I’ve just spent some time surfing the web. I know this is an activity that many people engage in on a regular basis, but this is not something I am given to doing, so it is a bit of an adventure for me.
In fact, the only reason I surf the web is because I’m looking for something in particular. In which case, I suppose, one might say that I don’t surf the web. I’m not coasting along, going from site to site, as from wave to wave, looking for what interests me, for what might give me a good ride or, say, carry me to shore. No. I don’t surf, if that is what surfing means.
What I do is maybe dive the web. You know, I drift on the surface (Google) and peer down at the sandy bottom, and look for what I need. Then, when I see it (the shiny white pebble, the glittering stone), I dive down to get it.
And what was I diving for tonight, you ask? Grammar texts. Vocabulary texts. Books for my upcoming class.
Because, these days, these busy days, one of the things I am supposed to be about is writing curriculum. And the course I will be teaching (and so the course for which I am writing) is a humanities course, which means, in our context, Bible and intellectual history, western civilization and English.
The most delicious part of teaching English? Literature, hands down. The most difficult? Writing– again, hands down. The necessary evils (though I admit to loving them)? Grammar and vocabulary.
The whole course has real potential, and I am very exicted about it. I can’t imagine a better blend of subjects; I have great hopes for the dialogue, the writing, the discourse that this combination will render. And since it is a humanities course, I will also be including analysis of great works of art, both visual and musical. Really, this is going to be great.
So the other night I am talking about this with my dear friend Heidi who, after years of teaching English in China, has returned to teaching in the US in her field of training: high school math. We were comparing notes on teaching: she, who is in the throes, and I, who am anticipating it, crafting it, getting ready for the plunge.
Heidi, you must know, is honestly and truly One of the Very Best People I Know. She is, in fact, One of the Best People Ever. And she would never be jealous of me. She would never voice a complaint, because she trusts God like no one I know.
But still.
We were talking about English, we were talking about math. And she said something that my other-math-teaching-friend Karen has said about teaching math, especially as it compares to teaching English: math just doesn’t open students up to discussion about things that matter like English does. It really doesn’t.
Shakespeare can (and does) make you laugh out loud. A good conversation about Fitzgerald or Hemingway can broach subjects running deeper than the text; it can make students consider themselves, their culture, their perspectives on things in a whole new light.
Math? Not so much.
Heidi was considering the possibilities. “I could ask them,” she said. “I could ask, ‘How do you feel about “x”?'”
That was funny.
“Really,” she said. She wasn’t frustrated or annoyed, not the slightest bit exasperated. “I mean, it’s a variable.”