I won’t recite another one of my road trip sagas – been there, done that. In the course of writing this blog, I’ve posted a number of those. But not all trips are completed by physical travel – no thumb, auto, train, or plane is needed. In seeking new avenues of growth, you may need a bonfire to get you moving or an itch to try something new. You probably won’t find yourself marching in a parade, either. That solo, by-yourself nature of things is the link to the road trip. The road trip is a journey into the unknown. So, this post is about how the road tripper came to become a professor.
For the first time, I walked to the front of the classroom. Carefully set up my pocket watch where I could track the time, sipped my tea, and addressed my class. I was teaching anthropology.
In 1963, I had been expelled from high school in New York for spending more time in the coffeehouses of Greenwich Village, and pool halls than in class. Present any of my colleagues from the 1960s with a photo of me in front of a class teaching; they’d have told you it was absurd, laughed, and walked away. Ahh, but there I was in a tweed jacket, khaki pants, blue oxford button-down shirt, and regimental striped tie.
A friend had accepted another position and recommended that I replace her at a local college as an adjunct professor. The nursing students had a social science prerequisite for their degree, and anthropology was one of the available courses. My friend maintained that I had the edge over other candidates because I had worked in an operating room and was familiar with the needs of professionals working in a healthcare setting.
It was true. After grad school, I could not find work as an anthropologist. My answer to newfound poverty was a retreat to the operating room for almost two years. Scrubbing, as an OR tech was something I had felt was safely behind me. I had never seen it as a gateway to Academia. I was a maritime anthropologist on my way back to coastal Maine.
Soon, I was to be standing in front of a class. It struck me then that I could do anthropological fieldwork and knew the material and approaches in all four quadrants of my discipline. I did not know how to teach.
My training included extensive training in ethnography, data analysis, sociolinguistics, archaeology, physical anthropology, and much more. Truthfully, many of my professors at grad school had no idea how to teach. One professor’s lectures were leatherbound with gold leaf on the binding edges. His delivery was as restricted as his notes. Never varying.
As sometimes happens to me, I found the answer in a dream. I was back at 232 Bay State Road. Boston University’s Department of Anthropology on the first floor. Buried in the back, my advisor’s office was barely more than a large walk-in closet.
Frank and I would spend an afternoon discussing everything from how to brew a good cup of coffee to anthropology. At the time, I did not understand my good fortune in having access to such a generous person as an advisor. Usually, it was “Here are the office hours; make an appointment.” In my dream, we were sitting back and having a leisurely smoke of some illegal Cuban cigars procured from a Canadian friend. I asked him bluntly: how do you teach? ” Wes, It’s all presentation, orchestration, and knowledge—the knowledge you have. Just work on the presentation and orchestration. You’ll do fine. I taught you.”
When I woke up, I realized he was right. That weekend, I noted everything I remembered about his presentation and how he orchestrated his lectures, answered questions, and stimulated participation. Then, I studied my notes, practiced gestures and mannerisms, and pulled together a suitable Ivy League wardrobe.
On Monday, I patterned my appearance on his: the walk to the desk, setting up the pocket watch, and the style of greeting the students. After a while, it flowed naturally.
I’ve taught anthropology, woodcarving, media, and television production to adults, high school students, and even middle school students. I eventually grew into my style. But it began in that cramped office, where I learned the basics of teaching: presentation, orchestration, and knowledge. Thanks, Frank Aguilera.
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Beautiful post 🌹
What a wonderful glimpse into your teaching career!
Thanks so much for responding to my prompts. Please accept my apology for not reading these past few months.
We can only do so much with limited time when life decides to get complicated. I’m very glad to see that your back!
True that. Reading responses is always pleasurable.
My first teaching was as a TA at the university of Denver. Students were used to participating in class and it was fun to get them going. Then I went to China where students were used to NOT participating in class. You can’t teach material in a new language without students at least TRYING to use the language. It was rough for a while then they had — in their own teacher training class (they were going to be middle school English teachers) — lectures on the “direct method” — learn by doing. Once they had THAT they understood what I was trying to do. It was very very very hard for them to risk making mistakes. Some of my classes managed when they understood that mistakes were part of learning. One never understood that (the penalty for making mistakes in classes in China was pretty dire).
I ended up writing a text book for them, something that hadn’t already been read and critiqued by either the Soviets or the Chinese Communist Party. That was awesome because I spent hours typing mimeograph sheets in the department office with secretaries. I made friends there and they saw that an American was not an elite, but a worker ready to “serve the people.” The Chinese typewriter (for typing in Chinese) was immense but these women could do it, turning out materials for my Chinese colleagues.
My book had poems and stories that weren’t in any available anthologies, dialogues (for the Good X’ class) based on conversations with neighbors in Denver. Even my students loved it that THEIR books were unique, just for them. When I learned that my students were happy to draw and paint responses to essay questions, I let them. I loved it so much. I gave a couple of city-wide lectures for young teachers on The Lost Generation and a couple of other topics. I got the consulate to order a film, “Beethoven in Beijing” — it was projected onto a huge sheet or maybe the fabric for a junk’s sale. Everyone brought their stool from home and watched the film from both sides. My graduate students rewrote Bartleby the Scrivener from Bartleby’s perspective. It was beyond wonderful and it was years before I got over my “homesickness” for China. If I actually did get over that homesickness. Well, my eyes are sweating…
A fantastic tale, Martha. I appreciate the points about non-participation in chinese education, and love the idea of rewriting Barlleby from a Bartleby POV.