From Anecdotes

I wasn’t teaching college for a single full day before a student fell asleep in my classroom. He was sitting on the side of the room in one of those chairs with a desk attached to it that becomes incredibly uncomfortable by the time you turn eleven or so (hence his very ability to fall asleep seemed surprising). We were in the middle of an introduction activity (the ever thrilling two truths and a lie--it was both my first and last time using that activity) when his head dropped down and nestled precariously on top of his arm. I just stood there and stared. I had no idea what to do (honestly, I’d only been training to be a teacher for about 10 days). I eventually went over and asked him to wake up, to talk to his neighbor, to introduce himself, to pretend like he gave a damn.

And then during a narrative non-fiction class I taught a little over a year later, I had a student whose eyes had this tendency to roll up in her head and settle on the door. Now this might have been understandable if the clock was over there (I’m used to seeing the occasional, antsy student wondering what time it is), but it was behind her, out of view. No, her eyes were seeking the very object of the exit--all while she sat in the front row.

I tell these stories in the hope that they will strike a familiar chord with other teachers, especially teachers of writing. (Of course, however, I also have the irrational fear that someone reading this will assume that I am an incompetent teacher.) Regardless, this second (repeated) incident struck me all the more because I felt that I was doing so much right in that class: I worked constantly to build their authority; I focused on compelling readings and personal writing responses; and I made sure that we always had new types of activities. And also, the students had signed up for the class voluntarily (it was one of many possible choices--they all had different options). Who couldn’t love it--this was a creative writing class!

I’ve come to realize, or rather perhaps have always known, that the things we find compelling as teachers aren’t always (ever?) what our students also love. I know the power of writing; I know how much it can help a student, how playful it can be, how exciting the breakthroughs are. Yet, as a composition instructor, I am continually faced with students prepared to hate their time in the class.

So why do they hate it? The list of reasons is well-worn:

• • It doesn’t mean anything

  • It’s a required class

  • It’s boring

  • They hate writing

  • They’re “bad” at writing

  • They just want to get out in the workforce already

  • Writing takes too much time

  • Etc

“And what exactly do you want us to do?” my colleagues seem to ask. “Entertain them? School isn’t about fun.”

So what can we do?

Let me balance these previous anecdotes with one more, one that probably sounds familiar to anyone who has taught during the past few years. I recently observed a colleague's class. She was teaching in a technology room where each student had a desktop. I sat next to a male student who spent the entire class tending to his crops on Farmville. I've played this game before--it is, perhaps, one of the most repetitive and boring tasks available on the internet. Yet this student still found this task more compelling than the class.

I'm not suggesting that he was right (or that such behavior isn't just simply rude), but the game's ability to maintain his attention for over an hour has to say something about the medium. It was engaging the student in a way that the class was not. This alone, for obvious reasons, is not enough to make it a good pedagogical method. My initial response at the time was to report the student to the instructor after class (who waved off the problem, saying she didn't care what he did as long as he wasn't interfering with the other students' ability to learn). It wasn't until sometime later that I even recognized the opportunity that was sitting next to me.

Videogames are engaging