Professor and purloined paper revised
Shelia Shaw
Issue date: 12/5/07 Section: Commentary
I taught English literature at Wheaton for more than 30 years. My three children were small when I began and in their thirties when I retired.
At the time, every English major was required to pass a senior seminar. One year, spring semester, my subject was Virginia Woolf. Even though I had never published anything on Woolf, I had done my Master's thesis on her novels and felt competent to teach the subject. We met every week for two hours in a room containing a large rectangular table. Eight students sat around the table; we were still an all women's college.
Every two weeks we discussed a different novel. Midway through the semester I met with each student outside the class for about a half-hour; the object was to settle on a suitable subject for a term paper, generally 30-35 pages in length. I averaged the paper's grade with the semester's work in order to arrive at a course grade. This method seemed like the fairest solution to the ever-present problem of grading. Grading was the only aspect of teaching I hated. To have to decide on whether to give an A- or B+, a B- or C+, and so on, was agony. It seemed like a penalty, exacted for liking most of my students.
As the semester drew to a close, I gave a free week without a seminar meeting so they could work on their term papers. During that time, office conferences proliferated. I spent extra hours in my office, staying late into the evening. My poor husband and children were patient but vexed. I was torn, knowing that I was being a conscientious professor, but suffering intense guilt about my family. This feeling stayed with me throughout my academic life.
When the semester was over, we all met in our seminar room. I brought cheese, crackers, and wine for them; they brought their papers for me.
"What happens now, Dr. Shaw?" asked Ellie.
"Will you be able to return these before graduation?" Susan said.
"Of course," I answered. "After they're graded, I'll put them in a box outside my office door. Your course grade will be on the papers as well."
At the time, every English major was required to pass a senior seminar. One year, spring semester, my subject was Virginia Woolf. Even though I had never published anything on Woolf, I had done my Master's thesis on her novels and felt competent to teach the subject. We met every week for two hours in a room containing a large rectangular table. Eight students sat around the table; we were still an all women's college.
Every two weeks we discussed a different novel. Midway through the semester I met with each student outside the class for about a half-hour; the object was to settle on a suitable subject for a term paper, generally 30-35 pages in length. I averaged the paper's grade with the semester's work in order to arrive at a course grade. This method seemed like the fairest solution to the ever-present problem of grading. Grading was the only aspect of teaching I hated. To have to decide on whether to give an A- or B+, a B- or C+, and so on, was agony. It seemed like a penalty, exacted for liking most of my students.
As the semester drew to a close, I gave a free week without a seminar meeting so they could work on their term papers. During that time, office conferences proliferated. I spent extra hours in my office, staying late into the evening. My poor husband and children were patient but vexed. I was torn, knowing that I was being a conscientious professor, but suffering intense guilt about my family. This feeling stayed with me throughout my academic life.
When the semester was over, we all met in our seminar room. I brought cheese, crackers, and wine for them; they brought their papers for me.
"What happens now, Dr. Shaw?" asked Ellie.
"Will you be able to return these before graduation?" Susan said.
"Of course," I answered. "After they're graded, I'll put them in a box outside my office door. Your course grade will be on the papers as well."
Be the first to comment on this story