Life in School: What the Teacher Learned

Overview

Here one of our leading literary scholars looks back on her own life in the classroom, and discovers how much of what she learned there needs to be unlearned. Jane Tompkins? memoir shows how her education shaped her in the mold of a high achiever who could read five languages but had little knowledge of herself. As she slowly awakens to the needs of her body, heart, and spirit, she discards the conventions of classroom teaching and learns what her students? lives are like. A painful and exhilarating story of ...
See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Hardcover)
  • All (28) from $1.99   
  • New (2) from $12.00   
  • Used (26) from $1.99   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$12.00
Seller since 2009

Feedback rating:

(32)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
1996 Hard cover New in new dust jacket. new.....Staated First Printing. Sewn binding. Paper over boards. 229 p. Life in School, 610. Audience: General/trade.

Ships from: Branson, MO

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$50.00
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(136)

Condition: New
Brand new.

Ships from: acton, MA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
Sending request ...

Overview

Here one of our leading literary scholars looks back on her own life in the classroom, and discovers how much of what she learned there needs to be unlearned. Jane Tompkins’ memoir shows how her education shaped her in the mold of a high achiever who could read five languages but had little knowledge of herself. As she slowly awakens to the needs of her body, heart, and spirit, she discards the conventions of classroom teaching and learns what her students’ lives are like. A painful and exhilarating story of spiritual awakening, Tompkins’ book critiques our educational system while also paying tribute to it.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
In this memoir by Tompkins, a professor of English at Duke University, there is no mind-numbing explication of favorite educational theories or classroom practices. Instead, the reader is taken inside the author's emotional education, which had its early foundation in a compelling desire to please, especially through success in school. This shaping and rewarding of intellect, which also instilled fear, is shown to have affected Tompkins's approach to her lifethe grind of graduate study, the politics of becoming a professor, even withdrawal from two marriages. Through a subsequent union, a blend of professional and emotional excitement and contentment, the missing ingredients of her personality appear to have materialized. Tompkins travels painfully twisting paths by which a scholar and literary critic (West of Everything: The Inner Life of Westerns) came to know herself outside the academic cloister with grace and humor as she challenges universities to conceive "education less as training for a career than as the introduction to a life." (Nov.)
Booknews
Tompkins (English, Duke U.) articulates what non-academics (and perhaps academics as well) often feel too intimidated to express: What in the world do these studies have to do with my life? Her "education memoir" follows the path of a scholar from her earliest school days through graduate school and professional success. As she awakens to the disparity between her self-discovery and her education, she begins to open the doors of her classroom as well, ultimately suggesting to all teachers that the study of poetry must not be separated from the experience of it in life. Lacks an index and bibliography. Annotation c. by Book News, Inc., Portland, Or.
Kirkus Reviews
Tompkins's whiny musings on the state of American education, told through her own story of a lifetime in academia.

Tompkins (West of Everything, 1992) seems to have had a pretty easy time of it: She grew up white and middle class, attended Bryn Mawr and Yale. She landed a teaching position immediately after graduate school, took some time off, got another teaching position, and was then tenured at Temple University. After leaving her second husband for the legendary scholar Stanley Fish, she and Fish were soon picked up and tenured by Duke University, where Tompkins now teaches English. It sounds like an academic's dream come true, but Tompkins doesn't see it that way. Here she picks through her schooling, finding fault with nearly everything she encountered: She didn't like going to school when she was young. She tried too hard to please the teachers. She once wet her pants in front of her sixth-grade class while giving a book report. Her mother, an insomniac, took naps in the afternoon. She hated a classmate who said something clever in a graduate English class. These somewhat disjointed remembrances and other anecdotes are Tompkins's proof of a malevolent force behind our educational institutions—the obsessive quest to educate (as opposed to a shared exploration by student and teacher). Her prescription is for teachers to adapt her style of instruction, using open discussions, intensive interaction, fluid syllabi. This may work for college English classes, but what about courses where a mastery of set material is more important than the immediate pleasure of the student and teacher, such as, say, medical school?

