Teaching Past the Futility Point

Some of my students in an on-line college course have begun to ignore directions. An assignment asking for a drawing of a two-object still life became, for a third of the class, a one-object still life. Instead of reading directions, students skimmed past to view a finished demo drawing featuring one object. (The intent of the demo was to show technique and to not be an exact representation of the assignment.) I sent an e-mail at midweek to alert them and got two-object still lives by the time the drawings came due. I also noticed that many made no attempt to follow the steps of the technique. They tried, instead, to mimic the style of the demo without understanding how it had been made. Predictably poor results ensued.

I post step-by-step demo drawings and videos each week to guide them. I host a zoom meeting the day before assignments are due to clear up lingering problems and misunderstandings. But a YouTube viewership page allows me to see how many times students watched videos, and the results aren’t impressive. The zoom meetings go largely unattended. My regular attendees, the few who care about learning how to draw, usually need reassurance more than assistance. Those needing the most help elect week after week to no-show.

I also offer comments on graded drawings to let students know how to improve their work. But some still draw flat bottoms on round objects and find ways to make distant edges on geometric objects look larger than closer edges. I’ve repeated corrections so often that the thought of doing so again brings on a wave of fatigue. I know when it washes over me that I’ve reached the futility point.

The futility point can be defined as the moment when an instructor realizes that he/she cares a whole lot more than students about their success. A decision must be made after this juncture arrives. Should an instructor opt for a Darwinian approach and teach only to the few who show promise? Should the teacher grade harshly to wake up the somnambulists stumbling from one assignment to another? Should the professor soldier grimly on till the bitter end? Should an instructor persist as if nothing’s amiss?

I usually opt for the latter. I pretend that students want to learn, that they’ll pay attention and follow directions. When they do not, I make believe that a misunderstanding has occurred, that students will correct errors as soon as they become aware. I still warn them that a 30% average at midterm leads to failure but offer options to raise their grades.

I’m not following this strategy as a committed optimist. My goal is to hold up a mirror reflecting the state of their achievement. If I respond to bad faith efforts with hostility and impatience, the looking glass develops cracks. Poor students won’t see the evidence of their failures but will blame me instead.

Some will still drop the carcass of a bad grade at my feet. It wouldn’t matter what I did. But I want to reach the eventually teachable students by giving them no grounds for excuses.

Adjunctivitis

(AMA definition: a condition in which a college instructor experiences heart palpitations, spiked blood pressure, reddening of the face, sputtering, and a deepening sense of futility. Severe cases developing from prolonged exposure to indifferent students may result in sudden head explosion syndrome.)

Case Studies

Robin Ross, mother of three, devoted English instructor, began to sputter incoherently during class. Students could not specify a cause for the sudden development of speech paralysis, but one volunteered the following: “Professor Ross was droning on about grammar or something, and Natalie’s phone buzzed. Nat took the call, and the prof said, ‘Put that away!” Nat said, ‘But it’s my mother,” and Ross’s face turned red, her eyes bugged, and then she started to talk in this garbled way. We didn’t call an ambulance right away because Natalie’s mother (she’s a nurse) told us that the professor was getting mad over nothing and she’d get over it soon.”

Rupert Brinkley, drawing instructor, suddenly began to strike a table with his forehead after an interaction with a student named Colin. Colin: “I want to ask about my midterm grade. What are these zeros on the grade sheet?” Rupert: “Those are drawings missing from your midterm portfolio. After the zeros are dates and titles of assignments. You can make them up if you turn them in by Monday.” Colin: “But I was a late enrollee. The first two zeros are on dates before I started class.” Rupert: “You’re still responsible for them.” Colin: “Well, I did them!” Rupert: “No you didn’t.” Colin: “But I did!” Rupert: “You just told me that you didn’t do them because you hadn’t been in class on those days.” Colin: “I wasn’t in class on those days and I shouldn’t have to do them!” Rupert: “So, you didn’t do them.” Colin: “No, I did them!” Rupert: “But they weren’t in your portfolio. I can’t grade drawings I can’t see.” Colin: “You must have missed them.” Rupert: “I went through the drawings twice. I didn’t miss them.” Colin: “Then you lost them.” Rupert: “I lost the drawings you didn’t do because you’re a late enrollee?” Colin: “You’re just trying to confuse me!”

Dr. Jackie Doherty, a calculus instructor, entered a Zen Buddhist monastery after suffering a break down at the end of a semester. A male student had continually questioned her knowledge during class and challenged the grades given to him on exams. He cornered her in an empty classroom and demanded a passing grade after failing the final exam. Dr. Doherty refused, and the student leered at her and said, “You’re just doing this because you like this thing we have between us.” “Thing? What thing?” Doherty exclaimed. “You know,” said the student. “Don’t be such a tease.”

Professor Ralph Givens quit teaching and entered therapy for depression after an encounter with a student during a perspective drawing class. Ralph: “These parallel lines are moving away from your position. They appear to converge to a point on the horizon if extended into the distance.” Student: “I thought that they converge as they come toward me.” Ralph: “Then things would get smaller as they approach you and bigger as they recede?” Student: “Recede?” Ralph: “Move away from you.” Student: “Why didn’t you just say that?” Ralph: “I’m just trying to explain. There’s no need to get angry.” Student: “Don’t tell me not to get angry. I’ll get angry when I want to!” Ralph: “Draw those boxes any way you like then, but I own the grade book.” Student: “You’re going to force me to draw things I don’t see? You’re threatening to give me a bad grade if I draw what’s right for me?!” Ralph: “I’m just trying to warn you that I’m going to grade your drawings according to accepted rules of perspective.” Student: “You’re killing my creativity!”