And so it begins.

I'm teaching again, trying out this gig that is, apparently, about the only job that I am qualified to perform with an advanced degree in English.
I have my class list. I've chosen my book. I created the course website and content, smoothed, and evaluated it. And I showed up to my community college classroom, baiting myself to believe that this semester just might be different.
English 95 is not a magical course. English 95 is only a prerequisite for English 100. English 95 is not graded. English 95 is difficult to believe in. But I must alter each of these realities, turning them about-face in one fell swoop before my students' eyes glaze over and they are gone, for the entire semester.
This, friends, is not an easy task! It is like convincing teenage boys to dance ballet and five-year-olds that broccoli is oh-so-yummy. The truth, and my song-and-dance that I call "English 95 is fun, fun, fun!" are at odds, and they know it most of the time.
My wild card, to let you in on a secret, is that I don't teach writing at all (well, maybe it's like 90/10). I teach these adults to know themselves, to think, and to swap their mechanism for motivation from external reward and punishment systems for the intrinsic motivators of autonomy, mastery, and purpose.
By default, the hatch where all of the natural writing talent is locked within each person opens. A student at once begins to care about her writing. Her process of thinking about a thesis and supportive evidence is no longer agonizing because the conviction and idea that reside within one's mind are familiar, not foreign and uncomfortable. She begins to see that writing is not a stale process performed to please a teacher, but that she enjoys sharing herself with others, that she is more free to recognize and express her unique insights and discoveries about the world, literature, science, or her personal journey.
While I believe in this wildcard's effectual result and have experienced its transformative power, the change takes time, nearly the entire semester. And to get there is like tugging a rhinoceros with a rope up a flight of stairs, then another, and convincing him to jump from a balcony. Imagine how much energy it takes to fight their fear and apathy. (Sigh).

It's day 2. Four students did their homework last night, of about 30. It is possible that 26 dropped the class after my introduction...(not likely). Which means that I have a task in front of me, one that I was paid to do, but that is a far cry from anything that I learned in grad school: encouraging and motivating human beings who don't believe in themselves.
I would tell you some of their stories that they shared on the first day when I asked, "Why are you here?" But, to protect their privacy, I will share that this bunch has a reason to be discouraged, and have reinforced their resistance to searching within for years and years as calluses and routines have hardened them to believe that they're not good for much, intellectually, which I know is never true. It seems like it will take a million years for them to believe me.