| Melvin Sterne: Writer, Teacher, Editor, Photographer |
This is my teaching philosophy. Precious Sellars-Mulhern, of the Borough of
Manhattan Community College, suggests that students want to know three things
about their teacher: Who are you? Why do you think the subject matter is
important? and How does this subject matter relate to me and my career? I hope
this helps to answer those questions.
Manhattan Community College, suggests that students want to know three things
about their teacher: Who are you? Why do you think the subject matter is
important? and How does this subject matter relate to me and my career? I hope
this helps to answer those questions.
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No other species on earth delegates specific members of its community for the sole purpose of
teaching its young. For this reason, from a sociological perspective, it could be well-argued that to
engage in the process of teaching and learning is a significant determinant for what it means to be
human. That thought should give each of us pause to consider, not just what we do as teachers, but
how and why we do it. In my opinion, it is not enough to want to teach for a living, to teach to
support one’s research, or even to teach because one enjoys teaching (though these are all good
reasons). For me, teaching is almost a sacred calling. But having said that I take teaching seriously,
I might add that I do not take myself seriously. I consider myself an ordinary man engaged in a
special occupation.
We live in an interesting time: the information age. The exponential acceleration of the volume
and pace of scientific and technical discovery has led to an increasing focus on that kind of
knowledge—the hard sciences, if you will—as primary purpose of education. This, in turn, has led to
a kind of conflict between the ‘left-brain’ and ‘right-brain’ aspects of our society. Educators,
legislators, and business leaders debate whether universities’ primary purpose should be to
promote citizenship and scholarship, to inquire into the weightier (but esoteric) aspects of human
existence, or to function as a sort of vocational/technical school preparing highly-skilled workers
for modern society. Few are going to argue that the rise of science and technology are a bad thing.
Clearly, knowledge is power, and the power to improve our quality of life and advance civilization is
a good thing. But the past 150 years of science and technology should also give us pause to
consider that with great power comes greater responsibility, and that power without conscience is
a recipe for disaster.
An interesting word—conscience; literally, it derives from “to know together” or “to be privy to
knowledge” (OED). I prefer to think of ‘conscience’ in another light by applying a different meaning
of the prefix ‘con;’ what if ‘conscience’ meant “to go counter to science” or “as a counter-balance
to science?” Power without conscience created the Third Reich, Stalinism, and global warming. It
would seem to me that the increasing influence of science and technology begs to be balanced by
an increasing awareness of our humanity. To study of the humanities is made, not less relevant by
the rise of science and technology, but more relevant. Perhaps even urgent. For this reason, I
describe my commitment to teaching as rooted in the question—What does it mean to be fully
human? I have never found this question to be irrelevant in the classroom. In fact, I have found that
it serves as a kind of bridge that makes virtually any topic interesting to any student; and finding
that relevance—that common humanity, if you will—is one of the keys to being a successful teacher.
Looking back on my education, the most important thing I learned is how to learn. As a teacher,
then, I believe the most important things I have to offer my students are not answers, but rather,
questions which propel them down the road towards learning how to learn. Paulo Freire observed
that, “To know how to teach is to create the possibilities for the construction and production of
knowledge rather than to be engaged simply in a game of transferring knowledge” (Pedagogy of
Freedom, 49). Freire also argued that teaching is inherently a political and cultural act. If we accept
his observation as fact then the obligation falls upon us as teachers to uphold in the methodology
of our teaching the cultural and political standards that we wish to impart. This would suggest, then,
a methodology in which the end does not justify the means, but rather, must be precisely justified in
and of the means. Because I believe in the strength of a diverse, democratic society, it is
incumbent on me to guide my students towards respectfully developing, expressing, and
appreciating their unique individual viewpoints.
For me, then, the excitement of teaching is not in laying out an organized syllabus or collecting
a fine representative sample of material for the class to consider (though these are important), but
rather, in unlocking the natural curiosity that resides inside every student. One does not teach the
subject, one teaches the pupil. This requires two things on my part: humility and respect. I have to
be willing to resist the temptation to stroke my ego by being an ‘authority.’ I demonstrate my
commitment to my students not only through a lifelong commitment to open-minded and critical
inquiry in my areas of expertise, but by listening to and learning from my students as individuals.
