Novel Readings

I have certainly not kept up diligently with posting about my teaching this year. I’ve posted just twice about it since January, and once was a re-run! I blame . . . well, pretty much everything, including how much of my energy was spent this term on administrative stuff that was at once important and kind of mind-numbing. But really it’s probably as simple as: a habit, once broken, is hard to repair, however much you miss it, or however guilty you feel about it (however irrationally). I was talking with a good friend recently who commented how helpful she’d found the comment “it’s OK to change your interests.” Has my interest in blogging about my teaching just declined? The proof, I guess, is in the posting.

And yet: I have missed it! I continue to believe, as well, that it is a habit that did me good. I became a better teacher because I took regular opportunities to reflect on what I was doing and how it was going. As I approach the end of my teaching career–I don’t know when that will be, yet, but I know it’s coming eventually!–I know I will be glad to have this record of so much of it, as well.

This felt like a difficult term, though mostly for reasons not directly to do with my own teaching. The string of snow days and cancellations didn’t help: I got pretty tired of gaming out revisions to our reading schedules and deadlines. Disruptions aside, I think my two classes actually went pretty well. I was anxious heading into the Brit Lit survey class, because it did not go well the last time I taught it–and that’s even without taking into account that mid way through it, the pandemic broke out and we were all sent home. The reading list this time was pretty much the same, but it all felt very different, in a good way. How much of that was me, doing things differently (better) and how much of that was the unpredictable chemistry of the group, the room, the moment? I loved working through Great Expectations with them, of course, but the biggest treat for me was The Remains of the Day, which was on the reading list for the course in 2020 but had to be cut when everything blew up. It remains a top 10 novel for me, and its insights and impact feel as urgent to me now as they did a decade ago–more, perhaps. And of course the final scene on the pier still makes me weep.

My other course this term was a combined Honours and graduate seminar on George Eliot. I have taught a grad-only version before but this was my first time being able to offer it to Honours students as well. Because many of the undergraduates in the class had read at least one George Eliot novel with me before (along with an array of other Victorian novels), and some of the graduate students had never read her–or much Victorian fiction at all–there really was no meaningful difference in level or preparation, and the discussion was smart and energetic and invested the entire term. Well, OK, it flagged a bit while we were making our way through Felix Holt, which was not a general favourite–but that was also during the worst of our winter weather, so I choose to think it’s not really, or not entirely, Felix’s fault. Silas Marner was a clear favourite, but to my delight and relief, so was Daniel Deronda, which I don’t think anyone in the class was really looking forward to. They were all very happily surprised at how (relatively) fast-paced and provocative and interesting it is. I would have loved to include Middlemarch, but you can only do so much in 12 weeks. (I have put it on the reading list for the Dickens to Hardy class in the fall, as compensation.)

The last time I taught the grad seminar version of the George Eliot class was 2015, and it was interesting to notice some shifts in the interests and questions students brought to our discussions. To some extent this was a function of the critical essays I assigned for the graduate students, which I refreshed to highlight recent developments in the scholarship. But it was still up to them what they specifically brought up in class, and the undergraduates were not doing those readings (or at least were not required to)–and across the board it was clear that disability studies, eco-criticism, and gender were key interests. It’s not that gender wasn’t a central topic of discussion in the past, but the terms of the discussion have evolved: we had as lively discussions about Gwendolen as a possibly “ace” character, for example, as about Maggie’s non-conformity with 19th-century norms of femininity. There didn’t seem to be much energy for talking about empire, even with Daniel Deronda, and my expectation that the novel’s conclusion would provoke controversy about Palestine and Zionism did not really play out.

The spectre haunting everyone’s pedagogy this year was AI. I really tried not to let concerns about it preoccupy me. By and large, I trust my students to want an authentic experience, to be bringing their real selves to the classroom and to the work they do for me. I never had the feeling with any of the work from the students in the George Eliot seminar that it wasn’t truly their own. Could I be wrong about this? Sure. But I got to know them all pretty well, and unless I have learned nothing in 31 years of teaching, there’s not much overlap between “students who want to take an entire seminar about George Eliot” and “students who want to take short-cuts.” I wasn’t always so sure with the online tests in the survey class: some of the answers did have that combination of vagueness and fluency, a kind of unnatural glibness with very little actual substance, that gives off the whiff of AI. Most of the time that meant they also didn’t meet the requirements for full credit, which typically included things like “give a specific example from the reading to support your answer, explaining clearly how it does so.” In those cases I could just give partial credit, noting how the answer fell short without getting tangled up in having to prove AI use. Other times I had to shrug and give credit for a “good enough” answer, even if I doubted its authenticity. Usually I noted that doubt in my feedback, explaining why the answer had made me wonder, in case knowing that was in any way useful to the student.

I’m not at all sanguine about the corrosive effects of AI on teaching and learning, and I don’t kid myself that there is any way to “AI-proof” my assignments. I remind myself, though, that one of my worst teaching experiences ever was the term–not that long ago!–when 1 in 5 of my first-year students was found guilty of an academic integrity offence for literally cutting and pasting material from sites on the internet. AI is worse: more insidious, and at least potentially more widely damaging to the trust I consider essential to my work. I have tried hard over the years to think about plagiarism as a symptom rather than a moral failing and to do what I can to create the conditions in which students neither need nor want to resort to it. The same is surely true of AI, but it’s impossible to ignore how much harder it keeps getting, not just to ward it off (I mean, Copilot is literally integrated in the software they are provided by the university!) but to manage those conditions. Classes are larger, everyone is busier and under more pressure, students’ preparation and expectations and needs vary widely. All I can really do is speak up for and model the value of the process and the work itself. I do feel pretty sure that, whatever complaints they no doubt have about me and my pedagogy, my students can tell I am there for it and for them, that I am genuinely committed and enthusiastic. I hope they appreciate that I continue to prioritize both trust and authenticity on both sides. When I can’t bring that positive energy to the room any more, it will definitely be time for me to retire.