navigate a system that's easier for middle-class, college-generation students. Humiliation is crushing for any one of us, and we all adapt strategies to avoid or minimize it.
So what can we do at the Writing Center to sidestep our students' defenses? What lessons can we take from the two beginning composition professors cited in this article? If we truly want to work toward an equal playing field (excuse the cliche), how do we adapt our approach to particularly high-risk students here?
We know that writing anxiety is an equal-opportunity affliction for our students, but this article suggests racial and socioeconomic factors may influence strategies students use to cope with that fear. Although the research focuses mostly on Black and Latino students, I wonder if the author's findings also apply to any first-generation college student.
Sadly, these strategies--"postponing matriculation, scaling down, avoiding assessment, and redefining success"--often impede student success. They may allay fear and anxiety in the short run, but they keep the fearful student from completing her program.
We do see some of these strategies in the Writing Center, and not just from students of color. Vulnerable students may be reluctant to share their work because they're afraid of exposing their imagined inadequacies. They may drop out of school because they don't know how to navigate a system that's easier for middle-class, college-generation students. Humiliation is crushing for any one of us, and we all adapt strategies to avoid or minimize it.
So what can we do at the Writing Center to sidestep our students' defenses? What lessons can we take from the two beginning composition professors cited in this article? If we truly want to work toward an equal playing field (excuse the cliche), how do we adapt our approach to particularly high-risk students here?
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
"Portrait of the Tutor as an Artist: Lessons No One Can Teach"
Author Steve Sherwood made some compelling points about tutoring as art. In fact, we teach tutors to be artisans, concerned mostly with "skill, rules, imitation, and service." We offer professional development workshops, checklists, articles, and occasional conferences to cement these lessons. Tutors need these lessons, and they're all we can offer, because we don't know how to teach "surprise, circumstance, improvisation, and flow."
The parallels to teaching writing are evident: We teach writers about thesis statements, topic sentences, organization, and support. We encourage writers to take risks, but we can't exactly tell them how. In some cases, we can model artistry--but just as jazz can't be successfully copied, neither can those inspired moments of writing and tutoring.
As I read the article, I was struck with the idea of letting go. Letting go is so hard to do, but we can't do our best work, we can't lose ourselves, until we do. So often, we feel we need to be in control, and to let go of that control is dangerous. But it can also lead to our most creative experiences.
Have you ever felt like an artist when tutoring? What led to this experience? Do you think there are ways to nurture artistry, even if we can't teach it directly?
The parallels to teaching writing are evident: We teach writers about thesis statements, topic sentences, organization, and support. We encourage writers to take risks, but we can't exactly tell them how. In some cases, we can model artistry--but just as jazz can't be successfully copied, neither can those inspired moments of writing and tutoring.
As I read the article, I was struck with the idea of letting go. Letting go is so hard to do, but we can't do our best work, we can't lose ourselves, until we do. So often, we feel we need to be in control, and to let go of that control is dangerous. But it can also lead to our most creative experiences.
Have you ever felt like an artist when tutoring? What led to this experience? Do you think there are ways to nurture artistry, even if we can't teach it directly?
Thursday, September 29, 2011
"Addressing Racial Diversity in a Writing Center: Stories and Lessons from Two Beginners"
There's no doubt about it: Transformation is a messy business, whether it's the transformation of learning, of enlightenment, or of giving up long-held and often unconscious assumptions. Transformation is recursive, unpredictable, and often leaves plenty of loose ends.
Transforming attitudes about race is messy, too. Race seems to be an especially uncomfortable topic here in southeast Michigan. Authors Nancy Barron and Nancy Grimm write about the discomfort they experienced (and caused) in their efforts to achieve "productive diversity."
The first point that struck me was how much we (as representatives of the university) may never know about the inner lives of our students of color, especially if we're white. As members of minority cultures, students of color learn very early how to code-switch: acting, speaking, and writing "white" when they're among the dominant culture, and expressing their most authentic selves only when they're in an environment where they feel safe and accepted. Not only is this an injustice to students of color, but it robs the academic community of a wealth of cultural perspectives and experiences. This reality makes us all poorer.
The second point that gave me pause was the fiction of color-blindness. We're not supposed to notice. In fact, if I was pointing out my black friend Bridgette to someone, and she was standing in a group of white women, I might say, "Yes, Bridgette is the tall woman wearing a red headband and carrying the briefcase." The most obvious distinction in this group is that Bridgette is the black woman, but to mention that somehow seems impolite or insensitive, not politically correct.
Third, I was moved by the story that Nancy Barron shared at the end of this long article. It's easy to write off people like the young man she described as "red-neck," "racist," "ignorant." And yet, at the end of this story, Barron sees in this young man some glimmer of transformation--surely incomplete and a little awkward--but present nonetheless. In some way Barron doesn't understand, it was important for this young man to let her know that he was growing. Like all growth, it was probably painful and messy and confusing for him. But it seemed he was willing to do it anyway.
The article feels like the start of a conversation, not a whole conversation in itself. Frankly, I don't know how we apply these ideas to the work we do here at the Writing Center. Yes, we do expect students to write "white" because that's what their professors--and, in the future, their employers--expect from them. But how can we make the Writing Center that safe and accepting environment for all students, including students of color, where each of us can become our most authentic self?
The authors write, "The work of maintaining the fragile balance [of productive diversity] happens in one relationship at a time." For now, perhaps that's our challenge here.
Transforming attitudes about race is messy, too. Race seems to be an especially uncomfortable topic here in southeast Michigan. Authors Nancy Barron and Nancy Grimm write about the discomfort they experienced (and caused) in their efforts to achieve "productive diversity."