Each of them brings to the classroom a unique set of goals and needs, strengths and weaknesses.
My job is to get to know my students so that I can help them understand in a deep and meaningful
way how they can make beneficial application of the subject material in their lives. This means
creating an environment where it is safe for them to express themselves, and then listening to
them when they do. It also means that I have to trust their intuitive, emotive, and intellectual
processes.
The above observations are of a broad and generalized nature, but I think it is important for me
to outline a few practical specifics about my teaching. Because I teach several very different
subjects (primarily writing and literature), I am going to take a moment to talk about my approach to
each. And because creative writing is a bit different from basic composition, I’m going to discuss
the differences in my approaches to fiction workshops and composition classes.
Because of the differences between these classes, it was necessary for me to develop a broad
set of teaching strategies which might best be described as flexible. I have not found it beneficial
to approach a creative writing workshop in the same manner as I would approach a literature,
composition, or publishing class, nor have I found it effective to treat any introductory class (which
might meet a general education requirement and be composed of younger students with diverse
levels of interest) in the same way as I would handle an upper-division or advanced class (in which
the students are more likely to be self-selected and have a greater degree of motivation and
aptitude). Having said this, one might ask if this philosophy wasn’t in some ways contradictory. Why,
for example, would I design one course with a great deal of structure while encouraging as much
experimentation and individual initiative as possible in another? I suspect that you understand my
reasoning—that as a teacher I must consider the nature of the subject, the needs of the students,
and the expectations of the university regarding the courses I teach.
Traditionally, creative writing workshops are easy and fun, but I found them quite useless in
terms of developing as a writer. In my experience, workshops are only beneficial when working with
advanced writers. In an introductory fiction class, I focus on theory, that is, the elements of fiction,
how they work together, and why stories succeed or fail. There are many styles, voices, and
techniques, but underneath all texts lies an organic structure which, when understood, makes it
possible for young writers to make startling progress. Many of my students—even from
introductory classes—publish their work. John Gardner was the first to articulate this approach to
writing with his 1983 (posthumous) publication of The Art of Fiction. I would like, as a future project,
to expand upon and update his ideas with a new teaching text and include, as a companion volume,
an anthology of short fiction illustrating and discussing the variety of technical and stylistic
possibilities. There is, at present, no such anthology in print.
In a practical sense, I teach theory by having my students analyze literature from a writer’s
perspective, as opposed to a traditional critical perspective. We study a variety of short stories and
consider how the author accomplished his or her characterization, crafted the conflict in the story,
made use of setting, and what stylistic choices the author made (perspective, degree of
omniscience, level of diction, timeline, and etc). I have found that until students have a working
knowledge of the theory of fiction, they are unable to offer more in a workshop than their own
generalized likes and dislikes. Rather than subject themselves to mindless flattery (or harmful
criticism), I ask that students bring their work to me, and we discuss it individually, writer-to-writer.
You might describe this as a kind of writing ‘apprenticeship.’ After I respond to their drafts, the
students revise their work for a grade. Only in the final part of the semester, when students have
both a fairly sophisticated story to present and a basic understanding of how fiction works, will they
workshop their own writing.
I have to some extent adopted this approach to composition classes. I have found it beneficial
to use selected, representative readings as “models” for students to emulate. Although it is labor-
intensive, I respond in detail to students’ writing. For myself, I found that I learned most, not from
abstractions and conversations about writing, but when looking at what I had actually put on the
page. I believe that shorter assignments with detailed responses are more effective than longer
assignments with minimal responses. Students who learn how to write a good sentence can write a
good paragraph, and students who write a good paragraph can write a good paper. It boils down to
basic mechanics: grammar and organization. It is also important for students to become good
readers of their own work. Composition is a process of organizing, drafting, reading, and revising.
