The Semester's First Essay

Today my students began their diagnostic essays. It is our sixth day of class, considerably later in the semester than I used to make this assignment.

My first dean believed that the college's entrance test was ineffective. For placement in English classes, students answer fifty multiple-choice questions that test their ability to recognize and solve grammatical and mechanical errors. Because we serve a large international community, many students have had formal grammar instruction in ESOL classes, which makes them whizzes at picking out right answers on standardized exams, even when they have no idea what the sentences on the exam mean. For example, they can recognize that no word has verb characteristics, so the sentence must be a fragment, thus not the correct choice. Despite their placement scores, these students don't have enough English vocabulary or idiomatic fluency to handle college-level courses. We also have students who have completed K12 with absolutely no grammar instruction but who can write reasonably well. Because they don't know how to analyze a grammar item, they tend to score into remedial classes which they sometimes don't need. Since the community colleges offer both preparatory and college-level options, someone who writes well can move up to freshman composition if he has been mistakenly placed in a remedial class, just as someone who can't string together words with much competence can move down to "preparatory" English.

My first boss believed that proper placement was the department's responsibility. Our freshman composition course requires that every student pass a department-graded final exam. This means two instructors [not a student's own] decide if the two-hour essay demonstrates college-level writing skill. If both instructors fail the paper, then the student receives an F for the course, no matter her average going into the exam. We typically fail ten percent of the exams, so if we read 2,000 blue books at the end of this semester, 200 students—enough to fill eight classrooms to capacity—will have to repeat the course. Without certain basic skills already in place at the beginning of freshman composition, students are doomed to fail.

So in the "old" days, we all required students to write their diagnostic essays on the first day of class. Many students panicked having to produce 500 words without warning. No one ever had a dictionary; some folks didn't even have a pen. I often read essays in pencil on paper with fuzzies [and I loathe fuzzies]. I would rush to evaluate as many as 125 papers on Monday and Tuesday so that during the second class meeting on Wednesday or Thursday, I could send students who needed a different class to my dean's office. I never had time to gauge the student's "college readiness," which meant that if I moved someone up, I might later learn that she had dropped the more advanced class because she didn't have the study skills to handle the work. If I moved someone down, that person would scowl at me every time we passed in the hallway.

My first dean retired, and we hired a replacement who didn't engender the same degree of respect. Senior burnouts decided that they could significantly reduce their work load by bullying the new dean into moving substantial numbers of students out of their classes. If they manipulated her skillfully enough, they could have as few as 15 students per section while their non-tenured and part-time colleagues had classes overloaded to 30 [25 is the cap per class]. As five courses is the minimum teaching load, the burnouts taught [and evaluated writing from] 75 students instead of 125.

When I realized that the department "culture" had changed, I quit frantically trying to get everyone placed correctly. Only on occasion did I move someone up or down, for I believed I was unfairly burdening a colleague with more work, especially if the instructor who got the student didn't have one to send in "trade" to my class. I began having students write their diagnostic essays during the second class meeting. This way, they knew to expect the paper and brought the right materials. If a freshman composition essay indicated little writing ability, I would advise the student that he ought to consider a class better tailored to his skill level. If the student balked, I let him stay. He had the test scores that put him in the class! If I noticed that an essay from a remedial student was exceptional, I would consider what I had observed over the last two days. Did this student have a college-level attitude in addition to writing ability? If she had been polite and attentive, if she had asked intelligent questions [Oh, yes, there are stupid ones], I would ask her if she wanted to move to a college-credit course. I would also explain, though, that the remedial class would still be worth her while since she would get formal grammar training in it. Her test scores indicated that she could use exactly that!

The problem with having students write the second class meeting was that the papers were dreadful. Many students leave high school with the most bizarre notions about what characterizes good writing. They are used to producing "safe" and flavorless work that puts a reader immediately to sleep. If I give as a diagnostic topic "an invention that has changed modern life," I'll get boring essays on how "one" benefits from the computer, automobile, or cell phone. The papers will make such obvious points—"One can type a paper for English classes," "One can travel faster than a pioneer with a horse-drawn wagon," "One can call one's parents if one's car breaks down"—that I just want to scream.

I put up with those dumb first essays until this semester. I have decided just to keep all the students I have. My newest dean believes that our department should not have to pick up the slack from other areas of the college. Our job is to educate the folks sitting in the room; the student services personnel are supposed to put them in the right classes. So my students and I spent the first five class meetings discussing what good writing does—essentially interest and/or entertain the reader—and what exactly I expected from good student writers. "An invention that has changed modern life" should inspire essays on deodorant, Viagra, crystal meth, hair weaves, or the "Satanet" [one of the best papers I ever read explained how the Internet had turned the student's uncle into a porn junkie, ruining his marriage, job, and church standing]. They began their diagnostic essays today; on Wednesday, I'll pass back all of the rough work I collected so that they can finish them. This way, they get almost two full hours, the same amount of time they'll receive for the final exam in December. Because I won't be rushing the evaluation to see if anyone needs a different class, I can squash with comments any of those high school bad habits they haven't excised completely. I'm hoping this new approach will make the experience of the first essay pleasant for all of us.