Sexy Homework

My first Blackboard assignment for my Linguistics class asked us to post our feelings and questions about the subject. Most of my classmates wrote variations of "I don't exactly understand grammar, will my students know?"

I went in a totally different direction, and ended up with the best piece I've written in a long time. I heart me.

Ego means I share.

----------------------------

I suppose I should warn you guys right off the bat: if teaching grammar without really "getting it" is the skeleton in your closets, I'm the boogeyman hiding behind your winter coats. I am thrilled to be writing on this topic. Listening to our first lecture last Tuesday gave me the distinct feeling that Linguisticsland will be a wonderfully welcoming place. I’ve never toured the country, but I recognized my people.

I AM the dreaded grammar Nazi. I read your posts, and I caught every error you worried about making.

Oooh, creepy.

If I've lathered you into a panic, comfort yourself with three facts:

1) You actually didn't make [many] mistakes, you just felt the need to apologize.

But you made yourself doubt...and that's the insidiousness of prescriptive grammar. As one of our classmates said, she hears the mistakes, but she lacks the confidence to correct them. She knows the rules, but she doesn't remember why. I always tell my students "you know more than you think you know." Your gut is brilliant. Run with it.

2) By outing myself, I've probably ensured my posts will be scrutinized harder than the rest of the class. Uh oh. On the other hand, I probably spend waaaay too long constructing these posts, so we're even. You probably came on, posted, and got on with your lives. It’s called perspective, and I envy you that.

(And here's the biggie…)

3) Remember when you'd hide behind the couch at a new friends' house when their yippy dog would arf and howl at you from behind a plastic baby gate? "Don't worry," your friend's Mom would say, "He's more afraid of you than you are of him!" And this logic was so bizarre that you found yourself strangely comforted.

So are the grammar Nazis. Sure, we talk big. We cluck disapprovingly at "10 items or less" lanes in the Supermarket. [When using a specific number, they should use "fewer."] We roll our eyes at folks who blast through life at hyperspeed and can leave the “I’m aware of it, but who cares?” typo in “Help your students with there homework.” [That’s their; a possessive.] We physically cringe when friends describe a bar as “more funner!” [I *refuse* to explain that one.]

We have strut. We have bravado. We have…an overabundance of shame that we care about such minutia. We realize that, in the grand scheme, very few people DO care. As our professor explained, we can easily understand what someone means when they make an error. And here’s a mind-blower: is it an error if no one notices? If a tree falls in the forest, and crushes a grammarian, does anyone care?

We’re more afraid of you than you are of us, and that’s the truth.

So, while many of you said that you feel the need to hyper-correct every mistake your students make, grammar Nazis correct their students very infrequently. We worry about converting our students into martinets who are incapable of seeing the big picture because they’re too busy obsessing over every last point in the ellipsis.

We say things like “spelling doesn’t count here; I just want to see your ideas!” We nod and smile when our enthused students recount what “Me and my cousin” did last weekend. We long to snap back with a glib, “I don’t know, *can* you?” when our students ask if they can use the bathroom. That slightly crazed look you might remember in the eyes of your most eccentric English teacher? That might have been the weight of thousands of “overlooked” errors building up in her brain; your invisible-to-the-naked-eye misstep the last drop in a gushing torrent of repression.

So, to cope, the grammar Nazi becomes schizophrenic. If you’re like me, you explain subtle grammatical distinctions to your students in rushed tones, almost apologetically. Then, you explain that “written English” and “spoken English” are two completely different languages, with different rules. You hope your schizophrenia is catching: class, please know these rules and understand them perfectly when it comes time to take your High School Placement Test, but feel free to speak with your friends however you’d like. No one, you explain, expects you to pay attention to the rules all the time.

This is true, actually. I’m not this eloquent in everyday speech. No one is. If you ever encounter someone with audible semicolons joining their brilliantly-constructed independent clauses, seek help immediately. You are likely face-to-face with a pod person, and they should not be trusted.

But how are my students expected to learn the rules if I never give them a reason to practice?

I am excited about this Linguistics class because I am hoping it will yank me from the closet so forcefully that I will host a grammar pride parade by the end of week 9. (It will be fabulous.) I do know the rules—and I do know I’ve broken quite a few in the lines above. I also know I don’t feel comfortable enough to force them on my students.

So, here's my question for the semester: why NOT grammar?

Why is it shameful to trust your gut and know that something “just doesn’t sound right”? Why, as teachers, do we still feel it isn’t our place to correct students who have misspoken—only to edit them into red ink oblivion on their written papers? Why do people look at you like a pretentious boor when you answer “I’m well, thanks!” to their cheery “How’re you?” Why did Dr. Hagstrom feel like she needed to apologize for prescriptive grammar as the thing we all dread?

In the spirit of full disclosure: looking at a syllabus and seeing syntax as a topic? That’s not something I dread, that’s like hearing that we’re taking a field trip to Baskin Robbins!

As ridiculous as it sounds, I need this class because I need to remind myself that it’s OKAY to talk about grammar in English class. I need to hear that Linguistics IS important because my students will be judged on the way they communicate. Fairly or unfairly, that’s the truth.

Mostly, I need to hear that the prescriptive grammar I adore is NOT the only way. And not in the condescending “it’s not wrong, it’s just different” academic mindset I’ve been raised. Rather, “proper” English is just another dialect that has its own rules.

However, if reading this makes you want to unleash your inner Nazi: go read Eats, Shoots and Leaves, by Lynne Truss. (And, yes: I am feeling a bit twitchy that I can't underline that book title!) You may decide that grammar is sexy.

Alas, taking hours to say so is not. Thank goodness for deadlines—I can only hold my grammar-pride Cinderella captive until midnight. It’s back to a pumpkin of shame at 12:01.