10

Nov

Collaborating doesn’t mean I’ll write your paper

During my junior and senior years of college, I signed up to work part-time at my school’s tutoring/writing center. While some of my fellow tutors were incredibly intelligent, high-achieving students, in general, the writing center was not terribly discriminate when it came to hiring tutors. On more than one occasion, I witnessed a tutor scan a student paper, fix a few grammatical errors, and hand it back to the owner, simply stating, “This is really good!”

While I am not suggesting that this is common phenomenon in most writing centers, it was a thought that came to mind while reading Hobson’s “Writing Center Pedagogy.” While I agreed wholeheartedly with Hobson’s assertions about the benefits of writing centers, I couldn’t help but have a few questions. If writing centers are, as Hobson claims, “sites within largely impersonal educational structures where students can receive individual attention” then writing centers should also continually make sure that these sites are offering the best help to student possible (169).

There is a common myth about writing centers; that they are a place where “dumb” students go to get help. Although this is untrue, I think it is a common misconception that hinders students from taking advantage of the centers (even if they really need them). Although representatives from writing centers present in class or teachers encourage visits, there is still only a small chance that students will actually take their work to the centers.

After convincing (or in some cases, mandating) a student to visit the writing center, how can we as teachers guarantee the quality of the tutor employed to teach our students? At many larger universities, it is possible to have extensive staff training (and if this training aligns with composition studies, so much the better) but this is not necessarily the case at smaller institutions. Just because someone is familiar (or excels in) a particular discipline, it does not necessarily mean that a person will good at explaining concepts to others.

However, if we include mandatory composition training, or insist that English majors be the only tutors, we are excluding a large population of potentially great writers. Just because someone is a physics major, does not necessarily mean that he or she is not as gifted of a writer as an English student. This leads me to question how to evaluate the effectiveness of tutors, which Hobson doesn’t really discuss. He mentions that writing centers can establish principles that “can be parsed out of the writing center community’s theoretical and methodological commitment to individualized instruction and collaborative leaning” but doesn’t explain how those principles are established (169). Should there be some sort of routine evaluation for tutors? A written test they must pass in order to tutor others? Is that unfair?

Looking back at this post, I realize that I seem to be cataloging the negative qualities of writing centers, when I don’t believe they are detrimental. I actually think that writing centers can be extremely helpful, especially when a school takes care that the student tutors are equipped and qualified to help others. After all, writing centers are indeed a “unique pedagogical space,” and should be a place where tutors and students can engage in meaningful relationships and mutual learning.

12 years ago Short URL Comments

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26

Oct

I should really stop using google*.

Before I came to graduate school, I had the opportunity to work in an environment where the majority of employees were native Spanish speakers, and most did not speak a great deal of English. Although communication could sometimes be difficult, like when I constantly mispronounced dólare (meaning “dollar”) so that it sounded like dolor (which means to be in pain), for the most part we were able to understand each other’s meanings. As we all grew more confident with language, I learned that their grasp of English and my grasp of Spanish allowed us to describe or assess situations in unique ways, much like the examples in Jay Jordan’s article, “Second Language Users and Emerging English Design.”

In his article, Jay Jordan discusses the importance of working with Second Language Users (referred to as L2 users) rather than simply “reinforcing efficiency” in the classroom (325).  Through a series of examples, Jordan illustrates the valid thoughts and viewpoints offered by L2 users in the classroom, and how one should see L2 students not as students who “leverage their positions as outsiders,” but as students who offer “subtle but arguably valuable” insights in the classroom. He argues that “it is possible to continue to address the needs of L2 users while at the same time slowing down to develop the field’s sense of what these language users already do well” (311).

Jordan writes that the increasing enrollment of L2 users in the university is in danger of creating a hostile linguistic environment (i.e. a group of “native” English speakers against those who are familiar with English as a second language) and a attitude of competition, where one type of language familiarity is privileged over the other. He writes that this spirit of competition is completely antithetical to the creation of a humane world. Instead, Jordan quotes Jessica Enoch, who writes that students (and educators) should endeavor to “immerse themselves in the various sides of the debate to learn how each side is made and remade through linguistic choice” (313). Jordan also references Kenneth Burke, who writes that “one does not merely want to outwit the opponent, or to study him, one wants to be affected by him, in some degree incorporate him, so act that his ways can help perfect one’s own- in brief, to learn from him” (313).

