Teaching for Hope

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I try to end every history course on a contemporary note. Either we bring a second-half survey right up to the present (or to things my students can remember well) or we finish on a long-ago topic that has strong contemporary resonance. The best history courses leave some unfinished business. They tell a long story whose outcome we don’t know. There’s power in that.

That power comes from anxiety—mine as much as theirs. “Authenticity” or self-revelation usually doesn’t play much of a role in my conception of pedagogy, but at the end of a course, I try to let my personal apprehensions show a little. We’re living together in a time of obvious instability and change, and I don’t know the future any more than my students do.

If I’ve done my job well, my students now have an enlarged sense of how very bad things can get. (One of the things that has changed since I started teaching a decade ago is that I no longer have to fight my students’ naïve optimism to do that. A lot of today’s undergraduates are scared.)

But as I tell my students, historians dwell in the tense space between two realizations. First, we spend our time documenting how evil humans can be to each other, and how vulnerable every society has been. At the same time, we spend our time documenting how people have responded to danger: often foolishly, often oppressively, but also creatively, charitably, humanely, heroically.

At our best, we don’t tell stories about bright sides and silver linings. We tell stories about defiance.

It’s a cliché, but it’s true: Courage consists not of lacking fear, but of acting in spite of your fear. It’s in that sense that I try to make sure that my parting thoughts (as well as many moments earlier in the semester) are a call to courage.

I want my students to understand that the next part of the past, the part we haven’t covered because it hasn’t happened yet, is up to them and all the people they know and all the people like them.

They are the material of the histories of the future. That’s what hope means.

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Image: Detail from George Frederic Watts, Hope, second version, 1886. Tate Britain via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

Adjunctification by the Numbers: Two Real Scenarios for a History Education

We talk a lot about an adjunct crisis in America’s universities, and we talk a lot about a hiring crisis in the academic humanities. Today, despite a certain amount of trepidation, I would like to get specific. I’m going to talk about the history instructors at two real universities. There are a lot of institutions like them. I have chosen not to name them, but all of the numbers from them are real, and all of these figures come from the current semester.

Their differences as well as their similarities are instructive.

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Cass Sunstein’s Curiously Contradictory Case for Conservative Professors

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This week, the legal scholar and sometime Obama-administration official Cass R. Sunstein published an essay arguing that American professors are mostly liberals and that this is a problem. Notwithstanding the banality of that claim, his essay seems worth a reply, if only because Sunstein is a famous example of the liberal professors in question.

But upon closer inspection, the essay is remarkable for another reason: Sunstein has co-opted boilerplate conservative talking points about academic bias in order to make what appears to be a liberal argument for changing nothing about the liberal academy at all.

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The Most Misunderstood Purpose of Higher Ed

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Ask undergraduate students about the reasons for college, and you’ll probably get a mix of answers heavy in “to get a good job” and “to learn.” Ask academics and policy makers, and the answers will include “critical thinking skills.” And if you ask what makes a college education unique, critical thinking may top the list.

The truly distinctive goal of higher education, however, rarely gets much discussion.

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Investing in a Part-Time Community

St Peter's Cathedral, Scranton, Pa.

My teaching season began today. The summer isn’t over, but for the next two weeks, I will be participating in faculty development seminars offered by the Jesuit Center at the University of Scranton.

These seminars focus on pedagogy and the vocation of a teacher. Most participants today said they came to learn how to teach better. However, there is also a larger institutional purpose. The University of Scranton encourages its instructors to think of our work in explicitly Catholic ways. We are not expected to be Catholics—although I suspect most participants in today’s seminar were at least raised that way—but we are encouraged to place our teaching within that tradition. We are asked to “support the mission,” in the typical language used on campus; these seminars are designed to help faculty members across different disciplines conceptualize what that means.

At this point, I’ll confess to mixed feelings, but not about Catholicism. I’m not Catholic myself, but I’ve spent many years living and working in various kinds of Christian communities, and I admire Catholic theology’s ways of framing education as a work of deep love for the created world. I love its characteristic insistence that education should be part of a search for meaning, not simply a process of narrow knowledge-creation or knowledge-dissemination. On a practical level, I have taught in three Catholic institutions, each with a slightly different mission, and although this also means I know some of Catholic education’s limitations, I’m profoundly grateful for each.

