To the editor:
I was absolutely appalled at the anonymous AP Literature and Composition reader’s summary of his time in Salt Lake City. I was even more appalled by his tone, which was condescending, arrogant and unapologetic, and by his sense of superiority. Far be it from me to evaluate how he might be as a teacher (especially if he had a bad night’s sleep, poor lamb), but his emphatic victimhood at the circumstances that accompanied the reading, which he signed up for, was more than off-putting; it was flat out reprehensible.
His attitude, that this whole event is beneath him, is hard to understand. Again, he chose to be there. He blatantly ignored his table leaders, skimmed rather than read essays and, behind the shield of anonymity, celebrated only giving a handful of 5s. He took it as a personal affront when he was asked to follow the rules. I feel especially bad for any AP student who suffered because of the negligence of this dismissive and self-pitying reader.
Worse, he used his entire experience as a microcosm for What’s Wrong With Education Today. The other readers are a part of this excoriation: While he gets up to give himself additional breaks, his colleagues “seem well adapted to the AP regimen, and to regimentation.” He, though, has escaped from Plato’s cave and has come back to tell us all … that the free coffee wasn’t very good.
This, while there are actual problems plaguing the state of college writing, from students uncritically using AI to assignments and essays that aren’t accurately evaluating student learning. With these legitimate concerns, it seems myopic to worry only that he encountered too few essays that contained “something insightful or fluent.” From that small sample, he concludes, “Is this how we’re educating the best and brightest, these college students of the near future? Are the vaunted humanities—assailed for years from without—rotting from within?”
A sharp reader might resist stooping to make such generalizations. A sharp reader might conclude that work written hastily on an unseen topic while myriad other concerns are influencing its writer will rarely be sufficiently fluent. But the author’s preoccupation with these flawed essays reveals something worse: an attitude more concerned with signifying his august tastes than celebrating some of the essays’ successes—which AP readers are explicitly tasked with doing. As many happiness scholars have noted, expressing gratitude is an often-effective way to combat negativity.
If I were the sort of writer who uses few examples to draw overconfident conclusions, I might argue that the anonymous author represents the worst sort of virtue signaler: one who simultaneously laments that the “army of food service workers, mostly Hispanic or Asian,” must serve all the readers, but who also overindulges on the free food (“my waistline expands”). He likewise points out the inequality women professors face (“That fits with the service-heavy load female professors typically shoulder at most universities”) while demeaning his own female table assistant-leader (ignoring her when she asked him to put away his phone). Dare one conclude that he is staring at the mere shadows of true virtue down in his cave of concrete convention center floors and thick black curtains?
Maybe I am overreacting. I have a visceral dislike for the sort of persona he displays here, and it was part of the reason I left higher education after finishing my Ph.D. At most academic conferences, especially in the humanities, where our findings aren’t as obviously helpful to the field as, say, the sciences, postering and self-aggrandizement were pervasive. Seven years ago, I became a high school teacher and now an AP Literature reader, and I’m happy to report that I find myself surrounded more by the optimism of youth than the performative jadedness of some of those in higher education.
I’m sorry the author wears his ennui and disillusionment as a signifier of his superiority. I’m sorry he celebrates his misanthropy alongside his impractically high standards. And it’s a shame that he was so disheartened by this experience, he felt the need to trash it publicly. To what end?
I was not at the author’s table this year. I’m sure my sunny disposition would have made me fodder for his future displeasure. (When he got to his table and saw so many people excited to start reading, he responded, “The enthusiastic vibe can’t help, either.”) But perhaps instead of focusing our energies complaining about the task of wading through essays or the state of writing today, we can embrace the role we have as educators. Few other positions offer that sort of direct influence on such a large number of people.
Hopefully, as we teach our students to write well and insightfully analyze texts, we can also teach them to see the hope that comes with possibility—to see that they can always find something to celebrate, as long as they try to have the right attitude.
Andrew J. Calis is an English teacher at Archbishop Spalding High School in Maryland.
