Simply syllabi

What does it take to write a syllabus? A computer, a calendar, and a stack of books on the one hand, and on the other hand a peculiar sort of magic that transforms a nebulous idea into a complexly detailed outline of an actual course. Equal parts sweat and art combine to balance practical questions (How many exams? How many pages of reading per week? Will anyone be willing to write or read over break?) with philosophical and pedagogical concerns (What kind of writing assignment will encourage ethical academic behavior? Should reading assignments challenge the gifted, pander to the mediocre, or engage the struggling student? Is there a way to do all three?).

I always seek to communicate expectations clearly and produce a syllabus that leaves no room for misunderstanding, but even my most carefully worded statements get misinterpreted. "Late papers will not be accepted," for instance, is commonly interpreted to mean "Late papers will receive a slightly lower grade but will not endanger the student's chance for an A." Similarly, "Plagiarism will result in an F on the assignment and may result in the student's failing the class" is frequently understood as "Students who plagiarize will have unlimited opportunities to revise papers to 'fix' plagiarized passages, with no negative effects on the student's grade."

The most frequently misunderstood part of my syllabus, though, occurs on the detailed schedule of assignments, which begins with a statement like this: Reading and writing assignments are due at the beginning of class on the date listed. No matter how carefully I explain what this means, every semester in every class a few students come to the first few classes unprepared. When I ask why they have not done the reading or writing assignments, they say, "I thought we were supposed to read those after class" or even "I thought we were going to read those in class." There must be a better way to get across the idea that work should be done before class on a given date, but if there is a foolproof method, I've never found it.

But there's always hope. At the beginning of the semester, a syllabus is simply a statement of hope: hope that I haven't forgotten anything important; hope that the reading and writing assignments will effectively engage students in meaningful learning; hope that students will understand my expectations and meet or even exceed them. The syllabus's clear, crisp prose and parallel bullet points suggest that everything is in under control, that the learning process will proceed in a rational, orderly fashion. As time goes on, though, hope falters and order breaks down. A syllabus might attempt to hold chaos at bay by banning cell phones in the classroom, but a sentence on a syllabus, no matter how sternly worded, will not prevent the terrorist attack, the forty-year flood, or the sudden alarming awareness that the class does not understand the distinction between poetry and prose.

A syllabus at the end of the semester is a mess, its hope deflated and its order hidden under frantic scribbles. The best moment for any syllabus occurs when the printer spits out the first copy and I hold in my hand a document promising hope and order. How do I write a syllabus that will deliver on that promise? That is the eternal challenge.