Teaching Through Conversation, Curiosity, and Concern
Also: a hockey fan's cups runneth over, gossipy books for summer reading, and Lit Fest classes!
As the school year winds down in a flurry of tests, papers, and projects, I’ve been thinking about the qualities of good teachers. My senior year at the University of Notre Dame, I took a class about one of my favorite authors, Mark Twain, from Professor Tom Werge. Professor Werge was a bearish, genial Cubs fan with ruddy cheeks, white blonde hair and a constant smile. I looked forward to class, where I’d sit at my desk on the side of the room with warm afternoon sun streaming in the windows.
Somehow, Professor Werge came to know each of us. He paid keen attention whenever we dropped a detail about one of our pets, or which baseball team we rooted for, what we wanted to do for a living, or which hometown we were from, and every day to open class, he would greet a few of us with a precise and personal question. “Hello Sarah, how is Chester? Has he been escaping the yard again?” he’d say, inquiring about her sheepdog back home. Professor Werge loved shaggy dog stories and jokes, and in this way the class would begin without any formal stiffness. He was curious and concerned about us as individual people. We’d slide easily from his greeting into talking about books.
It was my favorite sort of class, that involved reading a lot of books—we read eight of Twain’s books, plus work by Frederick Douglass, Simone Weil, Abraham Lincoln, and Harriet Beecher Stowe—and talking about them. Class felt like a conversation in which every student was welcome to participate, and our essays continued the discussion. I’m not the only person who loved Professor Werge. A Notre Dame student publication called him “a dedicated teacher who shows a remarkable concern for and kindness to his students,” and another student called him “the kindest teacher I’ve ever had, sharing stories about his family and his beloved Cubs.”
I revisit this class in my memory from time to time, like crawling into a fondly remembered sun beam. What made it so sunny? Mostly Professor Werge himself. He always seemed relaxed, and his ease made us feel at ease, but underneath his kicked-back exterior hid a great deal of preparation that he never let the strain from show. He’d thought and written about the books we were discussing for decades, and he took care to get to know each of us as individuals. I remember thinking, if I ever become a teacher, I want to be a teacher like that.
A few months ago I had the pleasure of teaching a craft seminar at Arapahoe Community College’s annual Spring Literary Festival. I taught a class called “The Classics of Story Structure” for about thirty students. Normally before I teach even a one-day class, I email the participants to find out what questions they have and learn about the writing projects they’re working on—my homage to the personalization that teachers like Professor Werge always offered me. But in this case I didn’t receive the list of students until I arrived, so I did my best meet-everyone-quick routine, getting there early and jotting down names, chatting with people to learn what writing projects they were working on.
I didn’t know it, but student journalists were present in my class. I’ve done a lot of teaching over the past 15 years or so, but I didn’t remember my wish to one day teach like Professor Werge until I read an article about my class that day that appeared in The Arapahoe Pinnacle, the student newspaper, co-written by Amber Woodcock, Nathan Wilson, and Jesse Taylor. They wrote:
“Jenny Shank’s session about Story Structure was informative and fun. Shank held her session much like a conversation, getting to know the attendees and what their interests were when it came to storytelling. She asked for what favorite story tropes and favorite scenarios were amongst the attendees. This group was very interactive as Shank was approachable and easy to talk to. She provided lecture packets that fully described her entire lesson so that everyone had the opportunity to take this information home and use it to help in their writing endeavors. The session also included time to do writing exercises that helped the attendees practice in a way that allowed everyone to get the most out of what Shank had to offer from her wisdom and experience.”
I am an itinerant teacher with no job security to speak of but I’m proud that when I have an opportunity, I teach like that, leading “a conversation” that puts the students’ interests at the center. That’s the point of the humanities—they allow us to bring our whole selves into the classroom and the act of learning. A variety of forces continue to attack the humanities in this country, in part because capitalism is not set up to value people in their entirety (and please consider donating to your local humanities organization, such as Colorado Humanities, which currently has a matching grant offer).
The humanities might not be useful for people, organizations, and systems that view every interaction as an occasion for a financial transaction or a quid pro quo, but they’re useful for life. They help you remember that you are a human, that your life is unique and your story is significant. They help you learn the value of showing curiosity and concern for yourself and others. As AI has enabled students to cheat their way through high school and college, if they choose, moving forward, people who can actually think and read and write will possess skills that are increasingly rare. Will these skills therefore become more valuable? We can hope.
