I used to be a good student. I went faithfully to class, did my homework, participated in class discussions, and made sure my professors knew my name. I even made some "insightful" comments once in a while during class. Sure, I didn't always enjoy my classes, and I sometimes struggled to stay awake. I found that a can of pop in one hand can do miracles, though. It didn't even need to be a caffeinated drink--just something in my hand, something to do besides listen, take notes, and try to seem interested.

But I graduated last year, and now I'm a graduate student. I remember them from when I was in college. They were the older students who came rushing in, right at the start of class, dragging an odd assortment of bags, books, and papers. They always had plenty to say &endash;too much it often seemed&endash;and they asked questions. A lot of questions. My fellow undergrad students and I would look at each other, roll our eyes, and take another swig of Mountain Dew, Doctor Pepper, or that day's beverage of choice. We attempted to look interested, and every once in a while we would throw in an "academic" comment. But our goal was graduation, and this class was just one more hurdle to overcome.

I met my goal. I graduated. I got a job. And I found out that being a good student is quite different from being a good learner. As a student, I did learn in many of my classes. In fact, I'm sure I learned in all of them. I generally enjoyed the subjects, and the work I did was good work. But a well-done test, paper, or project is not the premiere goal of a college class. Learning is. I may have interacted with the material, dutifully taken notes, and diligently produced quality work, but my learning was shallow. I didn't have an "audience."

As an English teacher, I often stress to my students the importance of audience. "Who are you writing to? What is important to them? What will interest them?" I encourage them to create a vivid picture of their audience and to write with this in mind. The clarity of their writing often hinges on this understanding. If a freshman knows that he is writing a letter to a real businessman&endash;as opposed to merely his "real" teacher&endash;he is apt to take the revising and editing process more seriously. If a sophomore understands that her story will be read before the third-graders at Mills Elementary, then she is bound to seek more creative, vivid words and to create intriguing characters. After all, she can't disappoint the kids!

I might never have applied this concept to learning, except that I realized this summer that I am, in many ways, one of those graduate students we used to smirk at. While I was jumping through the hoops, working for the grade, they were learning. I was trying to get the "A;" they were looking for answers to specific questions. They knew what they wanted to learn, and they knew why. And now, so do I.

I look for specific strategies to help my freshmen write with coherence and clarity. I listen for ideas to use in my expository writing class. I ask questions because I genuinely want to understand, to know how to make my classes better. When I begin to settle back into my old routine, I remember Travis' eager questions or Chad's sudden outbursts. I picture vividly Cami's closed-off face, or Stephanie's trusting expression. And I am once again engaged.

True, part of my eagerness may come as a result of the "deadline panic" syndrome: school will be starting again soon. I need to be ready. But more than that, I think, the difference lies in my audience. I know who I will be teaching. I may not know their names yet. I probably will not even recognize most of them. I do, though, know "my students," and as a result, I am a better teacher, a better learner.

--Molly Sloan (July 1997)
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