Jordan’s vision is a nice one; that of educators working with and incorporating traditions and voices from all levels of language uses. However, I feel as though Jordan is essentially skirting the elephant in the room, which is that occasionally, it can be hard to “slow down” one’s class for the sake of a few students. The examples he mentions in his article show L2 students who seem extremely confident with using English in a classroom setting, but those examples are not often the case. Sometimes difficulty with language can translate into difficulty with active participation, or with writing assignments (and this may be simply because students are not confident using English, or come from cultural backgrounds where contributing in class is not encouraged). After all, the English language is a fickle mistress**. There are constantly changing meanings and cultural assumptions behind certain words that some speakers are not immediately able to grasp. I think that it will be our challenge as teachers to find a way to engage these students using both our knowledge and their knowledge of English, while not catering exclusively to their needs to the point where we exclude all other students.

*I tried googling “snappy title about English” and then various variations on “quotes about studying English.” It didn’t really pan out.

**For the record, I tried to find an appropriate picture…but a search only came up with a picture of “Pretty Woman”, a burger, a fireman carrying an unconscious woman, and a man cutting a pie. Thank you again google.

13 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

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12

Oct

I was in a book club…but it was too much work

When I tell people I’m an English major, one of the first questions (besides “why?”) is usually “What’s your favorite book?” As much as I try to explain that choosing a favorite book is akin to choosing a favorite family member, the questioner often persists until I am forced to look wildly around the room and choose the first book that pops into my head (“Of course my favorite book is On the Road! There was that one part with that one guy…yeah…I…found its imagery both deep and meaningful! Really.”)

However, that was before I read the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, one of my honest-to-goodness favorite books. Written in epistolary form, the book is about a literary club formed by the islanders of Guernsey (an island between England and France that was taken over by Germans during WWII) during the Nazi occupation. As a result of this club, the islanders are able to not only gain a love of books and the written word, but are also able to grow together as a community.

Everyone should read this book!

The novel exemplifies Anne Ruggles Gere’s notion that “writing development occurs outside formal education” (76). In her article “Kitchen Tables and Rented Rooms: the Extracurriculum of Composition,” she examines the effectiveness of writing groups that occur informally outside the walls of academia.  She writes that some of the most meaningful writing can come from those who claim to hate formal writing instruction, and that when outside the confines of the classroom, these self-professed writing “haters” can discover that “Reaching out into the community with prose performances develops in participants the perception that writing can effect changes in their lives” (77).

Thus, literary communities that are “constructed by desire, by the aspirations and imaginations of its participants,” can be incredibly beneficial to struggling students, and can instill a love of writing and the written word that affects both the writer and the community. On the surface, this article reflects every composition teacher’s dream: a world where even those who dislike writing come to see its power and are able to interact with writing in a way that not only produces good writing, but also produces writing that inspires a whole community.

However, the article is not completely free of problems. As good of an idea as “extracurriculum” learning may be, Gere seems at a loss to explain exactly how the success of these outside learning communities can be integrated within the classroom. After writing that composition teachers should “avoid an uncritical narrative of professionalization and acknowledge the extracurriculum as legitimate and autonomous cultural formation that undertakes its own projects,” she then simply details a history of extracurriculum writing groups and states that those groups were good ideas.

This causes me to question whether we should attempt to integrate formal composition instruction and extracurriculum literary learning at all. Forming a mandate such as “go form a literary group outside of class time…and watch the Dead Poets Society for inspiration,” merely translates into more work that the students feel they are forced to put in…only now their work is bleeding over into their personal lives. Additionally, if there were a complete integration of this outside writing, there would be nothing significant about students from a low-income area forming their own literary groups, and writing and publishing work outside of school. If a classroom endorsed their works, the fledgling authors could also find their voices silenced, and their work more heavily edited.  I am not implying that this will be the case; just that it is something to worry about.

The beauty of the groups Gere writes about is that they are able to create something meaningful on their own, the very fact that they are outside the academy is what inspires them to write in the first place. I believe that we as composition teachers should look not only at the groups themselves, but instead attempt to discover exactly what makes these groups so meaningful to their participants. Perhaps then we could find a way to integrate those strategies into our classrooms, and then be able to use our classrooms as a platform for “communication” not “separation.”

13 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

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05

Oct

My research isn’t completely useless!

