On the first day of the semester, I arrived a few minutes early for the remedial-writing course I would be teaching. My students at New York City College of Technology, part of the City University of New York, would need to retake and pass CUNY’s writing-assessment test before they could move on to Composition I and other credit-bearing courses. The day’s class period had officially begun; still, the rows of desks were empty. I ventured into the hallway, where a group of students had gathered, and inquired whether anyone was waiting for my course. They nodded and moved with uncertainty into the classroom.
These initially apprehensive students would turn out to be a dynamic, provocative group. But that initial wait in the hallway is an apt metaphor for the relationship of remedial students to their college. They have enrolled but remain on the periphery, just outside the classroom. As long as they are in noncredit-bearing remedial courses in reading, writing, or math, they cannot register for courses in their majors or advance toward a degree.
Many students who arrive unprepared for college become mired in remediation, burning through their financial aid before they have a chance to acquire an associate degree, let alone a bachelor’s degree. Half of all undergraduates and 70 percent of community-college students take at least one remedial course, according to a report released last year by four national higher-education groups. As a professor who has taught remedial writing for several years—many colleges prefer the term “developmental"—I’ve become intimately acquainted with the considerable obstacles these students face, as well as with the national debate over the merits of remedial education.
On that first day of the semester last January, the students introduced themselves and told their stories. A few had clear collegiate goals, but most had arrived at City Tech with a general understanding that college was a necessary step toward a career that would help pay their bills. One older student spoke frankly about her dyslexia and about dropping out of high school more than 30 years ago. She had recently acquired her GED and was determined to make a go of college. Her courage prompted others to approach me after class and explain that they, too, had learning disabilities.
One young man’s goal was to get out of the projects. For three women who were course veterans, this semester was their last chance to pass before being dismissed from the college. (Students can take the full-semester version of the course only two times.) One agitated young man arrived late and objected to the structure of the class before he even saw the syllabus. A distinguished older man, a grandfather, silenced the room as he humbly discussed his military service, struggles with addiction, and subsequent incarceration. He hoped there would be enough quiet time to study at his current residence, a halfway house. The students applauded him.
As I looked at the 17 students—of many ages and nationalities—sitting in a circle, it struck me that this was a support group as well as a writing class. Come May, however, the 17 had become 12. Some stopped attending after the first week; others missed too many classes or too much work and had to withdraw. The remaining students progressed enormously. But this progress did not necessarily lead to success on the remedial-writing exam, a test with high stakes.
Burdened with this knowledge, some students became paralyzed during the test, or wrote weaker essays than they would have in less stressful circumstances. Of the 12 who took the test, which was handed over to certified graders, seven passed, a statistic with which I was uncomfortable. The results were surprising, but then, they usually are. The three young women who needed to pass did so, avoiding dismissal. The man who had complained about the syllabus withdrew. The two older students failed, but they passed weeks later, after taking an accelerated refresher course.
Given the unusually weak results, I questioned everything I had done to prepare the students. Because I direct City Tech’s developmental-writing program, I look hard at both my own pass rates and the strengths and weaknesses of our program, while also contemplating the growing national uneasiness with remediation at the college level.
Critics pose a simple question: If students cannot write, why should they be in college? My response is that students take remedial writing for three reasons: They were underserved by their previous educational experience; they lack the skills necessary for college-level work; or they did not take their education seriously before college. If we deny students the opportunity to pursue a college degree and potentially rectify any of the above factors, we hold many of them hostage to choices they made (or choices made for them) before their 18th birthdays.
All too often we hear the reductive narrative that these students are simply incapable of college-level work. Allow me to be clear: These students have potential. Some didn’t take their placement tests seriously enough, not realizing the repercussions. Some graduated from high schools that emphasized preparation for other types of standardized tests, and so those students had little writing instruction. Some are non-native speakers. Some would probably have passed the initial placement exam had they familiarized themselves with the test format and prepared in advance. And some, it must be acknowledged, will not make it through the class or through college.
Despite the pressures, frustrations, and sometimes feelings of failure, I opt to teach these courses because I believe that if we fail to offer these students a chance, we will have failed at public education. President Obama has spoken about the need to improve access to education, to halt the increasing stagnation of social mobility in the United States. Serving students who are most in need is a crucial component of public education.
The difficult yet uplifting narrative of the remedial-writing course I taught last spring repeats itself, with minor variations, every semester. But those who overcome the myriad challenges of remediation have the opportunity to pursue their degrees. I am thrilled when I glimpse former students in the hallway—a space that has different connotations for them now that they have navigated remediation. Recently I crossed paths with the older veteran who had inspired his classmates to applaud him. “It’s good to see you,” I exclaimed. I meant much more. He nodded, grasping the unspoken import. We shook hands and exchanged news, the hallway bearing witness. Then we parted, off to our respective classes.