Every freshman is required to take boxing at the Virginia Military Institute. I had the particular misfortune to have been registered—not by choice of course—for the 8 a.m. section. After rushing to formation and getting yelled at during breakfast, I’d hurry to change out of my uniform and make it to class. I’d slip on the gloves and quietly move onto the mat. As we started throwing jabs, I felt the pancakes shift in my stomach. My sparring partner (a friend from India company) was the same height as me, but he was full of muscle. Cam was like a Bull Terrier. He grew into a mature Pit Bull by graduation.
Our instructor was a member of the “old guard,” who had taught at the Institute from time immemorial. Although the course was only worth 0.5 credits, he announced that only a few people would receive an A. If you did a good job, you got a B. With such gravity and with his polo tucked into his sweatpants, he’d instruct us around the floor. Coach was probably in his late 50s, but it was well acknowledged that he could easily dispatch any of us. His hands were remarkably quick, and his shoulders moved with the grace earned by practitioners of the sweet science. Maybe some favored their chances, but most suspected that he’d cut us to pieces like a sushi chef slices tuna.
During practice, he’d tell us to throw at 60% power, but somehow Cam always got carried away. We’d start trading a few hooks, and then suddenly they’d start coming harder. I’d turn my glove to absorb them. The pancakes felt like bricks now. He’d start swinging harder and harder and harder. One would eventually stick me and rattle my skull. I’d throw down my gloves, “Sixty percent! You’re killing me, man.” He’d always nod and apologize, and 5 minutes later they’d start coming in hot again. I knew he didn’t mean to slug me, but Cam (like many cadets) was a born fighter. I preferred my class on Toni Morrison and a cup of coffee.
That said, I enjoyed boxing. It reminded me of Hemingway and Rocky Balboa, and what testosterone-buzzed-18-year-old doesn’t want to throw a punch? But more than that, it was the ethos of boxing that allured me. It was honest, tough, and radically egalitarian. You couldn’t hide or make excuses; you had to face the competitor and yourself, exposed by the unforgiving ring. What I loved about boxing was what John Grady Cole loved about horses: “The blood and the heat of the blood that ran in them. All his reverence and all his fondness and all the leanings of his life were for the ardenthearted.” Boxing celebrated—above all—the determination and commitment of the ardenthearted.
After my last sparring match, Coach complimented me on my way out. He then promptly gave me a B for the class. By graduation, my otherwise perfect GPA was spoiled by only two courses: boxing and another half-credit PE course (which involved an 80 question final composed of random nutrition and health science trivia). This used to bother me, but then I realized nobody cared about my GPA, and then I realized I didn’t even care. However, if a stranger looked at my transcripts, they would no doubt conclude that I was a physically feeble piece of intellectual cheese.
I still box, but only metaphorically. In Norman Maclean’s classic essay on teaching, “This Quarter I am Taking McKeon,” he outlines how great teachers are idiosyncratic and vary enormously in regard to style. He described one colleague as an “architect” and another as a boxer: “Joe Schwab punches a student all over the ring until he finally gets him in a corner and disposes of him. So Joe Schwab teaches like a prize fighter.”
As I’ve reflected on my own teaching during the last few years, this description continues to resonate. In a world of digital distractions and general apathy toward all things literary, I try to box my students with enthusiasm. I prowl around the room and get excited about their ideas. I punch them toward the text, toward the complexity of the interpretive act, toward the mystery of the aesthetic experience. Sometimes, I gesture wildly and raise my voice. I plead with them. Occasionally, I’ll throw markers across the room; they usually find this quite amusing.
Although I doubt that I could teach another way (teaching styles feel almost fated), this boxing seems apt for the modern classroom. Digital forces have conspired to wage a campaign of passivity; the feed and reel are rotating mirrors that ask only for limited, uncommitted attention. Distraction and detachment abound. But even good students can find a literature course challenging. It’s not transactional like a large-lecture biology course tends to be. You can’t sit and soak it up. There aren’t templates for notes or TAs furiously grading stacks of multiple-choice exams. Although certainly there is a field of knowledge to master, the center of an English course is dialogue. This demands active participation.
To throw pedagogical punches is not to berate students; it’s to engage them in the ring.
To throw pedagogical punches is not to berate students; it’s to engage them in the ring. Most of them just need a nudge, a little jab that’s meant to be blocked, feeling out the defense: “Zach, what do you think about that?” And then snap. His gloves are up, and he fires back a little hook, tentative at first but then stronger. I’m constantly shocked by the excellent comments that students withhold, either out of shyness or uncertainty. Other students throw good punches, but they look over for affirmation before continuing. All they need is a nod and smack of the gloves: “That’s insightful, Katie. Great connection.” Still other students are stuck in the corner, facing outside the ring and erratically shadowboxing the air. These students have spunk. They are trying but need some redirection. I give a couple taps on the shoulder and try to lure them back to the center: “That’s an interesting thought, Brad. Do you see that in the text? Could she be up to something else here?” Occasionally, you’ll get the heavy hitter, eager to throw as many punches as possible. Usually, they are very smart, slightly gauche, and learning to express their ideas in a social setting. I might deflect such students, forcing them to keep their gloves up and wait: “Ok,” I’ll nod, “What do other folks think about this question?” For the occasional belligerent fighter or rule breaker, you will need a conversation on the sidelines. But for most students, you can respond in the ring.
When students actively join the match, you can feel it. Class discussion begins to hum. They grapple for words. Heads swivel between points. Disagreement is collaborative and perhaps strenuous, but not adversarial. In such moments, we get caught in the discussion; the world outside the classroom (with its emails and obligations) is suspended. It’s far away, like news of your distant cousin. All we can see is the class and its flurry of ideas and responses. And then the bell rings. And it’s over. So we step out of the ring and pack up our gloves. The students leave. I exhale and hope that a few punches landed.
Image Credit: Conrad Ermisch
