Two Ideals in Constructive Criticism

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

I can’t think of a worse way to introduce criticism. Invariably, the receiver will be inclined to take the following comment personally. There’s something about the criticizer “sugar coating” the criticism that seems to make it that much more of a personal attack. I can honestly say that I would never recommend a person to open criticism in this way.

Criticism in itself, however, is an important part of progress. No one can make the claim to have never made a mistake, and it is often through the comments of others that these mistakes are recognized. It appears, then, that criticism exists in two forms: “good” and “bad”.

I’ll answer the easy question first. What is “bad” criticism?

When I was in sixth grade I had a teacher who I will rename Mrs. Blue. Mrs. Blue, I feel no remorse in saying, couldn’t have been suited worse for her job. She was quick to anger, a very unfortunate trait for a woman constantly surrounded by herd after herd of eleven-year-olds. What made it worse was that Mrs. Blue had seemingly resigned from trying to teach her students the wrongness of the actions that brought on her anger. Instead, she was willing only to express her violent emotions through, you guessed it, “bad” criticism.

I took some time deciding which of Mrs. Blue’s quotes I wanted to use as an example here; there are a lot of examples. Daily, she would take a student in “private” to reprimand them. Obviously, the availability of these quotes in my memory proves that her efforts for privacy were either completely half-hearted or intentional failures.

“I can’t believe you were screaming in the classroom!” I remember hearing her hiss at a classmate after they let out an outburst during a group activity. “You’re acting like a baby!” She sent the student back to his seat and grumpily continued class.

Mrs. Blue’s criticism is “bad” for apparent reasons: she insulted the student instead of pointing out the mistake and its negative effects. Criticism should not be designed to offend the receiver. Clearly, this works against the goal of the criticism, as the offended party is less likely to take into account the criticizer’s point of view. In Mrs. Blue’s case, I think she had been withstanding the same flaws of children for so long that she lost the energy required to continue being an effective teacher.

As I see it, “good” criticism has two main elements: it addresses a fixable problem and supports the comment with reasons why a change is necessary. Consider how differently the student would have felt if Mrs. Blue would have said, “You need to stop yelling, the other students can’t hear each other when you do.” The comment holds no less authority than her original wording, and has the added bonus of not being a blatant attack on the student.

Yes, I recognize that most criticisms between adults do not include the blatant offensiveness of Mrs. Blue. I’d argue that anything that doesn’t make a point of including the “good” criticism guidelines is a form of “bad” criticism. If the problem addressed is not fixable, the criticism can only work to hurt the relationship between the two parties without improving any performance. If no reason for necessity is understood, the criticized party may be inclined to believe the criticizer has no motivation to comment other than the desire to observe others’ flaws.

“Good” criticism will be an extremely important part of our class project. Tutors, by definition, will need to be critical of those they tutor. In this case, I think that sticking to my definition of “good” will be invaluable in keeping tutor/tutee relationships constructive. With luck, no one will end up taking anything “the wrong way”.

Liberal Education and the Dismay of GenEds

In her essay, Carol G. Schneider argues that the perceived importance of liberal education has steadily been declining in recent years. She cites the proliferation of “general education requirements” as one of the symptoms of the problem, and I couldn’t agree more.

In class, we briefly discussed our opinions on general education classes, and I think it was agreed that the main objective of GenEds is to give students of all disciplines the opportunity (and obligation) to have diversity in their education, to briefly study something they would otherwise miss. Schneider gives a list of these potentially missing things, mentioning “integrative learning” and “cross-cultural knowledge” among others (65). She argues that modern universities try to ‘fill in the blanks’ that a departmental major leaves with general education requirements.

In a previous reflection, I expressed my deep satisfaction with one of my general education classes, CLCV 115: “The Mythology of Greece and Rome”. While this class stood out as an exceptional intellectual experience for me, I must say that the majority of my general education classes were a pain to take, and I’d be wholly surprised if that sentiment wasn’t shared by at least a majority of students. It is no secret (in fact, it is often openly said) that most people take GenEds to get them “out of the way”. (Schneider even mentions this specifically, but I think I’ve heard it too much in the past four years to cite her with the idea.) The root of this sentiment is no secret: GenEds are purposely different from a student’s chosen path of study, often in subjects they have no interest in. Even with the broad choices available, it is unlikely to find classes filling each requirement without at least one you’re less than excited about.