Almost all students are capable of becoming good writers—if they are willing to do the work. It is
important for them to appreciate the high standard of excellence they will be held to at the
professional level.
One cautionary note: many students have difficulty separating the writer from the writing—they
confuse criticism of the work with criticism of the author. Especially in beginning writing classes I
have found it effective to encourage students with praise. Even the worst paper will have
something praiseworthy about it (if only the effort or the concept). When I praise a student they
almost immediately ask, “What can I do better?”
Finally, when I teach literature, I am primarily interested in literature from a writer’s perspective.
While I think critical theory is interesting, and I think students need to be exposed to a variety of
critical approaches, my goal with literature is to re-establish the traditional exploration of
humanistic values. Especially in an introductory class, I tell students that we are NOT studying mere
literature—we are studying life. How is this so?
The writer has produced a work of art and encapsulated within that work are their observations
of and experiences in the world. Each of us also carries beliefs and experiences. As readers, we
compare the world as presented by the author with the world as we know it. What are the
similarities? The differences? Why did the characters respond to events as they did, and how might
we have responded in the same situation? This approach helps to make literature relevant even at
the basic, introductory level. I emphasize in my classes that literature often raises more questions
than it answers, and to ask my students what questions a particular work asks them.
As a teacher, I have to trust that my students are on a path of self-discovery, and that it is not
necessarily my place to tell them what to think so much as to create a classroom that encourages
and rewards their inquiry. In a practical way, then, I go into a literature class with eight teaching
goals in mind. These are:
• Critical Reading (the ability to find meaning beneath the surface of events)
• Critical Thinking (the ability to articulate possibilities from known facts)
• Imagination (the ability to examine a situation from a variety of perspectives)
• The courage and confidence to confront complex intellectual challenges.
• Respect for others regardless of our differences.
• Compassion for the life experiences and difficulties humans undergo.
• An appreciation of right and wrong.
• Self-respect (pride in their individual scholarship and professionalism).
This approach brings my teaching full-circle to my original question—What does it
mean to be human? and to the initial problem I posed, How can we keep the humanities relevant in
a technology-driven world? Whether I’m teaching writing or literature, I find that by treating
students with respect, by challenging their intellect with questions, by using praise to instill in them
confidence in their abilities, and by helping them gain a sense of purpose to their studies, students
enjoy (and benefit from) my classes, and I enjoy (and benefit from) teaching.
teaching its young. For this reason, from a sociological perspective, it could be well-argued that to
engage in the process of teaching and learning is a significant determinant for what it means to be
human. That thought should give each of us pause to consider, not just what we do as teachers, but
how and why we do it. In my opinion, it is not enough to want to teach for a living, to teach to
support one’s research, or even to teach because one enjoys teaching (though these are all good
reasons). For me, teaching is almost a sacred calling. But having said that I take teaching seriously,
I might add that I do not take myself seriously. I consider myself an ordinary man engaged in a
special occupation.
We live in an interesting time: the information age. The exponential acceleration of the volume
and pace of scientific and technical discovery has led to an increasing focus on that kind of
knowledge—the hard sciences, if you will—as primary purpose of education. This, in turn, has led to
a kind of conflict between the ‘left-brain’ and ‘right-brain’ aspects of our society. Educators,
legislators, and business leaders debate whether universities’ primary purpose should be to
promote citizenship and scholarship, to inquire into the weightier (but esoteric) aspects of human
existence, or to function as a sort of vocational/technical school preparing highly-skilled workers
for modern society. Few are going to argue that the rise of science and technology are a bad thing.
Clearly, knowledge is power, and the power to improve our quality of life and advance civilization is
a good thing. But the past 150 years of science and technology should also give us pause to
consider that with great power comes greater responsibility, and that power without conscience is
a recipe for disaster.