While a nonstressful, nonconfrontational school environment is a wonderful goal, Tompkins offers little practical advice on how to attain it.

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780201912128
  • Publisher: Perseus Publishing
  • Publication date: 9/28/1996
  • Pages: 256
  • Product dimensions: 5.82 (w) x 8.56 (h) x 0.91 (d)

Meet the Author

Jane Tompkins is a professor of English at Duke University. She is the author of Sensational Designs: The Cultural Work of American Fiction, and more recently, West of Everything: The Inner Life of Westerns. She lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

A Life in School

What the Teacher Learned


By Jane Tompkins Addison Wesley Publishing Company

Copyright © 1997 Jane Tompkins
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780201327991



Chapter One


THE DREAM OF AUTHORITY

I'm in front of the class on the first day of school, and for some reason, I'm totally unprepared. (How did this happen?) Throat tight, I fake a smile, grab for words, tell an anecdote, anything to hold their attention. But the strangers in rows in front of me aren't having any. They start to shuffle and murmur; they turn their heads away. Then chairs scrape back, and I realize it's actually happened. The students are walking out on me. I have finally gotten what I deserve.

This dream in one form or another is dreamed by thousands of teachers before the beginning of the fall semester. Some dream that they can't find their classrooms and are racing frantically through darkened halls; others that they are pontificating in nasal tones on subjects they know nothing about; others see themselves turning to write on the blackboard and feel the class leaving behind their backs. The dream is so common that most people I know discount it. "Oh, everybody has that dream," they say, dismissing the subject. But the dream is not discountable. It is about the fear of failure--the failure of one's authority--and it points to the heart of what it means to be a teacher.

When Ihad this dream, I'd been teaching for over fifteen years. I was a full professor at a reputable university, regarded as a good teacher and a productive scholar. So why was I having a nightmare about my students walking out on me? Where did the doubt and insecurity come from? The answer lies in another dream; in this one, I'm a student.

I am studying for my Ph.D. exams and am about to take them. Suddenly I realize I haven't studied at all. I've been doing some vague research on topics that interest me, but they aren't the right ones. I've never even cracked the surveys of English literature I'd relied on in graduate school. Why haven't I touched these books? I have twenty-five minutes before the exam. Maybe I can cram at the last minute. But instead I get myself a cup of coffee, find a good place to read, go back for my jacket, and so on, until there's no time left.

I realize then they're going to fail me. (This is all taking place at the university where I currently teach; it comes to me that this is the chance the older faculty have been waiting for to show me up for what I am.) It's a ten-hour written exam with an oral component. I've learned from a colleague I consider more learned than myself that the exam has short-answer questions such as "Who were the Fugitives?" (Do I know who the Fugitives were? I'm not sure.)

Then comes the familiar moment of recognition: I already have a Ph.D.! I decide in a frenzy of rebellion that I won't take this exam. I will not subject myself to the humiliation of failure. I'm walking up the stairs now toward the exam room; there's no time left. What will I do?

In this dream I appear as a student in an institution where I'm a full professor. I'm almost fifty, dreaming of being in the position of a twenty-four-year-old. Here, as in the other dream, I'm a fraud, someone who's supposed to know things she doesn't actually know. It's the same situation, really; only this time instead of being humiliated and rejected by students, I'm going to be humiliated and rejected by teachers, people in authority over me. The old fear, the exam fear, never goes away. As you go through life, it just gets projected onto other situations. If you become a teacher, the fear is projected onto your students. They don't have the power over you that your teachers once had, but your internalized fear gives them the power.

Terror is like a ball that bounces back and forth between two walls of a small room. Once you throw it hard at one wall, it rebounds to the other and then back against the first, and so on until it loses momentum and gravity pulls it to the floor. With terror, though, I'm not sure what stops the ball, or whether in some instances it doesn't pick up speed and bounce harder. The walls in this metaphor are teachers and students, and the ball is the fear they pass back and forth.

