Writing. Writing, writing writing. More of it needs to go on in law school. When I was a law student, I was shocked by how little writing a law student has to do in order to qualify for a law degree. Fortunately for me, I’d done a lot of it before I got to law school, preferred classes with papers because I knew I would do well in them, and had the extreme good fortune to be hired as a research assistant by a professor who believed he had a pedagogical obligation to his research assistants (which meant he had me do a lot of memos and writing, often on complex topics). Most of my colleagues were not in the same position. They feared writing and avoided it where possible, which the curriculum unfortunately permitted. And my experience since law school has taught me that the job of teaching law students to write tends to fall upon the law firms that offer summer employment to law students. This is a fact that is frustrating to the law firms, and unfair to those students who do not have the good fortune to land summer jobs. It’s also somewhat unfair to the students who do, in fact, land summer jobs of the sort that are really extended interviews for permanent employment after graduation.

[...] As I wrote the other day, one of my most difficult tasks as a teacher is to get students to focus on learning rather than on grades, to try to master the skills I am teaching rather than insist on being told what they need to “know” in order to get an A. In doing so, I may be insisting on what I ought to be insisting on if in fact I am trying to advance my students on the exceedingly difficult road to becoming excellent lawyers, but I may also be undermining my own professional advancement. How can that be? Well, it’s been clear to me for a long time that I pay a price with students when I am unable to simply tell them that they need to know and do “A, B, and C” to get a good grade. Those students give me terrible evaluations. And, indeed, I’ve found students tend to either love me or hate me. Those students who get that I’m pushing them to learn and do things they’ve never been taught to do and learn before love me. They realize learning is the result of the work they put into learning, not the result of what I give them in nice, neat packages to regurgitate to me as information they’ve memorized. But the bad evaluations not only hurt; they have an impact in the evaluation of my performance that would perhaps astonish those outside academia. (Why in the world would an organization give credence to the evaluations of terrible students — (whose evaluations, done anonymously, cannot be distinguished from the evaluations of excellent students?) [...]

It is reckless to give substantial credence to student evaluations, whether they are positive or negative. Think about it this way: would such an anonymous evaluation ever pass scrutiny under the Federal Rules of Evidence? Of course not. Anonymous, subjective opinions are inherently unreliable. Law schools rely on this otherwise inadmissible evidence because it is the least expensive way of measuring progress and it placates the students. Notably, they provide little training to their instructors (especially adjuncts) and provide little meaningful feedback from within the faculty.

I have been an adjunct lecturer at our local Law School for ten years. In teaching Civil Procedure to first year students, my goals are often inconsistent with the student’s expectations. Students want the clearest and most efficient path to getting a good grade. Grades, grades, grades. What will be on the exam? What are you looking for? Can I have more feedback please? Did I miss something that might be on the exam at the end of the semester? This cluster of questions defines their main priorities.

When you teach to these priorities, i.e., “teach to the exam,” you will get better evaluations. This has been my experience.

I do not teach to these priorities. In fact, my priorities are different. I want the students to learn how to analyze and solve problems, assimilate relevant law and take responsibility for how they approach the purpose, audience and format requirements that are inevitably tied to any procedural question. I do not spoon feed them the law, and I expect them to show up to class prepared and ready to discuss complex issues that they will confront as lawyers. I provide direct feedback, expect good work, and don’t accept unplausible excuses. This is not a popularity contest, and my goal is not to make friends (and certainly not make enemies). I treat the students with respect, and I make it clear when their work is good. As a partner in a relatively large law firm, I treat our associates pretty much the same way. Most of them respect me.

So my question is this: as a student, do you want someone to hold your hand up to the examination or encourage you to learn how to use a basic set of skills that will actually help you become a proficient attorney? The practice of law spoonfeeds nothing, and it can be unforgiving. You will be responsible for deadlines, calendars, dealing with judges, opposing counsel, employees and supervisors. In the middle of that, you will actually be practicing law.

My conclusion is simple: At least with respect to first year law students, evaluations have marginal value, if any. When I teach to the test, my evaluations are much better. When I force the students to think and take responsibility for their own learning experience, I am insulted or criticized in a manner that makes it clear that the “evaluator” may be being forced, perhaps for the first time in his or her life, to actually do some work. I take this as a complement.