An interesting word—conscience; literally, it derives from “to know together” or “to be privy to
knowledge” (OED). I prefer to think of ‘conscience’ in another light by applying a different meaning
of the prefix ‘con;’ what if ‘conscience’ meant “to go counter to science” or “as a counter-balance
to science?” Power without conscience created the Third Reich, Stalinism, and global warming. It
would seem to me that the increasing influence of science and technology begs to be balanced by
an increasing awareness of our humanity. To study of the humanities is made, not less relevant by
the rise of science and technology, but more relevant. Perhaps even urgent. For this reason, I
describe my commitment to teaching as rooted in the question—What does it mean to be fully
human? I have never found this question to be irrelevant in the classroom. In fact, I have found that
it serves as a kind of bridge that makes virtually any topic interesting to any student; and finding
that relevance—that common humanity, if you will—is one of the keys to being a successful teacher.
Looking back on my education, the most important thing I learned is how to learn. As a teacher,
then, I believe the most important things I have to offer my students are not answers, but rather,
questions which propel them down the road towards learning how to learn. Paulo Freire observed
that, “To know how to teach is to create the possibilities for the construction and production of
knowledge rather than to be engaged simply in a game of transferring knowledge” (Pedagogy of
Freedom, 49). Freire also argued that teaching is inherently a political and cultural act. If we accept
his observation as fact then the obligation falls upon us as teachers to uphold in the methodology
of our teaching the cultural and political standards that we wish to impart. This would suggest, then,
a methodology in which the end does not justify the means, but rather, must be precisely justified in
and of the means. Because I believe in the strength of a diverse, democratic society, it is
incumbent on me to guide my students towards respectfully developing, expressing, and
appreciating their unique individual viewpoints.
For me, then, the excitement of teaching is not in laying out an organized syllabus or collecting
a fine representative sample of material for the class to consider (though these are important), but
rather, in unlocking the natural curiosity that resides inside every student. One does not teach the
subject, one teaches the pupil. This requires two things on my part: humility and respect. I have to
be willing to resist the temptation to stroke my ego by being an ‘authority.’ I demonstrate my
commitment to my students not only through a lifelong commitment to open-minded and critical
inquiry in my areas of expertise, but by listening to and learning from my students as individuals.
Each of them brings to the classroom a unique set of goals and needs, strengths and weaknesses.
My job is to get to know my students so that I can help them understand in a deep and meaningful
way how they can make beneficial application of the subject material in their lives. This means
creating an environment where it is safe for them to express themselves, and then listening to
them when they do. It also means that I have to trust their intuitive, emotive, and intellectual
processes.
The above observations are of a broad and generalized nature, but I think it is important for me
to outline a few practical specifics about my teaching. Because I teach several very different
subjects (primarily writing and literature), I am going to take a moment to talk about my approach to
each. And because creative writing is a bit different from basic composition, I’m going to discuss
the differences in my approaches to fiction workshops and composition classes.
Because of the differences between these classes, it was necessary for me to develop a broad
set of teaching strategies which might best be described as flexible. I have not found it beneficial
to approach a creative writing workshop in the same manner as I would approach a literature,
composition, or publishing class, nor have I found it effective to treat any introductory class (which
might meet a general education requirement and be composed of younger students with diverse
levels of interest) in the same way as I would handle an upper-division or advanced class (in which
the students are more likely to be self-selected and have a greater degree of motivation and
aptitude). Having said this, one might ask if this philosophy wasn’t in some ways contradictory. Why,
for example, would I design one course with a great deal of structure while encouraging as much
experimentation and individual initiative as possible in another? I suspect that you understand my
reasoning—that as a teacher I must consider the nature of the subject, the needs of the students,
and the expectations of the university regarding the courses I teach.
Traditionally, creative writing workshops are easy and fun, but I found them quite useless in
terms of developing as a writer. In my experience, workshops are only beneficial when working with
advanced writers. In an introductory fiction class, I focus on theory, that is, the elements of fiction,
how they work together, and why stories succeed or fail. There are many styles, voices, and
techniques, but underneath all texts lies an organic structure which, when understood, makes it
possible for young writers to make startling progress. Many of my students—even from
introductory classes—publish their work. John Gardner was the first to articulate this approach to
writing with his 1983 (posthumous) publication of The Art of Fiction. I would like, as a future project,
to expand upon and update his ideas with a new teaching text and include, as a companion volume,
an anthology of short fiction illustrating and discussing the variety of technical and stylistic
possibilities. There is, at present, no such anthology in print.