The immediate solution comes to mind: eliminate general education requirements. If there is such general distaste for forcing these classes on people, it seems logical to fix the problem at the root. This, of course, is counterproductive to the big-picture-goal. These classes are distasteful because they are so foreign to a student’s chosen curriculum. The solution isn’t to eliminate the foreign element, but to integrate it more effectively.

Schneider argues for an increase in all of the “core liberal education requirements” in every possible major. While her plan may be effective in eliminating the need for general education classes, I don’t think it addresses the larger problem of full integration. It’s true that any discipline could be skewed to include at least a basic understanding of all of the basic liberal education goals. What’s missing, it seems to me, is the diversity of class topics that made CLCV 115 so alluring to me.

My idea, instead of eliminating GenEd requirements, is to move the requirement to a higher level: something like an obligatory minor. In addition to the classes that make up a student’s major, a core of classes would be required that must be significantly different enough to represent all of the “blanks” left by the main concentration. The subject of these classes is up to the student; the only requirement is that the “minor” classes represent a core of liberal education goals different than that of the major.

I recognize a major opposition to my plan: a forced minor would increase the amount of courses required to graduate. I see this as the price of insuring a “complete” liberal education for a student, and one that they can absolutely be interested in. If the goal is increasing the importance of core liberal education, I see this as an option in reaching that goal. Schneider writes that we are on the forefront of “an era characterized by greater expectations in every sphere of life” (76). Our response to this challenge should come from our commitment to improve the effectiveness of our education, instead of letting it decline.

A Common "Enemy"

(An off-topic note to the professor regarding reflection titling: I’ve always had an aversion to titling my writing. Something feels confining about naming the entire piece, and I usually feel inclined to let the body of the text be the only area where the reader might get an idea of how to classify the work. I have a feeling this is what you were thinking when you asked us to title the pieces; without a title, I can be lazy in my adherence to a topic. In the effort of learning, I’ll try titling from now on and see how it changes my reflections.)

Last year, I was given the opportunity to teach a zero-hour, seven-week course to a class of incoming freshman in my department. The class, essentially an “Introduction To Basic University Skills” course, was basically a joke, academically. Without any credit hours, “grades” weren’t really a concern. I could assign homework and require its completion, but in the end I was just giving them a pass/fail grade (with no GPA weight.) There was little reason for these students to put any work or attention into the class.

The true reason for the class, besides the few useful skills presented (compass usage, résumé designing, job interview tips,) was to have these freshmen meet other freshmen in the class and develop contacts early on. They would, after all, be most likely to find at least one of their fellow NPRE students in each major-related class they took for the next four years. My real job was to foster these relationships. Get the students working together.

Previous teachers of this course all gave similar advice: the deplorable ceremony of “ice-breakers”. I hate ice-breakers. I consider ice-breakers the least creative (perhaps laziest) way to get conversation moving. I was determined not to fall on the crutch of “go around the circle and tell the class your favorite movie” or “line up in order of birth date in five minutes”.

Without any other reason than it amused me, I had each student on the first day tell me their favorite animal. Then I told them if I forgot their name, and forget their name I surely would, I would be calling them by their “spirit animal”. The class seemed initially confused and probably thought I was lying. Only fifteen minutes had passed, however, before I couldn’t remember a spiky-haired kid’s name in the back row, and referred to him as “The Antelope”. (As a teaching note: for reasons I can’t explain, it was and is easier to remember a person by their favorite animal than by their given name. There is a chance, of course, that this is a behavior unique to my brain, and other teachers have no problem learning human names.)

The antics continued. I made it a regular routine in my class to do something for (to?) the students that they wouldn’t expect and would generally weird them out. The second day I made them enter a vote in the decision of which is better, Dinosaurs or Free T-Shirts. The losing team (Free T-shirts, by only one vote,) had to sit at the very front of the class, the winning team got the (apparently more desirable) seats in the back. During another class period, told them we were going to end class by taking a short exam on the quad. After seating them in a big circle out on the grass, I initiated a giant game of Duck Duck Goose.

Besides chronicling the fun I had confusing a class of twenty-five freshmen, this essay should convey the lesson I learned in getting the class working together. Because they always had something to talk about (namely, their possibly insane instructor,) the students became talkative right away. I quickly observed the root of my solution: no one felt awkward talking to each other, because I had already given them a much more awkward class hour.

I think this principle could be translated to a managerial concept. The individuals, with a common “enemy”, act with added cooperation among each other. I was actually pretty surprised that this idea didn’t come up in the Drucker discussion we had on management earlier this week. While we covered the idea of a manager keeping cordiality with his or her workers, we didn’t rate the effectiveness of an “enemy” manager, someone who the workers can mutually aim their cooperation.