The first point that struck me was how much we (as representatives of the university) may never know about the inner lives of our students of color, especially if we're white. As members of minority cultures, students of color learn very early how to code-switch: acting, speaking, and writing "white" when they're among the dominant culture, and expressing their most authentic selves only when they're in an environment where they feel safe and accepted. Not only is this an injustice to students of color, but it robs the academic community of a wealth of cultural perspectives and experiences. This reality makes us all poorer.
The second point that gave me pause was the fiction of color-blindness. We're not supposed to notice. In fact, if I was pointing out my black friend Bridgette to someone, and she was standing in a group of white women, I might say, "Yes, Bridgette is the tall woman wearing a red headband and carrying the briefcase." The most obvious distinction in this group is that Bridgette is the black woman, but to mention that somehow seems impolite or insensitive, not politically correct.
Third, I was moved by the story that Nancy Barron shared at the end of this long article. It's easy to write off people like the young man she described as "red-neck," "racist," "ignorant." And yet, at the end of this story, Barron sees in this young man some glimmer of transformation--surely incomplete and a little awkward--but present nonetheless. In some way Barron doesn't understand, it was important for this young man to let her know that he was growing. Like all growth, it was probably painful and messy and confusing for him. But it seemed he was willing to do it anyway.
The article feels like the start of a conversation, not a whole conversation in itself. Frankly, I don't know how we apply these ideas to the work we do here at the Writing Center. Yes, we do expect students to write "white" because that's what their professors--and, in the future, their employers--expect from them. But how can we make the Writing Center that safe and accepting environment for all students, including students of color, where each of us can become our most authentic self?
The authors write, "The work of maintaining the fragile balance [of productive diversity] happens in one relationship at a time." For now, perhaps that's our challenge here.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
"Tutoring Style, Tutoring Ethics: The Continuing Relevance of the Directive/Nondirective Instructional Debate"
After drilling the importance of minimialist tutoring into you, here's an article that throws it all into question. -- Isn't academic discourse supposed to be messy?
The author, Stephen J. Corbett, doesn't seem to be opposing nondirective (minimalist) tutoring so much as urging us to be flexible. As Susan and Marian and our other ESL tutors know, sometimes our ESL students need clear-cut, prescriptive suggestions. And as our more experienced tutors understand, we custom-tailor our approach to every new student to some degree.
Mostly, we're coaches, but sometimes we slip into being teachers, too, as we explain what comma splices are, how to repair fused sentences, why topic sentences are important. As long
as we're not dominating the tutoring session or doing the work for the student, I think that's okay.
In the late 1970s, I worked as a secretary for a group of psychoanalysts who were also trained to respond minimally as a way to get their patients to open up. One psychoanalyst was so unresponsive that he wouldn't offer a tissue to a patient who'd started to cry. -- I think we can be effective minimalist tutors and still offer our student writers a tissue (whether real or metaphorical).
However, I still think we need to be minimalist tutors as much as is reasonable. Maybe I'm projecting: I constantly have to fight my own impulse to "fix" student papers; it would be so easy. However, we want to move away from the idea that the Writing Center is a sort of body shop for student text. We're not here to do the work that students need to be doing.
What do you think? Can you share an example of when you've had to cross the minimalist-tutoring line because that was the best thing for your student?
The author, Stephen J. Corbett, doesn't seem to be opposing nondirective (minimalist) tutoring so much as urging us to be flexible. As Susan and Marian and our other ESL tutors know, sometimes our ESL students need clear-cut, prescriptive suggestions. And as our more experienced tutors understand, we custom-tailor our approach to every new student to some degree.
Mostly, we're coaches, but sometimes we slip into being teachers, too, as we explain what comma splices are, how to repair fused sentences, why topic sentences are important. As long
as we're not dominating the tutoring session or doing the work for the student, I think that's okay.
In the late 1970s, I worked as a secretary for a group of psychoanalysts who were also trained to respond minimally as a way to get their patients to open up. One psychoanalyst was so unresponsive that he wouldn't offer a tissue to a patient who'd started to cry. -- I think we can be effective minimalist tutors and still offer our student writers a tissue (whether real or metaphorical).
However, I still think we need to be minimalist tutors as much as is reasonable. Maybe I'm projecting: I constantly have to fight my own impulse to "fix" student papers; it would be so easy. However, we want to move away from the idea that the Writing Center is a sort of body shop for student text. We're not here to do the work that students need to be doing.
What do you think? Can you share an example of when you've had to cross the minimalist-tutoring line because that was the best thing for your student?
Monday, March 28, 2011
"Writing Center Tutors Have the Luxury to Focus on Individual Student Care Giving as Opposed to Formal Classroom Settings That Are Less Care Centered"
In our case, I think Renee A. Pistone, author of this article, is preaching to the choir. I believe our staff is especially caring, and we show it in a number of ways: asking about students' home life or their weekends, commiserating with their frustration over a particular assignment, and being sensitive to their vulnerability in the case of very basic writers. I liked Pistone's analogy of a midwife. Surely a writing project that can finally stand on its own can be compared to a brand-new life. It truly is a new life--for a new idea or an insightful new perspective. (It may be even better in that it doesn't involve any diaper changes or middle-of-the-night crying jags.) My only suggestion is that we keep pulling our conversations with students back to writing. Although we're caring and friendly, we are tutors--not therapists. The boundary between the two sometimes seems blurred, but it's a boundary we need to acknowledge. By putting friendship before tutoring, we're not really serving the student. That student may need our caring, but he or she also needs our expertise in writing. How do we recognize this boundary? How close is too close regarding our relationships with students? Or should this not be an issue? What do you think?
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