Category Archives: Teaching

Conservatives’ Criticism of History in the Classroom

There’s been quite a bit of discussion recently about the findings of the National Association of Scholars (NAS) regarding history instruction in the college classroom. Historians such as Ann M. Little (Historiann) and Jeremi Suri have rightly taken the NAS to task for its nonsensical methodology and conclusions.*

Nevertheless, the American Conservative, which supports the NAS’s endeavor, made an important point, although probably not the one it expected:

The argument is not that any particular work focusing on race, class, and gender is inappropriate. Rather, it’s that many students receive their only college-level instruction in American history from courses and sources that devote minimal attention to its central events, figures, and ideas. Grossman and Carey are much concerned with defending the richness of “historical scholarship and the collaborative ethos of historians who work in different fields and see the past in different ways.” They have little to say about what students ought to know.

This assertion of professorial autonomy would be less disturbing if students arrived at college with a thorough grounding in the basics. According to the 2010 National Assessment of Educational Progress, however, only 12 percent of high school seniors were proficient in history. That means most college students lack the knowledge even to begin developing the ”nuanced and comprehensive view of the past and the dynamics of historical change” with which Grossman and Carey credit social history. The New York Times reported that only 2 percent of high school seniors could identify the issue involved in Brown v. Board of Education. By the way, the question included a quote from the decision.

The smart criticism of introductory courses that give short shrift to diplomacy, war, and legislation, then, isn’t that they’re politically biased. Rather, it’s that they tend to elevate the research interests of scholars over the educational needs of undergraduates, particularly non-majors who may have no other exposure to the subject. Opponents of old-fashioned methods have a point: there is more to American history than why Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, how Washington asserted executive power, or when Lee was defeated at Gettysburg. But students won’t learn much from scholars who “broaden and deepen” their focus, as Grossman and Carey put it, before they are taught to identify the elephants in the room.

I completely agree–many college students do lack the necessary background for understanding the basic framework of U.S. history. Many historians would argue that those introductory survey courses can’t provide comprehensive coverage (as I discussed here). I’ve become more and more convinced of that argument and have been contemplating how to restructure my survey courses to more effectively convey how historians think and practice history.

So, what of the American Conservative‘s criticisms about students’ lack of historical content knowledge? It should take it up with the parents, local school boards, textbook publishers, and politicians who want to keep children from learning what actually happened in the past.

* For example, if the NAS were to look at my Early U.S. survey syllabus, they would find that all of my readings centered on slavery because I deliberately chose to focus them on that topic. But the entirety, or even the majority, of the course is not on slavery.


What Defines the South?

Update: After I scheduled the post yesterday, Karen Cox (@SassyProf) and several others had a lively exchange on Twitter about the topic, especially the place of sweet tea and cornbread. You can find the exchanges in our Twitter streams.

I’m teaching the Old South course this semester. This is my second time teaching the course, and I determined to make some changes this time around.

One of the changes that I made was to spend the first full class period discussing the question: Is there a South? For historiographical foundation, students were supposed to read two articles by C. Vann Woodward (who, as I informed them, was their academic great-great-grandfather): “The Irony of Southern History” (1953) and “Look Away, Look Away” (1993).

The discussion ranged widely in some expected and unexpected ways. Students were fairly certain that there is a distinct southern culture, centered on football, language, and fashion. They also seemed to agree that a geographical South existed. It consists of Arkansas, Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. Some wanted to include the Florida panhandle, southern Missouri, southwestern Virginia, parts of Kentucky and Maryland, and West Virginia.

The two most interesting parts of the class discussion centered on two issues. One was a debate about whether a “redneck” was the equivalent of a southerner and, similarly, whether being “country” was the same as being southern. The students mentioned three different types of “redneckiness” (a term I’m going to trademark): cowboy (hats, boots, belt buckles, etc.); farmer (overalls, dip can in the pocket, experience in agricultural work); and hunters (camouflage, hunting animals for sport).

The second was what students didn’t mention as contributing to a distinct South. Gender and religion were not discussed at all. Climate was only briefly discussed after I brought it up. Aside from brief mentions of racism and slavery, no one mentioned the black experience as contributing to a distinct South. Part of the reason, I think, is because I think there just an assumption that of course that’s part of what makes the South distinct. I also think (and told the students so) that Americans in general, and white southerners in particular, define the South from a white perspective without considering that there is also a black South and a biracial South (and even a multiracial/ethnic South).