I anticipate the counterpoint: an “enemy” manager would only work to decrease productivity. They would alienate the workers, make them less likely to do their best work. I’m not saying it’s the best solution, but I think deliberately giving the workers something in common could prove to be a step towards good alignment.

5

I can’t help but simplify “intrinsic motivation” to “liking it”. I accept that there may be a distinction. Perhaps you don’t have to like something for it to be motivating in and of itself, but I can’t think of any such examples off the top of my head. (It seems that if you don’t like something, the only reason you’d do it is for an outside reward or punishment.)

If, then, we’re on the topic of an experience where my motivation was “liking it” and “liking it” alone, the example that immediately comes to mind is CLCV 115: The Mythology of Greece and Rome. I briefly mentioned this course in one of our discussions as something outside my field of study that kept me interested.

As a preface: CLCV 115 did not

- have any relevance towards my major, minor, or academic plan of study in any way

- teach me any practical skills that I would later use in any other class

- grant me any academic knowledge that I have since used in any useful way

- seem important to me at the time or since

The last bit seems like a strong insult towards the course, but understand that I mean it in the most endearing way. Regard it the way you would an elderly wife calling her husband “that senseless oaf.” A loving way. I wouldn’t remember the course with such admiration if there was any other gain than the pure joy of taking it.

The class was in no way one that I was innately good at. I am good at taking math tests. I am good at answering questions where there is one correct answer. I am good at applying given rules to new situations and producing a single, clean, concrete result. I struggle in situations where the prompt may be, “What does Zeus’ part in the creation of the Minotaur say about the ancient Greeks’ view of omniscience?”

It should be noted (as context) that Zeus was well-known for his habit of seducing and impregnating mortals. As far as pregnancy-success rates go, Zeus holds the global record, hands down. Literally every one of Zeus’ recorded liaisons ends in a baby.

Zeus, it may not be commonly known, also had the ability to take any form he chose. One time he chose to appear as a bull. This bull, being Zeus and all, was so ravishing and utterly magnificent that the queen of Minos (now Crete) was instantly enamored. Her husband, chagrined as he was, accepted his wife’s obsession and set out to find a way to allow her to satisfy her desire.

King Minos commanded a local engineer, Daedalus, (who later built the perilous wings for his son, Icarus,) to build a cow suit for his wife so that she may successfully (in an anatomical way) invite the Zeus bull’s affection. Daedalus did, so Queen Minos did, allowing Zeus to.

Without fail, a child was soon born. “Child,” of course, being a stretch of the term: apparently, the godly shifting of form had impact on Zeus’ DNA, and the child was born half bull. The Minotaur (“Minos” + “Taurus”,) a monster, was nonetheless King Minos’ son, and no one had the heart to kill it. Instead, the ferocious, deadly creature was put into a labyrinth so that it could never cause any harm. (Later it was slain by Theseus, but that’s neither here nor there.)

I loved learning that absurd background of an even more absurd fictional creature, and I love that I still remember it. Something about ancient lore is extremely interesting to me. I did well in CLCV 115, despite the aforementioned lack of reason or academic worth.

To answer the prompt: it is interest, the “liking it” motivation, that accomplishes the most. Since this motivation is highly personal and almost completely impossible to induce unless it already exists, I can’t say that it will be useful in any way towards our final project. It’s worth noting, however, that if “liking it” is felt in a person’s course or profession, that person would be best off pursuing that feeling, if only because it will give them happy memories.

Reflection 4

There are a number of things the past three reflections have taught me about my own writing.

ONE

I can’t stand a formal tone. I thought, at first, that a formal tone was appropriate for these writings. It seemed to me that my reflections would read better if I used the long words and spotless grammar characteristic of sentences you would read but not speak. This is not the case. After re-reading my first two reflections, I recognized that the over-wording sounds awkward and makes the writing ineffective.

In my third reflection, I attempted a casual tone, and I consider the results successful. I tried telling a personal anecdote to answer the prompt, which brings me to

TWO

Telling a story is effective. The cohesive narrative of Reflection 3 was much more effective in presenting a point than the essay-style writing of Reflections 1 and 2. This idea, in fact, is not one that just currently occurred to me.

