Teaching
Philosophy
Eurae Muhn Primosch
I recently attended an outstanding seminar, which was organized by a classmate at Georgetown, during which faculty and staff were trained on how to become allies of student veterans. During one portion of the seminar, a panel of student veterans generously answered questions about their experiences on campus, including details of their transition from military to college life, and examples of being treated with ignorance and hostility as well as compassion and kindness by their civilian classmates, professors, and other campus personnel. When it was my turn to address the panel, I made an effort to proclaim my enthusiasm for working with student veterans by prefacing my question with a synopsis of my research on student veteran learning needs. I then launched into a saga of questions on best pedagogical approaches for the transitioning veteran, and extensions of those questions, while attempting to construct the theoretical framework from which I was coming from—all for the purposes of clarifying my work and point of interest, but obviously using unsuitable language and delivery for the occasion. The immediate response I got from one of the panelists was, “First of all, that is a really confusing question.” She understood precisely what I was asking, yet was identifying a significant disconnect between military writing and speaking versus how communication looks like in the humanities. The student noted that military training and culture necessitates conciseness and efficiency, while writing for college was completely different. “We’re not used to being flowery with our language. When you ask questions or give out assignments, it helps if you are clear and concise about what you are asking of us.”
I was immediately humbled by the candid response, and have allowed this experience to build on the many other impactful moments I have encountered as an educator. I thoroughly believe that meaningfully applying learning moments like the one above to my teaching practice is an extension of what I feel is the cornerstone of all good teaching: empathy. Good teachers teach because they have compassion towards those who can benefit from their training, skills, experience, and gifts. They plan according to their students’ needs and not their own. They modify their ways of thinking about teaching to facilitate the success of their students, not anyone else’s. They are creative in problem-solving the complex puzzles of engaging, relevant, and effective instruction. All of this requires empathy.
As a proponent of incorporating empathy into teaching, I hold the practice of differentiated instruction at the center of my approaches. I believe that teachers are bound by the fact that individuals learn in a variety of ways and that relying solely on traditional and outdated whole-class instruction leaves too much room for students to slip through the cracks. I believe in getting to know my students’ interests, learning styles, goals, challenges, and skill levels in order to meet them where they are and facilitate the path towards progress and growth rather than refusing to move away from a monolithic style that meets the needs of only a handful of students, at best. Mina Shaugnessy echoes this sentiment in “Diving In: An Introduction to Basic Writing,” when she argues that the teacher is charged with “mak[ing] a decision that demands professional courage—the decision to remediate himself, to become a student of new disciplines and of his students themselves in order to perceive both their difficulties and their incipient excellence.” ¹
I have developed this approach myself over years of working with a vastly diverse student body, including those who are learning, emotionally, and physically disabled, English language learners, gifted and talented students, low-income students, privileged students, non-traditional students, veterans, first-generation students in American schools (or schools at all), ranging from Kindergarten to college. I have recognized that rather than teaching across the middle and hoping that a few from the high and low ends of the spectrum will gain something, that teachers can maximize instruction by challenging students to reach for their next level. This philosophy by no means discounts standards of learning mandated federally, by state, or by school; rather, the approach accounts for the various paths that students may take to arrive at those goals. At the college level, face-to-face conferences and written feedback—or a strong “listening eye,” as Donald Murray argues for—are key strategies for practicing differentiated instruction.²
"We’re not used to being flowery with our language. When you ask questions or give out assignments, it helps if you are clear and concise about what you are asking of us.”
Further, teaching with empathy does not mean that students should not be challenged. I believe in the power of pushing students beyond what they think they are capable of in order to witness the growth that is only possible through grappling with difficult texts, ideas, and assignments. Simultaneously, our field cannot remain a mystery for those who are emerging in it and attempting to access it. Demystifying good writing and reading by modeling, presenting “mentor texts” (a concept that comes out of Lucy Calkins’ Reading and Writing Project) that allow students to identify moves that expert readers and writers make, allowing for collaborative learning, and teaching reading and writing as processes, not products (as workshop gurus Donald Murray and Sheridan Blau do) ³ are also critical components for students to be able to gain skills, knowledge, and understanding. Of course, facilitating engagement that allows students to feel invested in their learning by incorporating relevant and meaningful texts, assignments, technology, and real-world applications will allow for greater ease of the above practices. This type of engagement can be fostered through the individualized approach I mentioned earlier in my thoughts on differentiated instruction and learning about student needs and interests.
Finally, I believe an imperative component of maintaining good teaching is persistence—in problem-solving lesson plans using the results of formative and summative assessments, in actively seeking out professional development opportunities, and in constantly striving to improve one’s practice. For me, this means continually attending workshops and conferences, seeking advice and inspiration from talented colleagues within my department and nationwide, as well as pursuing an education in incorporating technologies (that may sometimes seem daunting) into my daily teaching practice. In pursuing these opportunities, I intend to constantly improve my teaching craft over time.
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¹ Shaughnessy, Mina P. “Diving In: An Introduction to Basic Writing.” College and Communication 27 (October 1976): 234-239.
² See Donald Murray’s “Listening Eye: Reflections on the Writing Conference.” (1979).
³ See “Teach Writing as a Process Not Product” by Donald Murray (1972) and The Literature Workshop by Sheridan Blau (2003).