When I was in high school, my language skills (or lack thereof) landed me in a remedial English class called Hurdles. I don't know what the curriculum planners were thinking when they gave the program that name, but the designation has cemented in my mind an enduring metaphor for the way I have viewed the relationship between grammar and writing ever since. Though I am now an English teacher in that same school and a published writer, I continue to be adversely affected by Hurdles English and other classes like it. As I write or talk, I still see myself proceeding from a starting block: the first sentence of my communication-to the finish line: the last sentence. Along the way, there are hurdles-arbitrarily placed, fabricated obstacles-which, depending upon my grammatical prowess, I will either clear or trip over. In Hurdles, I completed a blizzard of worksheets and memorized a lot of rules, most of which are now lost to time, but I did not learn much about language. I learned even less about writing, except that it is as easy as crossing a mine field. When I walked into my first classroom as a teacher ten years ago, I started out teaching in the manner by which I had been taught. The students in my culturally diverse English class worked from a yellow grammar skills book, suspiciously similar to the one I had used sixteen years earlier. I circled every error in their writing and made students complete Correction Sheets-a listing of their errors. I was attempting to straighten my students' grammar the same way my orthodontist had straightened my teeth: by force. Later, when I was assigned a course load that included both freshmen and seniors, I discovered that most of the seniors remembered little or nothing of what I knew they had been taught in their first, second, and third years. That's when I began to ask questions, but not about the failings of the students. I started with the basics.
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