Looking back, I now see that because of these fears, I developed, over the years, a good-cop/bad-cop routine in the classroom. In order to win my students' love, I would try to divest myself of authority by constant self-questioning, by deference to students' opinions; through disarming self-revelation, flattery, jokes, criticizing school authorities; by accepting late papers, late attendance, and nonperformance of various kinds. Meanwhile, in order to establish and maintain my authority, I would almost invariably come to class overprepared, allowing no deviations from the plan for the day, making everything I said as complex, high level, and idiosyncratic as possible lest the students think I wasn't as smart as they were. I would pile on the work, grade hard, and--this must have confused them--tell them that all I cared about was their individual development.

It's easy, though, to caricature the devices I'd stoop to in order to both yield and keep hold of authority. It's easy to criticize. If I alternately intimidated and placated the students it's because I was threatened and felt afraid, afraid of my students, and afraid of the authorities who had stood in judgment on me long ago.

The image of authority is embodied for me in teachers. Mrs. Colgan in 1B, standing tense and straight in a black dress with little white spots that droops on her figure. Her lips are pursed, her hair is in a hairnet, her black eyes snap with intensity, and her whole thin being radiates the righteous authority she exercises over us; it is mixed with wrath. She is scolding, holding a small book in front of her flat, draped chest. Mrs. Colgan has to exert all the energy she has to maintain this stance. Most of the time she spoke to us in a soft, gentle voice; she liked to be soft and gentle with the children. Only when someone really stepped out of line did she become her steely, purse-lipped self. Because I saw this, I was only afraid of Mrs. Colgan, not terrified of her. I saw in her the two faces of authority: the desire to lead gently, to be kind and affectionate, to love; and the necessity to instill fear, the desperation of having to beat back the enemy by whatever means.

It's the second image that tends to remain in people's memories. The teacher, the one who stands in front, who stands while others sit, the one whom you must obey, the one who exacts obedience. For obedience is the basis for everything else that happens in school; unless the children obey, nothing can be taught. That is what I learned. Obedience first. Or rather, fear first, fear of authority, yielding obedience, then, everything else.

There was a boy in the second or third grade who symbolized the need for the kind of authority I hated. I'll call him Louis Koslowski. He was always bad. Nothing the teachers could do or say ever shut Louis up. He could be temporarily quelled, but sooner or later he always came back for more. I was terrified of being spoken to and about the way the teachers spoke to and about Louis Koslowski, for he brought out the worst in them: shouting, name-calling, intimidation; every form of sarcasm and ridicule they could command, every threat, every device of shaming. If there had been stocks in P.S. 98, Louis Koslowski would have been in them.

Louis, though, like Mrs. Colgan, had two sides. He was terrible, we were told; he was the universal troublemaker without whom everything would have been fine. And surely he caused us to suffer through hours of yelling, and hours of leftover bad feeling spilling over from the teacher onto us, and oozing out from us into the corners of the room. But he was cute, his energy was exciting; he was an appealing figure in a rough-and-tumble way. Sometimes I thought the teachers were right, but sometimes I thought he was being picked on unfairly. Why make such a fuss? I mean, we were supposed to sit all day, hands folded on our desks, legs crossed (if you were a girl), silent, staring forward in our rows. Looking back on it now, it seems that much of the time in school, the only interest or action lay in the power struggle between the teachers, whose reign of terror enforced the rules, and the students like Louis K., whose irrepressible energy contested them.

But the struggle was not for me.