My mixed feelings come instead from my work’s liminal place in the institution. Because I’m an adjunct, part of me resists the idea that I should contribute anything to the institution, as a specific organization, unless I get paid for it. The university has made no long-term investment in me, so I would be foolish to make long-term investments in it. This arrangement can lead to deep cynicism, and I don’t think I’m alone among contingent faculty members in experiencing that problem.

But however little faith I have in institutions, I’m not cynical about teaching. It’s a thing of joy and a work of love, and I’m willing to do just about anything that will advance it. It’s exciting to see any university cultivate it, even if just in theory, as much as this one has. So I’m optimistic about the next two weeks, and I hope I will be able to contribute something useful to these discussions.

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Image: Postcard, “St. Peter’s Cathedral and Rectory, Scranton, Pa.,” mid-twentieth century. Tichnor Brothers Postcard Collection, Boston Public Library.

The Moral Obligation to Be Interesting

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College teachers often complain about students who seem bored. This can be about their work ethic: “Nobody does the reading,” you often hear, or “They just don’t want to study.” But sometimes frustrated professors mean something deeper. They believe their students are morally wrong not to take more of an interest in the academic subjects themselves.

I’ve complained like this too—although not so much (I hope) lately. Usually I whine about a supposed lack of “curiosity.” Some of my colleagues make much harsher assessments.

Our impulse to complain is understandable. We invest a lot of labor and emotion in the subjects we teach. We believe these subjects are important. Indeed, many of us probably endorse what John Erskine called a “moral obligation to be intelligent”—a duty to take an interest in how the world works:

[W]e do not insist that the more saintly of two surgeons shall operate on us for appendicitis. But … an action can intelligently be called good only if it contributes to a good end; [so] it is the moral obligation of an intelligent creature to find out as far as possible whether a given action leads to a good or a bad end; and … any system of ethics that excuses him from that obligation is vicious.

We flatter ourselves that taking our courses is necessary to understand the world, and thus to know right from wrong. (Occasionally, we may even be correct.) As pragmatists, we view a lack of educational interest as a moral failing.

However, if we’re going to be pragmatic about the morality of knowledge, then we need to direct the pragmatic gaze at ourselves, too. We know people can’t simply will themselves into being interested in what we teach. After all, each of us could name topics that other people find both fascinating and important but that simply don’t interest us. We know perfectly well what it’s like to be bored. Let’s extend a little empathy to our students for the sake of ethical and useful teaching.

What can we do to make our courses more interesting to students? Three routine practices seem crucial for any history course:

1. Stating the stakes.

We already understand why our courses matter. Our students typically don’t, and that makes sense. Most of the time, it’s as unreasonable to expect students to know the stakes  of a course already as to expect them to know the content. Spelling it out is our responsibility. We should try to express our implicit questions explicitly. We should sell our topics as something important—every time.

2. Being specific.

Much of a history education is about making generalizations. But no generalization will make sense or engage the imagination unless we can illustrate what it means specifically. We need to discuss examples. We should try to talk about individual people, at least occasionally. We should quote directly from them when we can.

3. Creating suspense.

Most historians, truth be told, are not world-class storytellers. But we know the value of simply dropping a hint about what’s going to happen later in a narrative. We know how much more interesting a story is when its characters face a dilemma. We know better than to give away a punchline too early when telling a joke. When we keep this basic intuitive knowledge in mind, we can make even the dullest topics more interesting.

Above all, what will keep history fascinating for students is the awareness that we could be telling a different story. The world could have turned out differently. That is precisely what makes our work as historians important in the first place.

To fulfill our moral obligations as teachers, it’s not enough to be correct. We need to strive, as much as is within our power, to be interesting as well.

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Image: Johann Peter Hasenclever, Die Dorfschule, Jobs als Schulmeister (1845), Museum Kunstpalast, Düsseldorf, via Wikimedia Commons