In a practical sense, I teach theory by having my students analyze literature from a writer’s
perspective, as opposed to a traditional critical perspective. We study a variety of short stories and
consider how the author accomplished his or her characterization, crafted the conflict in the story,
made use of setting, and what stylistic choices the author made (perspective, degree of
omniscience, level of diction, timeline, and etc). I have found that until students have a working
knowledge of the theory of fiction, they are unable to offer more in a workshop than their own
generalized likes and dislikes. Rather than subject themselves to mindless flattery (or harmful
criticism), I ask that students bring their work to me, and we discuss it individually, writer-to-writer.
You might describe this as a kind of writing ‘apprenticeship.’ After I respond to their drafts, the
students revise their work for a grade. Only in the final part of the semester, when students have
both a fairly sophisticated story to present and a basic understanding of how fiction works, will they
workshop their own writing.
I have to some extent adopted this approach to composition classes. I have found it beneficial
to use selected, representative readings as “models” for students to emulate. Although it is labor-
intensive, I respond in detail to students’ writing. For myself, I found that I learned most, not from
abstractions and conversations about writing, but when looking at what I had actually put on the
page. I believe that shorter assignments with detailed responses are more effective than longer
assignments with minimal responses. Students who learn how to write a good sentence can write a
good paragraph, and students who write a good paragraph can write a good paper. It boils down to
basic mechanics: grammar and organization. It is also important for students to become good
readers of their own work. Composition is a process of organizing, drafting, reading, and revising.
Almost all students are capable of becoming good writers—if they are willing to do the work. It is
important for them to appreciate the high standard of excellence they will be held to at the
professional level.
One cautionary note: many students have difficulty separating the writer from the writing—they
confuse criticism of the work with criticism of the author. Especially in beginning writing classes I
have found it effective to encourage students with praise. Even the worst paper will have
something praiseworthy about it (if only the effort or the concept). When I praise a student they
almost immediately ask, “What can I do better?”
Finally, when I teach literature, I am primarily interested in literature from a writer’s perspective.
While I think critical theory is interesting, and I think students need to be exposed to a variety of
critical approaches, my goal with literature is to re-establish the traditional exploration of
humanistic values. Especially in an introductory class, I tell students that we are NOT studying mere
literature—we are studying life. How is this so?
The writer has produced a work of art and encapsulated within that work are their observations
of and experiences in the world. Each of us also carries beliefs and experiences. As readers, we
compare the world as presented by the author with the world as we know it. What are the
similarities? The differences? Why did the characters respond to events as they did, and how might
we have responded in the same situation? This approach helps to make literature relevant even at
the basic, introductory level. I emphasize in my classes that literature often raises more questions
than it answers, and to ask my students what questions a particular work asks them.
As a teacher, I have to trust that my students are on a path of self-discovery, and that it is not
necessarily my place to tell them what to think so much as to create a classroom that encourages
and rewards their inquiry. In a practical way, then, I go into a literature class with eight teaching
goals in mind. These are:
• Critical Reading (the ability to find meaning beneath the surface of events)
• Critical Thinking (the ability to articulate possibilities from known facts)
• Imagination (the ability to examine a situation from a variety of perspectives)
• The courage and confidence to confront complex intellectual challenges.
• Respect for others regardless of our differences.
• Compassion for the life experiences and difficulties humans undergo.
• An appreciation of right and wrong.
• Self-respect (pride in their individual scholarship and professionalism).
This approach brings my teaching full-circle to my original question—What does it
mean to be human? and to the initial problem I posed, How can we keep the humanities relevant in
a technology-driven world? Whether I’m teaching writing or literature, I find that by treating
students with respect, by challenging their intellect with questions, by using praise to instill in them
confidence in their abilities, and by helping them gain a sense of purpose to their studies, students
enjoy (and benefit from) my classes, and I enjoy (and benefit from) teaching.