I finished by showing TV and music video clips illustrating different types of southern identities and constructs. The clips included The Andy Griffith Show, Jeff Foxworthy’s “You Might Be a Redneck” routine, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, BUCKWILD, The Dukes of Hazzard, Big Boi (feat. Ludicrous and T.I.), “In the A,” and Souljah Boy, “Turn My Swag On.”

My hope is that as we go back and look at the development of the South from the precolonial period through the Reconstruction period, students will be able to see connections between the region’s past and modern southern identities.


Research Papers and E-Books

Like a lot of universities, ours has made a push to incorporate tablet technology into the curriculum. Cumberland University actually gives freshmen and nursing students a free iPad (with certain strings attached). One of the arguments for the program was to give students the option of acquiring electronic versions of textbooks at a cheaper cost.

I’ve run into an unforeseen problem with e-books this semester. Kindle e-books apparently don’t include page numbers. As you can imagine, that’s caused a problem with research papers, book reviews, and analytical essays. My solution has been to tell students that it is their responsibility to gain access to a copy with page numbers. I also plan to include a statement in future syllabi to that effect.

Do you have better suggestions for handling this problem?


MOOCs and the History Classroom

One of my favorite bloggers, Jonathan Rees, has been hammering the MOOC (massive open online course) that he enrolled in. Led by Princeton University history professor Jeremy Adelman, the MOOC is offered by Coursera, one of the leading companies pushing for free courses that are open to anyone. Rees is an outspoken critic of online education generally, and whether or not you agree with everything he says about the online delivery of education, you should read his blog to remain up-to-date on trends.

There are a lot of issues Rees raises regarding MOOCs, but I was surprised by how crassly capitalistic a company offering a “free” course could be. Referring to the textbook, which was not required, Rees wrote,

But here’s the really interesting thing that I didn’t realize until I decided to actually buy the book: Adelman is one of the co-authors. I have no special knowledge of the man’s contract, but it stands to reason that if even a small percentage of the approximately 70,000 students who’ve signed up for this course actually buy the textbook (particularly if they pay the $85 that Amazon wants for a hard copy), he and his co-authors are going to make a pretty penny from this thing.

Rees has also emphasized the structural problems of MOOCs, which include a lack of substantive feedback, academic dishonesty (in a free course, nonetheless!), and an emphasis on peer review and multiple-choice exams as appropriate ways to assess “higher order critical thinking.”

Financial and political pressures to adopt new technology may win out, but if they do, then students (and faculty) have lost something unique. As AHA president Patricia Limerick noted recently:

MOOCs mock nearly everything I have loved about the professor’s privilege of being in the company of young people as they launch into life. Is there a way, in a MOOC, to offer encouragement at precisely the right time and to watch as a young person, once awash in self-doubt, comes to a lasting recognition of her talents? Maybe I am hanging out in the wrong circles (or visiting the wrong sites), but I have not yet heard a young person declare, “The MOOC I have been logging into has changed my life and given me courage and faith in myself.”

I couldn’t agree more. Engaging students face-to-face, responding to their body language and facial expressions, and adapting a discussion or lecture on the fly is a crucial part of what I do as a professor. Sitting down with a student and talking about academic or life issues and encouraging them is a crucial part of what I do as an advisor and mentor. Helping student work through the process of research and interpretation of evidence is a crucial part of what I do as an historian. I am 100% confident that I could not follow through on those responsibilities anywhere near as effectively in a MOOC.

For more on MOOCs, read pieces by Alan Jacobs and Alisha Azevedo.


You Can Lead a Horse to Water, But . . .

Last year, I introduced a new assignment. Students in the U.S. survey were required to meet with me for five minutes during the first two weeks of class. We could talk about any topic, including the class. For a five-minute investment, students earned ten points (out of 600 pts. total in the course).

This semester, 21 out of 33 students met with me. We mostly discussed the class and their background, but we also ventured into other non-academic topics, such as family life religion, and (non-class-related) historical trivia.

I introduced this assignment in order to break down the barrier that many freshmen feel during their first days on campus. (The vast majority of survey students are freshmen.) I also am working to alter my self-presentation. For years, my student evaluations noted that I was aloof and unapproachable. While I purposely remain professional to try to maintain the line between professor and student, that attention to decorum and my own personality have worked to my detriment.

