For my English 9 Final exam, my freshmen were to write a literary analysis essay which compares the stages of the archetypal hero’s journey in Homer’s Odyssey with the corresponding stages in a recent film of their choice. Simply placing the two side by side was not enough–they had to actually deconstruct and analyze. They had to cite text evidence and learn to paraphrase scenes from the film in order to use specifics to support their comparisons. They had to draw inferences, seek common threads, and extend those threads beyond art into the universal truths revealed by the archetypal hero and his journey.

All last week, we did prewriting activities in class, reviewed effective introductions and conclusions, practiced paragraphing, paraphrasing, transitions and analytical commentaries. We discussed how to select evidence to support a proposition, and we examined old drafts of past assignments. These skills, this thinking, is what we’ve practiced all school year.

Monday, during the two-hour block, the students were provided computers to word-process and polish their final drafts, based on their hand-written notes. 

I told them my expectations were high. I told them that A’s would be rare, that I would be hard to please. I asked if they felt prepared for the challenge, and they said yes. And then they did something that startled me.

For two hours straight, the thunderous clackety-clack of forty-three computer keyboards roared constantly, as if the world’s longest freight train were speeding down the hall outside. Two hours of focus. Two hours of dedication to a task. And the work they produced was among the most fantastic writing I have ever read in my career. Mind you, these are regular freshmen, not honors or pre-AP. In fact, these are students in the freshman intervention program that I coordinate. And not that length is the basis of good writing–but the shortest essay of the lot was just shy of four typed MLA pages. The thinking was superior. The reasoning was profound.

And in the end, they did something: they tipped their hand. They have revealed what they are capable of. Today, when I met with them again for the wrap up, I told them how proud I was of them, how they had not only risen to the challenge, they had exceeded my highest expectations. As they received their grades, they cheered with pride, many celebrating the highest grades they’d ever earned in an English class–and they truly earned it. I only wish I could make copies of those essays and give them to each of those students’ sophomore teachers and say “Here! This is what you’re starting with! Don’t let them get away with less!” 

But kids know how the work the system. They know that if they do just “enough,” many teachers won’t ask them to do much more, as long as they do just enough–do what is sufficient. Somehow, this time, I pushed some secret button which spurred them to not settle with just “enough.”

Every so often, I find myself falling into certain catch phrases that manifest in my teaching. After sufficient appeared in a vocabulary list, the phrase I find myself repeating has been “don’t settle for sufficient, always aim for proficient.” Despite all our talk in education, I think we settle for sufficient far too often, perhaps out of necessity. I just takes so much darn energy to push everyone to be proficient. Instead, we ought to help them push themselves. 

So just now, as I’ve typed this, I’ve decided what I am going to do with those essays. Next September, each of my students is going to receive a package from me. In it will be this final essay and printouts of their other best works from this school year. In addition will be a note from me, the gist of it this: “Remember, this is what you are capable of. Start here. Do not settle for less.”