Here’s to all the teachers who make us feel valued, who inspire us to do the reading and think and write our own words, and to all the students sweating through their final exams and papers right now.
The Assorted Whimsy Portion of The Tumbleweed
I was trying to think if I saw anything funny since the last time the Tumbleweed rolled into your inbox, and I remembered this:
During the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs (which the Avs lost :( ), there were several ladies sitting behind the Dallas Stars coach wearing t-shirts that said “My cup size is Stanley.” Which is a large size. Perhaps even larger than the selections offered at Enid and Astrid’s Brawr Barn.
As Enid said, “Bras are for boobies, but Brawrs are for breasts.”
The Book Recommendation Portion of The Tumbleweed
It’s almost summertime, which means it’s time to stockpile books that read like straight gossip. I recommend The Devil’s Teeth: A True Story of Obsession and Survival Among America’s Great White Sharks by Susan Casey, a riveting read full of gossip about great white sharks, shark scientists, and even ghosts on the Farallon Islands. Sharks and ghosts combined in a page turner by an accomplished journalist? You know I have not stopped telling people to read this book since I first found it fifteen years ago. So far, only my daughter has listened, but she thanked me. You will too!
Speaking of sharks and gossip, the book Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg don’t want you to read, Careless People: A Cautionary Tale of Power, Greed, and Lost Idealism, by Sarah Wynn-Williams absolutely dishy. It begins with the harrowing story of Wynn-Williams surviving a shark attack as a teenager in her native New Zealand, and continues with an exposé of the amoral ways of all the shady Facebook folks. Facebook sued to get Wynn-Williams to stop promoting it, but they can’t stop me from hollering about it, nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah! Wynn-Williams is a smart, principled storyteller and you’ll love the book.
The next book doesn’t have any sharks in it, but it’s a humdinger. Miss May Does Not Exist by Carrie Courogen, a finalist for the NBCC John Leonard Award, is a biography of a singular woman, Elaine May, whose intelligence, off-kilter ways, and comedic talent has fueled a career in comedy, film, and theater that has spanned seven decades and counting. The voice of first-time biographer Courogen is equal to the verve of her subject.
And did you see the John Leonard winner, Feeding Ghosts by Tessa Hulls, just won the Pulitzer Prize after I told you to read it three months ago? You know the books I’m bossing you to read are good ones!
The Happenings & Links Portion of The Tumbleweed
In a few weeks, Lighthouse Writers Workshop’s big annual event, Lit Fest, kicks off in Denver! Come for readings, panels, craft classes, weekend intensives and more. I’m teaching six 2-hour seminars and I’d love to see you there! (It’s $75 for members and $85 for non-members.)
Building the Writer’s Notebook, Monday, June 9, 4-6 p.m.
The Art of Literary Submission (how to submit your work to literary magazines), Tuesday, June 10, 1:30-3:30 p.m.
Beyond First and Third: Playing with Perspectives, Tuesday, June 10, 4-6 p.m.
Story as Scrapbook: Structuring Prose with Documents, Journal Entries, Letters and Articles, Wednesday, June 11, 1:30-3:30 p.m.
Freelance Writing: Getting Started and Building Your Career, Wednesday, June 11, 4-6 p.m.
How to Publish a Book (tips and ideas for all the different avenues), Friday, June 13, 1:30-3:30 p.m.
And if you’re not sick of me yet, in the fall I’m teaching a 4-week hybrid class (Zoom and in-person) called Memoir Structure ABCs. It runs September 15 through October 6, on Mondays, 6:30-8:30 p.m. (MDT).
I’m so excited for my friends’ new books! Short story maven Lori Ostlund’s new collection Are You Happy? has been getting raves and starred reviews, and she’ll be in Denver at Petals and Pages on June 16 in conversation with the great E.J. Levy! (6 p.m.)
My buddy Erika Krouse’s story “Eat My Moose,” featured in her new collection Save Me, Stranger just won the Edgar Award for best short fiction! And it’s going to be in the next Best American Mystery and Suspense anthology!
My friend David Hicks just published his new novel The Gospel According to Danny, and he’ll be at Reading Den at Fort Greene in Denver on May 28.
As always, The Tumbleweed welcomes your questions and comments about writing, reading, taco eating, the Denver Nuggets, rabbit wrangling, Deion Sanders, Ralphie the Bison, and baby seals.
Your old prof sounds like a wonderful teacher and person!
You’ve joined the club of humanities professors who run classes like conversations the participants take with them for the rest of their lives. Pretty auspicious group.