What surprises me about this assignment is how many students either never signed up or never showed up for their appointment. In the grand scheme of things, 1% of their grade probably won’t make a difference in their final grade, but it’s still ten “free” points. Maybe they are shy, and sitting in a professor’s office intimidates them. Maybe their lives are too busy to fit in five minutes of talking face-to-face.

I don’t understand why they didn’t make the effort, but I know that I enjoyed spending time with the twenty-one students who came by and sat down with me. I’m still working to match names and faces, but several of them made such a positive impression that I remember almost everything we talked about. That’s a satisfying feeling.


Clickers in the History Classroom

During our school-wide in-service meeting, my colleague Sarah Pierce made a presentation on clickers in the classroom. I had talked to her previously about observing their use in one of her courses, but our schedules conflicted, and I never made it.

I have to say, I was pretty impressed with what Sarah showed us. The Turning Point system that our campus uses seems simple to set up and implement. My only question is whether it would work in a history classroom of 35 students. I can see its usefulness for large classes and for math and science classes that need to measure whether students understand concepts on which the professor will build.

So, if you have used clicker technology in a history classroom, I would like to hear your thoughts. Did it work? What were the limits on its use?


Teaching at Your Alma Mater

Twenty years ago, I started my freshman year at Cumberland University. Sixteen years later, I returned to take a faculty position.

Teaching at your alma mater can be difficult. Former professors become your colleagues, and you have to overcome the reluctance to challenge or contradict your mentors. You also have to confront suspicions about academic “incest” from outsiders.

For me, the experience has been mostly positive. I chose Cumberland as my undergraduate institution because of the small classes and the old buildings. Like me, many of our students are drawn to former. (There are no data for the latter, as far as I know.) It’s good to be able to pass students in the hallway, on campus, or in town, and be able to recognize faces and (usually) remember names. While a small campus community can be like a small town when it comes to gossip, I think the closeness of the community outweighs that factor. You are also able to tell students that you have been exactly where they have been, sometimes literally in the same seat.

If I were brave, I would post my freshman year photo, suitcase and all. Notice that I didn’t, but I may or may not be on this page.


Edutainment vs. Education: A False Dichotomy?

John Boyer, “The Plaid Avenger”

Last September, I wrote this about teaching as performance:

I should also point out that performance is no substitute for rigor and quality. Performance in the classroom can encourage enthusiasm about a subject among students, but enthusiasm should not be the most important objective. Performance should be a tool, much like technology, to grab students’ attention in order to teach them something of lasting value.

John Boyer’s class at Virginia Tech presents an interesting take on this idea, as outlined in the Chronicle last week:

Boyer describes his course as an “Intro to the Planet” that brings “the average completely uninformed American” up to speed on world issues. His approach? Decentralize the rigid class format by recreating assessment as a gamelike system in which students earn points for completing assignments of their choosing from many options (1,050 points earns an A, and no tasks, not even exams, are required). Saturate students with Facebook and Twitter updates (some online pop quizzes are announced only on social media). Keep the conversation going with online office hours.

And snag big-name visitors by turning the enormous class into a digital hive that swarms them with requests. Other recent guests have included Emilio Estevez and Martin Sheen, whose recent movie focuses on the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Spain, and Jason Russell, creator of “Kony 2012,” a viral video about the brutal Ugandan rebel leader Joseph Kony.

As Jennifer Brannock Cox noted in her Chronicle column, also posted last week,

Students today expect us to be entertainers, and while we find the material itself riveting enough (since we have devoted much of our lives and money to its study), many younger students cannot usually muster the same enthusiasm.

I’m not proposing that we dance for our students or even attempt to meet their impossible standards for stimulation. What they want is an opportunity to connect with the professor and the material in a way that is meaningful and applicable to their lives and goals.

The comments section of the Boyer article contains plenty of criticism of the course and the instructor, all of which I won’t rehash here. Two points deserve further mention, however. Boyer’s fall semester course had an enrollment of over 2,600 students, which speaks to his popularity. “Popularity” doesn’t equal rigor, though, and therein lies part of the dilemma. Should a course like this, geared toward first-year students, serve to stimulate students to think about issues and perspectives and create what hopefully will become a lifelong love of global awareness? Or should it engage students with rigorous analysis? To use a Biblical analogy, should this type of course be milk or meat?