I have recognized the strength of a plotline for a while now. In my senior year of high school, I was given the chance to present a speech in front of the National Honors Society student body and their parents. My only criteria were that the speech must define ‘character’ and present its importance. After a few unsuccessful rough drafts, I decided to frame my speech around the story of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The story of the Turtles, albeit simple and predictable, gave a perfect example of strong character: though the public doesn’t respect or thank the Turtles for what they do, the teenage heroes continue fighting crime because they know it is right. I consider the speech effective, not only because a few students mentioned it later but many parents did, too. One father told me later that he looked up the Ninja Turtles when he got home, having never heard of them before and, through my speech, convinced that they were a fictional group worth knowing.

The secondary bonus of telling a story is that the writing flows quickly and smoothly, as opposed to the choppy, tiresome process of essay-style writing. In this, I recognized

THREE

I like my writing more when it is done quickly. In my own opinion, my writing that flows out naturally and rapidly is much more effective than the writing that I have to trudge through. I am not ignoring the negative side to this method: quick writing is exceedingly simple and sometimes lacks the deep thoughts of well-thought-through writing. Maybe I am misunderstanding the assignment, but I believe that a “reflection” should be exactly the product of quick, natural writing: an expression of the thoughts that are most prominent in my mind at the time. I feel much more confident of my writing when I know it describes thoughts that I can stand behind, and with quick writing, there isn’t as much time to lead myself away from my true point.

THE EFFECT

of these three rules of writing are what the reader finds in Reflection 3. I am happy with this. Reflection 3 basically concluded with the idea that finding common ground with others is a method of inducing conversation. I saw this idea working perfectly in class. Whether you intended to or not, Professor, you brought the level of conversation to its peak when you asked about which exams we liked, and then soon afterwards when you brought up video games. College exams and video games are two subjects that most people my age know a lot about, and it was immediately obvious that conversation flowed actively between the classmates when they realized their common ground. I don’t propose the idea that my reflection inspired this. Instead, I am proud that the idea I presented clearly in my writing later had its effectiveness proved in class.

TO SUMMARIZE

Write quickly, simply, and with a story in mind.

Reflection 3

While the suggested topic of this reflection is probably referring to facilitating conversation in a group setting, like that of our class, I can’t help but let my personal experience leak into my response. As it is, the prompt reminds me of an experience I endured a few summers ago.

My roommate’s name was Ben Builit. He and I were participants in a program for engineering students at the University of Illinois who wanted to learn about nuclear power in Pisa, Italy. (It can be noted that Italy at the time did not, and does not today, have any operational nuclear power plants. The choice of location for the program remains a mystery to Ben, I, and the other students.) The plan was to spend six weeks in Italy, taking classes on weekdays and excursions on weekends.

The rooms where we stayed were rented out of an apartment building two minutes from the Leaning Tower. The rooms were not large, containing one room divided by a half-height wall, with a bathroom attached the size of a closet. The “bedroom”, which was the northmost half of the large room, held two beds separated by about six inches of empty space. The observant reader should recognize that I am building the setting to be a haven for interroommate tension.

I did not like Ben upon meeting him. He was quiet and detached to the point of seeming unfriendliness. He was much more content reading a book or sleeping than he was in sustaining a conversation. To be honest, though, I wasn’t really bothered by his silence. More, I couldn’t stand the fact that I couldn’t make him laugh.

Humor is my conversation lubricant of choice. (I suppose this is a partial answer to the reflection topic.) I am a firm believer in the idea that making someone laugh is the first step in gaining their respect. Although I don’t believe that it’s right, it seems to me that one is inclined to give authority to someone who can make them laugh. Worthy of it or not, humorous people, if their humor is appropriate, seem smarter, more charismatic. These presumptions allow conversation to flow more freely between two people. Humor, however, seemed to have no effect on Ben.

I won’t bore the reader with a paragraph summarizing my numerous failed attempts at making Ben laugh. Truly, this part of the story is uninteresting and unimportant: let it simply be understood that I tried and I failed.

It wasn’t until the second week of classes, in fact, that I caught Ben expressing amusement at all. Our Italian Language and Culture professor, Irene, was asking for the name of a prominent American sports player.

“Dennis Rodman,” I offered. She repeated the name hesitatingly.

“Den-nis Rod-man,” I said the name slower, really stressing each syllable. Irene walked over to the board and wrote: D-A-N-I-S R-O-B-B-I-N.

She looked back at me and spoke confusedly, “Danis Robbin?”

The class burst into laughter. My eye caught Ben, nodding and chuckling lightly. I felt excitement rise through my chest. I had found Ben’s sense of humor.

