Two Feet In | Writing and the Institution

Student feedback today from ENGL 1302, and my responses. No names included, and only minor editing of input. I am enjoying the class so fat, the only thing I am frustrated with is the lack of explaination on some things. This may be due to my inability to read instructions, but that's about it. That concerns me. Let's work on setting aside more time for task explanation. Of course, I also expect students to speak up when they don't see something clearly. I can't read minds yet, but working on it. If the written task instructions don't make sense, then please let me know. I want them to be as clear as possible. Finally, if you have questions, tweet them to @lscengl -- I'll get to those tweets several times a day. Im not confused about the class at all. I like how the class is taught and im not really frustrated with anything. Of course, I don't want students to be frustrated enough where they start to shut down, but on the other hand, I t...

A boy is buried in Brownsville. Jaime Gonzalez was shot this week by police in his school in Brownsville. Jaime was carrying a pellet gun and pointed it at police. Police warned him -- called out at least ten times -- to drop his pellet gun. Jaime didn't. Police shot and killed him. Jaime is dead, a boy of 15. He will never become a man. He will never find the woman of his life. He will never have that first paycheck and think about how much he can do with those few dollars. He will never own his first car and care for it more than anything. He will never finish high school or march in his school's band again. He will never go to college or serve in the army. He will never have frustrating and bewildering and confused and angry boys of his own. He is dead and buried. The comments from the Houston Chronicle , which I read, are nearly universally critical of Jaime. Of course, none of these critics know Jaime, nor were there in the hallway of his school when he lifted a pelle...

A picture from the Boston Globe  -- dozens of men, arms in arm, in a cold January European river, awaiting the priest to toss in the golden cross; they will dive and scramble to find the cross and the man who finds it will be blessed with health this year.   I'm in my living room, reading a review of Didion's new book -- about as vicarious as one can be -- and note her descriptions of cucumber and watercress sandwiches at her daughter's wedding. I'm not sure what a cucumber sandwich really is. I know it would be easy enough to look it up, but since that's not really part of my life experience, isn't it something to just go on in a mysterious awe of people and events that consume cucumber and watercress sandwiches? I could never, for example, serve  cucumber and watercress sandwiches to my family, so why pretend it would be something I could pull off? Her descriptions are alien to me. And I think about alien-ness and -ation.  It's the sixth of...