The second issue is that there is no possible way for Boyer to engage that many students meaningfully. While he seems to have established a cult-like following, it strikes me as one reminiscent of celebrity followers, who believe that following a celebrity on Twitter or liking their page on Facebook makes them BFFs. Boyer’s case is different, of course, in that the students are actually enrolled in his course, so there is a defined relationship. But, as one commenter pointed out, if those students wanted letters of recommendation, would Boyer be able to say anything individually useful?

There may be a place for courses like Boyer’s, but I see it as a novelty and not the future of academia. Still, I have to admire him: I have always wanted to call a student “dude” and say he was “up in the hizzle.”


Favorite Final Exam Story?

You can also share a story about your experience as a student, but I’m asking specifically for stories as a professor. Mind your FERPA manners, though.

My favorite story is from my time as a T.A. at Mississippi State. At the time, history department T.A.s taught their own courses, so we made up our own syllabi, lectures, exams, etc. On on final exam for the Modern U.S. survey, I asked students to identify the most significant individual in modern U.S. history and explain why s/he was the most significant. I got the usual answers (MLK Jr., Ronald Reagan, John F. Kennedy, etc.), but one student gave the most memorable answer: Jewel.

Yes, that Jewel. She of the crooked teeth who penned angst-filled laments popular in the mid-1990s. Two full pages on why Jewel’s music was transformative and rapturous. I photocopied it for posterity, but I seem to have lost it after a couple of cross-country moves.

I saw the student working in a Memphis-area Joe’s Crab Shack a couple of years later. I remembered the student’s name and mentioned the Jewel answer to her. She was embarrassed, but I told her she should be proud of the fact that I would never forget her because of that answer. And I haven’t.


The Uncoverage Approach to the U.S. Survey Course

Jonathan Rees at More or Less Bunk recently posted about the “uncoverage” model of teaching the U.S. history survey course.

In their 2001 article on the coverage model,  Joel M. Sipress and David J. Voelker describe the traditional approach to the U.S. survey course:

The dominant approach to teaching the history “survey” (as the introductory college history course is revealingly called) has long been a “coverage” model that emphasizes the transmission of knowledge from professor to student. In some cases, this knowledge is little more than a body of factual information presented in lectures and a textbook. More often, the knowledge covered includes a set of themes and concepts to be demonstrated in more analytically sophisticated exercises, such as papers and essay tests. In either case, the coverage model casts the professor (and his or her chosen texts) in the role of historical authority, with students assigned the task of absorbing and reproducing expert knowledge.

As I understand it, the uncoverage model takes the approach of trying to teach students historical skills by focusing on discrete topics or problems and helping them understand how historians deal with evidence, argument, bias, etc.

I’ve toyed with taking the uncoverage approach on a couple of occasions, but I’ve hesitated for several reasons:

  1. One of my concerns is that our assessment data indicate that many of our students do not know the basic facts of U.S. history required to tackle the uncoverage approach. Although assessment and experience satisfied Calder that his own students were not suffering from the lack of coverage in his survey courses, I’m not so confident that our freshmen  would be prepared for this approach. I’m also not sure how I would tackle their deficient knowledge of basic U.S. history.*
  2. Like Calder, I’m also concerned about the effect on history majors looking to teach at the pre-collegiate level, which describes most of our majors. His students continued to do well on certifying exams, which is cause for optimism should I go in this direction. Our students generally do quite well on the U.S. history portion of the PRAXIS, so changing something that seems to work is a concern.
  3. Another question I have concerns the chronological definition of the survey course. Calder’s 10-week survey course is defined as “U.S. History: WWII to Present.” That course would constitute one of our upper-division courses, most of which are structured to cover a limited chronological period.** The Jacksonian class, for example, covers from 1789-1848, while the Civil War class goes from 1848-1877. I wonder how our two U.S. survey courses, which last fifteen weeks and are chronologically defined, respectively, from discovery to 1876 and 1876 to the present, would fare under the uncoverage model.

What do you think about the uncoverage approach to the U.S. survey course?

* To be clear, not all of our students are deficient, but our data strongly suggest  that many of them are.

** Kevin Schultz also noted this point. H/t to John Fea for this link.


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