I wasn’t sure what it was about Irene’s inability to properly reproduce the name “Dennis Rodman” that tickled Ben, but I was determined to find out. As is sometimes the case, my first try turned out to be effective. That evening when I found him in our apartment reading, I dialed up my most outrageous Italian accent and shouted to him, “Buon giorno, Ben-ne-jammin Byoo-leet!”

Success was mine. Ben was laughing. I had crossed his defenses.

Although it serves little purpose to the reflection, I can’t help but give the expected happy ending. With Italian mispronunciations as our inside joke, Ben and I became good friends and went on to have many meaningful conversations.

I don’t place humor as the skill required to encourage conversation. Instead, I’d say it was the determination to find something in common with Ben that allowed conversation to eventually flow freely. Similarly, (and perhaps even in the group setting of our class,) “breaking the ice” by finding similar ground could work as an effective mechanism to encouraging conversation.

Reflection 2

Are the prompts for this reflection opposites? Is the choice between failed group efforts and successful group efforts? Did I misread?

IN ANY CASE

I consider the fight against media piracy, particularly through the internet, an example of a partially failed, partially successful group effort. In the schema I have in mind, the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) is the losing group, while independent artists and their fans are the winners.

The reader should be quickly losing confidence with my authority: the RIAA, everyone knows, is all-powerful. Optimism on the side of unlabeled artists is naive. Despite the public distaste for the RIAA's anti-piracy methods mounting nationwide, (please excuse that mouthful of a half-sentence,) little progress seems to have been made by The Industry's opponents.

FIRSTLY

I have in mind a particular definition of "piracy": stealing. Via the internet, files containing copyrighted material (most commonly music) are easily downloaded, granting property ownership for free. My definition continues to verify that neither party favors piracy. The good guys hate piracy with the same vigor as the bad guys, for the exact same reason: it is a sap on their livelihood. Piracy, in my argument, is colored "bad".

AS AN ASIDE

I accept the argument that piracy may, in fact, have positive effects for independent artists, as it awards wide exposure to small-time artists that would otherwise have a hard time spreading their music. True, I say to those making this point, but such a narrow picture of things isn't appropriate for my point. Ultimately, piracy takes money away from the creators. Let the "bad" rating stand.

TO START

I present a brief and highly simplified history of the situation:

1.) Music is invented by humans, possibly inspired by birds.

2.) Much later, an industry is founded to distribute recorded music.

3.) The recording industry is extremely successful, by financial terms.

4.) Piracy exists through many mediums, including copied cassette tapes, burnt CDs, and finally in its most powerful form, the internet.

The RIAA has made numerous efforts to combat piracy. When faced with the threat of burnt CDs, anti-copying mechanisms were installed on new CDs. When Napster became an easy avenue for piracy, the RIAA used its influence to push through legislation to shut down the p2p software, and even sued a few of its most prolific users. Most recently, the RIAA (along with other powerful groups with similar interests) worked with Apple to put digital "protection" on all media bought through the iTunes Online Store. Effectively, all files acquired through iTunes cannot be freely passed to other computers, other software, or even onto too many burnt CDs.

If the reader is skimming, this is the paragraph where I present the failed group effort as mentioned in the prompt. The RIAA is failing at stopping piracy. I think their failure can be blamed on the fact that their solution to the problem does not properly serve all of the members of their "group", which I am taking to include both the RIAA and its customers. While the anti-piracy ploys work to ensure the income of the RIAA and its clients, these methods hurt the customers. (I am assuming the reader understands the frustration and inefficiency of .mp3 digital protection.)

IN CONTRAST

I insist that independent artists are a group that is (more) successful at fighting piracy. More bands have started approaching piracy as a problem that must be conquered by morality, not by force. Increasingly, bands are selling songs (both digitally and on CD) straight from their homes, without filtering them through the "protection" of the RIAA. This solution immediately brings an element of trust to the artist/fan relationship, something I think (as Gawande stressed) is quite effective at bringing effective change.

SPEAKING OF GAWANDE,

I think that I can fit the independent artists' solution to piracy into his three elements of betterment.

INGENUITY is apparent in the software that allows bands to sell music directly from the artist to the fan over the internet. This technology is so new, in fact, that it has not yet been deemed entirely legal. (I will leave it up to the reader to deduce which heavily influential industry is fighting against this legislation.)

DOING RIGHT can be seen in the fans' decision to, instead of downloading the music for free, supporting the artists by buying directly from them.

And DILIGENCE, I suppose, is the years and years of opposition pirates gave the RIAA, never giving up on the idea that the current system is too faulty to keep.