Should Staff Be Able To Teach Their Own Work?

Where's the line between academic rigour and self-promotion?

Semester one of first year English. Week 11 had commenced with daylight levels and academic motivation hitting an all-time low, as we began to read Don Paterson’s 40 Sonnets. Tucked away at the back of the book was a description of its author, stating that he had previously been a lecturer at the University of St Andrews. My immediate reaction was, how is that fair?

In high school, it was normal for lessons to be on various aged authors and their work, whose language was several decades out of date, to be understood by young teenagers. While our teachers had most likely dabbled in writing of their own, there was no question of it ever reaching a school syllabus. We were strictly taught names that would be easy to find in any bookshop — Shakespeare, Brontё, Dickens. And this is understandable — it’s less tricky to grasp more niche aspects of a subject if you’ve already been able to wrap your head around the basics. In university, however, the structure couldn’t be more different. I was awed to find that past and current staff can easily include and teach their own work, just as though they were teaching household names. While this may be more significant for those of us studying literature, the debate remains open: is this fair? Personally, I considered it to be a bit of a cop–out. If a student were caught submitting an essay that they wrote months ago for an assignment due the next day, they would be accused of self-plagiarism. If that’s considered an academic crime, then how was this any different?

Of course, this is not to say that lecturers shouldn’t provide their own work as supplementary reading, to which there are a range of benefits. Students can feel assured that they are learning from someone with considerable expertise in their field. Real substance can be added to lectures, while explanations for anyone who may be struggling will be in a familiar tone. But when it comes to primary texts, the true heart of any module, the stakes are higher. There is far more power at play, as each decision or cut made over these texts will inevitably have a massive effect on how the module will play out. You could think of it as the X Factor of academia, where a handful of stars are made while plenty of others fail to qualify. Naturally, if you were given the opportunity to put yourself on a list which can transform novice writers into literary greats, there’s a high chance that bias will be involved in this decision. Perhaps some see it as a cash grab? Putting your name down as required reading is guaranteed to boost sales for a short while, pulling you back from the fringes of irrelevancy. Or maybe we’re overlooking the role of blind confidence? To consider your work worthy of sitting alongside some of the most well-established names in history is not exactly humble. 

Returning to the sonnets, it felt to me as if there was a place on the reading list already reserved for Don Paterson. As an author and ex-lecturer, he was well known to the university. He appeared on the list like an old friend who has stopped showing up to dinner parties, but whose chair still remains empty out of respect. With each spot that gets taken up by someone familiar, the potential for a fresh new voice is curbed. What if by keeping that chair empty, the chance to meet someone different has been missed? It’s almost like academic nepotism. If a university accepted a new student because they were already known to the admissions office, either through friends or family, there would be outrage. We know that this is unfair, as something like this would create one less place for someone equally as intelligent, yet without the advantage of influential networking. Don Paterson already has his connections; new authors do not.

Naturally, there are benefits of being taught something by its creator. Simply put, they know it best. If you’re looking for an abundance of detail on a certain topic, where better to get this than from the mind where it was first thought up? The original author’s ideas on their work are like gold dust, and may well be one of the strongest sources a student could wish for in an essay. However, if the author is seen as infallible, this can provide problems. When we learn about those outside the lecture theatre, many of whom have been dead for decades, if not centuries, we’re allowed to get messy. It’s a free-for-all of criticism and controversy. In their absence, we’re permitted to outwardly say if we don’t like or even can’t stand their work. We can disagree, argue, debate, and make up our own minds. However, once the creator of that work is standing directly in front of you, it becomes far too awkward to try to point out any of its flaws.

So, when we get down to it, who really benefits from this decision? Could it be that the writers and researchers, esteemed as they are, have found a way of staying within the cycle of relevancy for at least another year, while their Waterstones sales temporarily skyrocket? Or is this decision swayed toward the masses? The students are being taught what has been handed to them; the direction of their learning has already been agreed before they’ve touched down in Leuchars. In any case, we should be wary of whose word we take as gospel, if anyone’s, as unfortunately, nobody can be completely free from bias. Truly, I don’t think there is any malicious intent at play. It’s unlikely that a corrupt scheme has been hatched to spin a narrative or obscure the angle of a member of staff’s teaching. This would most likely be considered academic misconduct. All we have to ask ourselves is where the scholarly talk ends and the personal opinions begin.

Illustration by Eve Fishman