I take the feedback I give students on their writing very seriously. In fact, I would argue that it is the most important thing I do as an English teacher. I spend hours (HOURS!) reading essays, making comments, identifying patterns, asking questions, and suggesting ways to strengthen an argument or sharpen an analysis. I want students to understand not just what isn't working, but why, and what they can do about it. I take great pride in my feedback, actually.
But yesterday, my students taught me something about feedback.
As we discussed a recent set of essays, I shared my overall impressions with the class. I told them that the papers were generally quite good, though there were, as always, areas for improvement. We talked about some of the common issues I had noticed and how they might approach their writing differently next time. Then a student asked a question I hadn't anticipated: Could I make a point of writing something positive on every essay? Something specific that each student had done well?
It was such a simple request that I was momentarily taken aback.
Of course I thought the essays were good. I had just told them so. And when I read their work, I notice the strong arguments, the insightful observations, the well-chosen evidence, the moments when a student makes a connection I hadn't anticipated. But I realized that while I was quick to point out where their writing could improve, I wasn't always taking the time to identify, in writing, what they had done particularly well.
I was giving them plenty of information about how to become better writers. I wasn't always telling them what already made them good ones.
Teachers, particularly English teachers, spend a great deal of time looking for opportunities for improvement. It's part of the job. We notice the thesis that needs refining, the analysis that stops just short of an important insight, the paragraph that wanders away from its purpose. We know that students become stronger writers through revision, and we want to give them the tools to get there.
But somewhere in that process, feedback can become a catalog of deficiencies, even when that isn't our intention.
I don't think my students were asking me to lower my expectations or soften my criticism. They weren't asking for compliments or reassurance that everything they wrote was wonderful. They wanted to know what they were doing well, specifically, so they could recognize it and perhaps do more of it.
And they were right. After more than twenty years in the classroom, countless essays, and more hours spent writing comments than I could possibly calculate, my students had identified a gap in a practice I consider central to my teaching.
We talk a great deal in education about student voice, but it's easy to think of it in terms of larger decisions: curriculum choices, classroom policies, assessment practices. Sometimes student voice is much smaller and more immediate. Sometimes it's a student saying, essentially, "This would help me learn better."
After twenty years of doing this, I know a lot about teaching writing. I also have enough experience to know that I don't know everything. Expertise shouldn't make us less receptive to feedback. If anything, it should give us the confidence to recognize a good idea when we hear one, regardless of where it comes from.
The next set of essays will still have plenty of comments about what needs work. My standards haven't changed, and neither has my commitment to helping students become better writers.
But every student will also know something specific they did well.
After more than twenty years of teaching, I'm still learning how to do it better. And yesterday, my students were the teachers.
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