Regular readers of this blog know that I sometimes ponder the clarity of my assignment and exam prompts (some past posts on this subject are here, here, and here). Students sometimes don’t hit what, in my mind, the question targets, so I revise in the hopes of creating a prompt that is more transparent. But I don’t want prompts to be answerable with a Jeopardy-like regurgitation of facts. I want students to exert some cognitive effort to figure out how to apply concepts that are relevant to the question at hand.
Usually this situation occurs with my undergraduates, but I’m noticing it more frequently with master’s degree students. A recent example is an assignment from my graduate-level introduction to comparative politics course:
What do grades actually mean? I began pondering this question while designing a course for the fall semester. Theoretically a grade indicates the amount of knowledge or skill that a student possesses. But really? Those of us working in the USA are quite familiar with grade inflation. A final grade of C today probably doesn’t indicate the same level of knowledge or skill proficiency as the C from fifty years ago. There is also the persistent problem of knowing whether our assessment tools are measuring the types of learning that we think they are/want them to. And it is probably safe to assume that, both in and out of the classroom, there is a lot of learning happening but we just aren’t interested in trying to measure it. The situation gets even more complex given that — again, in the USA — a “learning activity” often won’t function as intended if students believe that it has no discernible effect on their course grades.
I structure my syllabi so that the sum total of points available from all assessed work is greater than what it needed for any particular final grade. For example, a student might need to accumulate at least 950 points over the semester for an A, but there could be 1,040 points available. I do this to deliberately create wiggle room for students — with so many assignments, students don’t need to get perfect scores on, or complete, all of them. While this leads to higher grades in my courses than if I graded strictly on a bell curve, I want to give students plenty of opportunities to practice, fail, and improve. And I firmly believe that sloppy writing indicates slopping thinking, while good writing indicates the converse. So in reality what I’m doing with most of my assignments is evaluating the writing abilities of my students.
This system often produces a bimodal grade distribution that is skewed to the right. Expend a lot of effort and demonstrate a certain level of proficiency, and you will get a grade somewhere between an A and a B-. Choose not to expend the effort, or consistently demonstrate an inability to perform at a minimum level, and you will get a D or an F. I’m comfortable with this result, in part because I know from the cognitive science research on learning that repeated exposure and frequent testing builds long term memory.
This leads me to the reason for doubting that grades my courses mean the same thing as they do in courses where the only assessment is done through mid-term and final exams composed of multiple-choice questions. Yes, the proportion of A’s in the latter might be lower than in the former, but I bet on average my students are retaining more. At least I like to think that’s the case. There is no way for me to be sure.
The next New England Faculty Development Conference will be held on November 8 at the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Massachusetts. The deadline for proposals is August 17. Full details are here. The NEFDC is totally teaching-oriented and interactive workshops are encouraged.
As the new Director of Faculty Development at my university, and managing editor of this blog, please get in touch if you would like to publicize a teaching-related conference or event.
Today we have a guest post from Kyle Haynes, assistant professor of political science at Purdue University. He can be reached at kylehaynes [at] purdue [dot] edu.
Schelling’s (1966) groundbreaking work on “brinkmanship” explains how deterrent
threats are made credible between nuclear-armed opponents. Schelling argued
that although rational leaders would never consciously step off the ledge into
nuclear Armageddon, they might rationally initiate a policy that incurs some risk of events spiraling into an inadvertent
nuclear exchange. Whichever state can tolerate a greater risk of accidental
disaster could then escalate the crisis until the adversary, unwilling to incur
any additional risk, concedes. For Schelling, this type of crisis bargaining is
a competition in risk taking. I use the following simulation to teach this
simulation begins by randomly splitting the entire class into pairs of
students. One student in each pair is designated as Player 1 (P1), the other as
Player 2 (P2). At the beginning of each game the instructor places nine white
table tennis balls and a single orange table tennis ball into an empty bowl or
small bucket. In Round 1 of the game, P1 must decide whether to concede the
first extra credit point to P2, or to “stand firm” and refuse to concede. If P1
concedes, P2 receives one point and P1 receives zero points. If P1 stands firm,
the instructor will blindly draw a single ball from the ten in the bowl. If the
instructor draws a white ball, both players survive, and the game continues to
the next round. If the instructor draws an orange ball, then “disaster” occurs
and both players lose two points.
game continues to the second round, the instructor removes a white ball from
the pot and replaces it with another orange ball—there are now eight white
balls and two orange balls. It is P2’s turn to decide whether to stand firm or
concede. If P2 concedes, P1 receives one point. If P2 stands firm and the
instructor draws a white ball, both players survive, and the game continues to
Round 3. If, however, the instructor draws an orange ball, both players lose
Inside Higher Ed recently published a column written by a community college dean on the most important subjects one took or could take in high school — part of a larger conversation that originated on Twitter. Responses to the column mentioned:
- Theater productions, to learn how to work with other people who have different perspectives and objectives.
