teaching

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.

No other species on earth delegates specific members of its community for the sole

purpose of teaching its young. For this reason alone, from a sociological perspective, it could

be well-argued that 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. Is it enough to teach for a living? To teach to

support one’s research? To teach because one enjoys teaching? These are all good reasons,

but 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

an extraordinary occupation. And I believe that it has never been more important to recognize

the importance of good teachers, and the role that teaching plays in society.

We live in an interesting period in human history: the information age. The exponential

acceleration of the volume and pace of scientific discovery has led to an increasing focus on

that kind of knowledge—the hard sciences—as the primary focus of education. This, in turn,

has led to a conflict between the ‘left-brain’ and ‘right-brain’ aspects of our society.

Educators, legislators, and business leaders debate whether universities’ emphasis should be

on promoting citizenship and scholarship (the 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 will argue that the rise of science and

technology is bad. Clearly, knowledge is power, and the ability to improve our quality of life

and advance civilization is good. But along with our successes we have created a host of

moral dilemmas including nuclear armament, environment crises, and world-wide social

discord unprecedented in human history. These sobering facts should 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 appears 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 bridge

making virtually any topic interesting and relevant to any student. And 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 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). In short, one does not teach the subject, one teaches

the pupil. Freire also argued that teaching is an inherently political and cultural act. If we

accept this, then the obligation falls upon us as teachers to uphold in our methodology the

cultural and political standards that we wish to impart. This would suggest a methodology in

which the end does not justify the means, but rather, must be precisely justified in and of the

means. We teach responsible global citizenship through the subject and by example. 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—a perspective that honors the individual and recognizes our inherent

and inescapable interconnectedness.

For me, 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.

This requires two things on my part: humility and respect. 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

to outline a few specifics about my teaching. Because I teach several very different subjects

(writing and literature), it was necessary for me to develop a broad set of flexible teaching

strategies. And because teaching fiction is very different from composition, I have not found

it beneficial to approach a creative writing workshop in the same manner as I would approach

a composition class. Nor have I found it effective to treat any introductory class the same as I

would handle an advanced class. As a teacher I must balance the nature of the subject, the

needs of the students, and the expectations of the university regarding the courses I teach

Creative writing workshops are commonly perceived as 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 teach theory by having my students analyze literature from a writer’s perspective

as opposed to a traditional critical perspective. In class we workshop a variety of published

short stories and consider how the author accomplished his or her characterization, crafted

the conflict in the story, invoked 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

comments in workshop beyond 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 them 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. At

the end of the semester, students have written a sophisticated story and possess a basic

understanding of how fiction works. Then we workshop their writing.

I have adopted this approach to composition classes by using selected readings as

“models” for students to emulate. Although it is labor-intensive, I respond in detail to

students’ writing. 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 grammar and organization. It is also important for

students to become good readers of their own work. Composition is a process of planning,

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 encourage students with frequent compliments. 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?” This question means

they are ready to assimilate what they need to make significant progress.

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. 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 introductory level. I emphasize in my classes that literature often raises

more questions than it answers. I encourage my students to voice the questions that a

particular work asks them.

As a teacher, I trust that my students are on a path of self-discovery, and that it is not

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.