I have another image of a boy in third grade--his name was Steven Kirschner--a pretty blond child with sky blue eyes and a soft-as-doeskin nature. He is standing at attention next to his seat, being dressed down by the teacher for some slight. I don't remember what it was, but I knew he didn't deserve such treatment. He stands there, stiffly, hands at his sides, in brown corduroy pants. His china blue eyes brim with the tears he's trying to hold back. He is the very picture of innocence abused, yet the lash, metaphorically, fell on him just the same. And it fell on me, too, for strange as it may seem, I did not distinguish between myself and the unhappy scapegoat for the teacher's wrath. And so when Mrs. Garrity, the worst one of all, with her brown suit and red face made red by perennial anger, was heard screaming horribly and interminably in the hall at some unlucky person, it seemed to me entirely an accident that that person had not yet been me; when Mrs. Seebach, of the enormous bosom and enormous behind, bellowed at us in gym class, seized by demonic rage over a student's failure properly to execute grand right and left, I trembled. I could have made the same mistake. Once Mrs. Seebach did ridicule me in front of the class because I didn't know how to tie a knot at the end of a piece of thread; there was no knowing when it would happen again.

It was executioner and victim in my scenario, and the victims had better watch out. For above these harridans were other authorities even more august. Mr. Rothman, the new principal, and (holy of holies) Mr. Zimmerman, superintendent of schools: presences so terrible no one dared, not even the Louis Koslowskis, to so much as breathe naturally as we stood in rigid rows for their inspection. When I look back on my early years in school, it's Steven Kirschner standing helpless next to his desk whom I identify with, not Louis Koslowski rolling a spitball under his, and certainly not with the teachers.

You would think that with experiences like these so vivid in my mind, I would have avoided school, but no. I became a teacher. I joined. The teachers I consciously modelled myself on were not the ones I've been describing but teachers I had later in junior high and high school, teachers who never used the metaphoric whip, but inspired, encouraged, and praised. Still, the older models remain; the deeper stratum lies underneath, its breath of ancient terror haunting me. Unless I perform for the authorities, unless I do what I'm told, I will be publicly shamed.

My own early and repeated exposure to authorities who terrified me absolutely helps to explain my habit of alternate rebellion against and submission to the authority figures in my life. And it accounts at least in part for my contradictory behavior toward my students: wanting to control and not to control, wanting to be loved--and obeyed.

The pedagogy that produces oppression starts early and comes from traditions of childrearing like those Alice Miller describes in For Your Own Good, where she writes: "Child-rearing is basically directed not toward the child's welfare but toward satisfying the parents' need for power and revenge." This need, in its turn, is created by abuse suffered and forgotten. "It is precisely those events that have never been come to terms with that must seek an outlet," says Miller. "The jubilation characteristic of those who declare war is the expression of the revived hope of finally being able to avenge earlier debasement, and presumably also of relief at finally being permitted to hate and shout."

I do not know what earlier debasements the teachers at P.S. 98 were avenging when they screamed at us in the halls, but I know they must have been the object of someone's vengefulness. Their hatred and shouting are still echoing in my mind, and I'm sure I cannot be the only one.

Eventually, I became aware that childhood experiences of authority had controlled, without my knowing it, the way I exercised and failed to exercise authority as an adult, and that it was the reality of what had happened at P.S. 98, more than my present one, that had been dictating the terms of my university life, day to day. Fear was the underside of that life. Much of my behavior had been ruled by it. The fear stayed buried, controlling me secretly, because, though I became learned, was taught four languages, three literatures, and many other things beside, I'd not been taught how to recognize and face my fear. Learning this for myself has been frightening and discouraging and a long study. But for me, it seems, there was no other way.

Continues...


Excerpted from A Life in School by Jane Tompkins Copyright © 1997 by Jane Tompkins. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Preface xi
1. The Dream of Authority 1
2. P.S. 98 8
3. Foyer 34
4. Other People 51
5. Teachers 55
6. Talking in Class 62
7. Higher Education 66
8. Making It 85
9. Ash Wednesday 114
10. The Day I Walked Out of Class 132
11. Postcards from the Edge 141
12. Reverie 153
13. Karate Lesson 156
14. Let's Get Lost 162
15. The Way We Live Now 181
16. Coffee 195
17. Time Out 198
18. The Cloister and the Heart 207
Epilogue: Chair, Table, Lamp 225
List of Works Cited 229
Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(0)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously

    If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
    Why is this product inappropriate?
    Comments (optional)