- A foreign language, to learn principles of grammar that allow one to become a better communicator in English.
- Typing, to learn how to communicate more quickly with less effort.
- Bookkeeping, to learn how to manage one’s personal finances.
Comments also referenced the processes through which the learning occurred. For example, one person mentioned that he gained a better understanding of the here and now when a history teacher worked backward from the present instead of using the traditional method of moving from the distant past toward today (which in high school is almost never reached).
The column and the comments got me thinking about the same question as applied to college. What undergraduate course was the most useful to you, and why?
As I wrote a few years ago, I generally don’t remember anything about the content of my college courses. Sorry, James Clerk Maxwell, I’ve forgotten how to use your equations. But I do have memories of what actions I performed when I originally learned the content and how I felt when that happened. The general process stuck. The specific outcome did not.
While I have tried in my own teaching career to better emphasize process over content, I still don’t get the kind of feedback contained in the Inside Higher Ed piece. My university doesn’t collect data on this level from alumni. So maybe it’s time I started doing it myself with a survey.
Credit for the subject of today’s post goes to Lindsay LaChapelle, writing center acting director, and Alicia Vaandering, education and instructional design librarian, at my university. They can be contacted, respectively, at lindsay [dot] lachapelle [at] salve [dot] edu and alicia [dot] vaandering [at] salve [dot] edu.
I attended a presentation by the above-mentioned individuals on leveraging the expertise of academic support staff when using research-driven writing assignments. Undergraduates trying to complete these assignments typically lack proficiency in critical skills like:
- Identifying peer-reviewed journals for literature reviews.
- Knowing when and how to cite sources.
- Decoding the rhetorical techniques of scholarly literature.
- Applying the authentic writing principles of role, audience, and format.
For example, students often locate a pile of sources that they believe are pertinent, and only then begin writing. Or they do the writing first and then seek out what they think are a sufficient number of not-really-that-relevant sources to cite in the text.
Incorporating instruction from your university’s writing and research specialists can help solve these problems. The first step in the process is to consult with writing center and library staff, to share assignment information, identify your goals and expectations for the assignment, plan classroom workshop content, and schedule the workshops in relation to assignment due dates.
Workshop topics should reflect the four phases of the research writing process: exploration, reflection, revision, and becoming a creator of information. Each workshop can target one or more of the specific objectives for each phase, as shown in this table. “L” indicates a practice that normally falls within a librarian’s area of expertise, while “W” indicates a focus on writing. Think of the table as a menu from which to choose the skills in which your students most need training.
The classroom workshops allow both academic support staff and the course instructor to interact with students about their work as they proceed through the research and writing process. They can include probes of students’ pre-existing knowledge of college-level research and writing principles and the review of students’ work as they complete different components of the assignment.
Collaborating with librarians and writing specialists benefits both me and my students because it:
- Reduces redundancy in instruction.
- Shares the workload for lesson planning, delivering instruction, and assessment.
- Reduces the instructor-to-student ratio in the classroom.
- Models the collaborative nature of academic research.
- Allows writing center staff to identify research-related problems that require librarian support, and vice versa — instead of leaving students in the dark about the kind of specialized help they might need and who can provide that help.
Katherine Wright’s recent post on Twitter as a hostile environment caught my attention, especially her point about employer expectations that faculty “engage” with social media.
If you’re like me, you never received any formal training in using social media for professional purposes. Whatever you see from me on this blog, it’s self-taught. A learn-as-you-go process where mistakes, whether technical or editorial, get made. But the consequences of these mistakes are quite small given that the format allows me to retain most of the privileges (male, Caucasian, overly-educated, etc.) that I enjoy in so-called meatspace. Comments are few, come from like-minded colleagues, and in the end, moderated. The content doesn’t attract hackers, doxxers, or nuisance lawsuits.
That is not the digital world that many of us live in. We know that some people, because of their identities, are regularly subjected to negative biases in the work environment. Expecting them to communicate in mediums where such biases can be infinitely amplified, while not preparing them for what they are likely to encounter, is simply disastrous.
Making matters worse: employers that want their employees to act as semi-public figures for marketing purposes often expect those employees to endure the harassment and abuse that they subsequently receive, or, as if this were somehow possible, prevent the harassment and abuse from occurring in the first place by tailoring their communication to the needs of an anonymous and dysfunctional audience.
