The Truth About College Teachers
Gail Oremland
A recent TV news story told about a group of college professors from a nearby university who were hired by a local school system to help upgrade the teaching in the community's public schools. The professors were to visit classrooms, analyze teachers' skills, and then conduct workshops to help the teachers become more effective at their jobs. But, after the first round of workshops, the superintendent of schools decided to cancel the whole project. He fired the learned professors and sent them back to their ivory tower. Why did the project fall apart? There was a simple reason. The college professors, who were supposedly going to show the public school teachers how to be more effective, were themselves poor teachers. Many college students could have predicted such a disastrous outcome. They know, firsthand, that college teachers are strange. They know that professors often exhibit bizarre behaviors, relating to students in ways that make it difficult for students to stay awake, or -- if awake -- to learn.
One type of professor assumes, legitimately enough, that her function is to pass on to students that vast store of knowledge she has acquired. But because the ''Knowledgeable One'' regards herself as an expert and her students as the ignorant masses, she adopts an elitist approach that sabotages learning. The Knowledgeable One enters a lecture hall with a self-important air, walks to the podium, places her yellowed-with-age notes on the stand, and begins her lecture at the exact second the class is officially scheduled to begin. There can be a blizzard or hurricane raging outside the lecture hall; students can be running through freezing rain and howling winds to get to class on time. Will the Knowledgeable One wait for them to arrive before beginning her lecture? Probably not. The Knowledgeable One's time is precious. She's there, set to begin, and that's what matters.
Once the monologue begins, the Knowledgeable One drones on and on. The Knowledgeable One is a fact person. She may be the history prof who knows the death toll of every Civil War battle, the biology prof who can diagram all the common biological molecules, the accounting prof who enumerates every clause of the federal tax form. Oblivious to students' tired eyes and stifled yawns, the Knowledgeable One delivers her monologue, dispensing one dry fact after another. The only advantage to being on the receiving end of this boring monologue is that students do not have to worry about being called on to question a point or provide an opinion; the Knowledgeable One is not willing to give up one minute of her time by giving students a voice. Assume for one moment that a student actually manages to stay awake during the monologue and is brave enough to ask a question. In such a case, the Knowledgeable One will address the questioning student as ''Mr.'' or ''Miss.'' This formality does not, as some students mistakenly suppose, indicate respect for the student as a fledgling member of the academic community. Not at all. This impersonality represents the Knowledgeable One's desire to keep as wide a distance as possible between her and her students.
The Knowledgeable One's monologue always comes to a close at the precise second the class is scheduled to end. No sooner has she delivered her last forgettable word than the Knowledgeable One packs up her notes and shoots out the door, heading back to the privacy of her office, where she can pursue her specialized academic interest -- free of any possible interruption from students. The Knowledgeable One's hasty departure from the lecture hall makes it clear she has no desire to talk with students. In her eyes, she has met her obligations; she has taken time away from her research to transmit to students what she knows. Any closer contact might mean she would risk contagion from students, that great unwashed mass. Such a danger is to be avoided at all costs.
Unlike the Knowledgeable One, the ''Leader of Intellectual Discussion'' seems to respect students. Emphasizing class discussion, the Leader encourages students to confront ideas (''What is Twain's view of morality?'' ''Was our intervention in Vietnam justified?'' ''Should big business be given tax breaks?'') and discover their own truths. Then, about three weeks into the semester, it becomes clear that the Leader wants students to discover his version of the truth. Behind the Leader's democratic guise there hides a dictator. When a student voices an opinion that the Leader accepts, the student is rewarded by hearty nods of approval and ''Good point, good point.'' But if a student is rash enough to advance a conflicting viewpoint, the Leader responds with great politeness: ''Well, yes, that's an interesting perspective. But don't you think that...?'' Grade-conscious students soon learn not to chime in with their viewpoint. They know that when the Leader, with seeming honesty, says, ''I'd be interested in hearing what you think. Let's open this up for discussion,'' they had better figure out what the Leader wants to hear before advancing their own theories. ''Me-tooism'' rather than independent thinking, they discover, guarantees good grades in the Leader's class.
Then there is the professor who comes across as the students' ''Buddy.'' This kind of professor does not see himself as an imparter of knowledge or a leader of discussion but as a pal, just one in a community of equals. The Buddy may start his course this way. ''All of us know that this college stuff -- grades, degrees, exams, required reading -- is a game. So let's not play it, okay?'' Dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and old sneakers, the Buddy projects a relaxed, casual attitude. He arranges the class seats in a circle (he would never take a position in front of the room) and insists that students call him by his first name. He used no syllabus and gives few tests, believing that such constraints keep students from directing their own learning. A free spirit, the Buddy often teaches courses like ''Psychology of Interpersonal Relations'' or ''The Social Dynamics of the Family.'' If students choose to use class time to discuss the course material, that's fine. If they want to discuss something else, that's fine, too. It's the self-expression, the honest dialogue, that counts. In fact, the Buddy seems especially fond of digressions from academic subjects. By talking about his political views, his marital problems, his tendency to drink one too many beers, the Buddy lets students see that he is a regular guy -- just like them. At first, students look forward to classes with the Buddy. They enjoy the informality, the chitchat, the lack of pressure. But after a while, they wonder why they are paying for a course where they learn nothing. They might as well stay home and watch TV.
Obviously, some college professors are excellent. They are learned, hardworking, and imaginative; they enjoy their working and like being with students. On the whole, though, college professors are a strange lot. Despite their advanced degrees and their own exposure to many different kinds of teachers, they do not seem to understand how to relate to the students. Rather than being hired as consultants to help others upgrade their teaching skills, college professors should themselves hire consultants to tell them what they are doing wrong and how they can improve. Who should these consultants be? That's easy: the people who know them best -- their students.