A bit of self-promotion, which most academics need to become better at . . .
Yesterday Inside Higher Ed published an op-ed of mine on a simple metric that helps identify which small colleges and universities in the USA are at risk of failure. I wrote a bit about the metric on this blog in December. If you work at a private, non-profit college with fewer than two thousand undergraduate students and an endowment of less than half a billion dollars, you will probably want to read the op-ed. Feel free to add to the comments.
Today we have a guest post from Loleen Berdahl, Professor and Head of Political Studies, University of Saskatchewan. She can be reached at Loleen [dot] berdahl [at] usask [dot] ca.
I am very excited to road test a new ‘Pay It Forward Assignment’ (PIFA) in my classes this fall. The PIFA requires students to create something that will help a student in the same class in subsequent years. It is inspired by David Wiley’s argument in favour of non-disposable assignments. My hope is that this assignment will inspire students to approach the material with creativity, and draw upon their own interests and personal strengths while they engage with class material. Ideally, the assignment will create a library of resources for future classes that can grow over time.
Here are the assignment’s instructions for students:
Have you ever mastered a topic and wanted to share what you have
learned with other students? Have you ever wanted to demonstrate your mastery
of a topic in a creative manner, rather than the usual format? Have you ever
spent a tremendous amount of time on a class assignment and been disappointed
to know that the only person who would read it was your professor? If so, the
Pay It Forward Assignment (PIFA) is going to be fun and interesting activity
The PIFA is an assignment that a student creates to share with future
students. A great way to select the topic for your PIFA is to find something
that you initially found difficult in the course. Once you have a good grasp of
the topic, create a resource of some sort to help others. Some possibilities
for your PIFA:
- Graphic novella: create a graphic short story that explains a key idea.
- Mind-map: construct a mind-map for a specific topic or a core idea.
- Power-point slide deck: create a short series of lecture slides that teach a major point of a lesson.
- News story video: present a key idea from a lesson as if it were a breaking story for a television news program.
- Audio: create a short podcast that provides a tutorial on a key idea in a lesson, or that connects a key idea to a current issue in public debate.
- Photo essay: use a photo or series of photos to illustrate a key idea in a lesson, and then use short amounts of text to explain how the photos illustrate the idea.
- Checklist: create a critical reading checklist for students to use when assessing a research study, news story, etc., for trustworthiness. Go through an actual article and apply the checklist to demonstrate how it works.
- Learning activity: outline a new learning activity for a lesson.
- Lesson table summary: construct a summary table of the lesson’s key points and terms.
- Linking our class material to another class: using text, audio, or video, explain how something from this class relates to something you learned in another class.
- Relating lessons summary: using text, audio, or video, explain how the material in a particular lesson relates to the lesson that came immediately before it.
- Social media activity: create a tweet-thread explaining a core concept covered in a lesson.
The final exam for this course last year asked each student to write an economic rationale in support of one of two policy options, using information from course readings as evidence. Generally students students did not do well on the exam, mainly because they did not discuss applicable concepts like moral hazard and discounting the future. These concepts were found in several course readings and discussed in class. While I didn’t explicitly mention these concepts in the exam prompt, the benefits of including them in the rationale should have been obvious given course content.
Now I’m thinking of a question like this for the final exam:
What has a greater influence on economic development in Egypt: law (institutions) or geography (luck)? Why?
In your answer, reference the items below and relevant course readings listed in the syllabus:
- Daron Acemoglu, “Root Causes: A Historical Approach to Assessing the Role of Institutions in Economic Development,” Finance & Development, June 2003, p. 27-30, https://www.imf.org/external/pubs/ft/fandd/2003/06/pdf/Acemoglu.pdf.
- Banerjee and Duflo, Ch. 10 and Conclusion.
- Easterly, Ch. 10, p. 195-214.
- Hernando de Soto, “Thoughts on the Importance of Boundaries,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 157, 1 (March 2013): 22-31 (on Canvas).
- Richard Conniff, “The Vanishing Nile: A Great River Faces a Multitude of Threats,” Yale Environment 360, 6 April 2017, https://e360.yale.edu/features/vanishing-nile-a-great-river-faces-a-multitude-of-threats-egypt-dam.
- Livia Albeck-Ripka, “Faced With Drought, the Pharoahs Tried (and Failed) to Adapt,” The New York Times, 31 March 2018, https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/30/climate/egypt-climate-drought.html.
The downside here is that I’m giving up an authentic writing exercise in favor of (I assume) even more transparent alignment with course objectives.