One of my favorite documentaries is the film “Mad Hot Ballroom.” The film focuses on a 10-week ballroom dance program in New York City’s public schools, which culminates in a city-wide competition. As a result of the course, students, teachers, and the community benefit, since the dance instruction provides the students with real-world skills, which they are then able to give back to the community (aka …it’s an awesome film).

Ellen Cushman seems to be arguing for this sort of program (although focusing on literacy rather than dance) in her article “The Public Intellectual, Service Learning, and Activist Research.”  She begins by pointing out that although those within the academic community possess vast amounts of knowledge, “academics have yet to realize their full potential in contributing to a more just social order” (820). In other words, members of the university intelligentsia spend more time researching for their own benefit than contributing to research that will benefit the community as a whole. In fact, Cushman writes that most research and publications simply “works more to bolster our own positions in academe than it does to widen the scope of our civic duties as intellectuals” (820).

Instead, Cushman advocates a mutually beneficial linkage of literacy studies in college and the community as a whole, or as she writes “extending access to the university to a wider community” (821). This means combining the Research, Teaching, and Service dichotomy found in most universities to address issues relevant to the outside community.

One method Cushman proposes is one she terms “service learning.” This attempts to test learning by teaching, or as Cushman writes “students enter the community in a sincere effort to both engage and observe language use that helps address the topics that are important to community members” (822).  This “give-and-take” is beneficial for students, professors, and the community. Students are able to relate their experiences to their class readings and assignments, professors are able to create a compendium of research for future projects, and the community gains literacy projects. In addition, a new curriculum is created that responds to students and integrates their research and ideas into real world solutions.

However, those who decide to employ this method should be careful that students are actually learning, and don’t just see themselves as “saviors” of the community, coming to the rescue of the poor illiterate masses. Cushman writes that one should “make knowledge with individuals,” rather than approaching those outside academia with intellectual snobbery (823). She offers a successful example of this idea in her YMCA program. Students were able to learn from their experiences, and the community also benefited from the implementation of much needed literacy programs. This method also leads to a greater integration of community and intellectual values, which in turn allows the community to have a greater say in how knowledge is made. Cushman writes that in this model “all language use and ways of knowledge are valuable and worthy of respect” (823).

While Cushman acknowledges that “few have offered a methodology that integrates the civic-minded mission of service learning with the politics of research in local settings,” her idea certainly has appeal (822). It is all too easy to immerse oneself within the academic bubble and then despair when our future students come to college without the necessary writing skills they need to survive university. If we can create some sort of curriculum that allows our students to learn from the community, and share their knowledge with others, we could create a more literate community that is appreciative of scholarly work (and hopefully a community with a greater appreciation for English majors as well).

And because it is just super-heartwarming…

13 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

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28

Sep

Ernest says Collaborate!

I have a complicated relationship with Ernest Hemingway.

On the one hand, who doesn’t like a man who says things like “Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut”? Clearly, lots of fun at parties.

On the other hand, he doesn’t seem like a very nice person (to put it mildly).

Even Hemingway believed in collaboration!

Regardless of my personal feelings on Hemingway, most people are familiar with his ideas regarding the ultimate hero (or “code” hero). One of the most valued qualities in Hemingway’s heroes was their ability to be independent, individualistic, and free-willed. Hemingway heroes (often writers or journalists) needed no one. However, Hemingway routinely talked and collaborated with others (especially those of the “lost generation”) during his own writing. Although Hemingway’s characters (such as Harry in Snows of Mt. Kilimanjaro) seemed to celebrate the idea of the solitary author, Hemingway himself participated in the kind of writing Rebecca Moore Howard explains in her article “Collaborative Pedagogy”.

Howard begins her article with an argument for collaboration, stating that the idea of a solitary author is not only outdated, but also completely false. She writes that “many go far as to assert that all writing is collaborative” (55). This idea is substantiated not only in the writing process, but is also seen in the way we seek outside sources when writing, using them as a form of collaboration and justification with our own ideas.

I appreciated that the article outlined some well-thought out strategies for collaborative learning. Unlike many of the other authors we’ve read, Howard actually provided concrete ideas for implementing her theories. Although I don’t necessarily believe I will be using all of her strategies, it is rare to find an article that neatly lays out practical examples.

Howard writes “When collaborative pedagogy aims to prepare students for work-place tasks, it should be designed not just on general precepts but also with a well-developed conception of work-place writing” (57).  Fair enough. Most students in first year composition probably won’t end up working within a discipline that requires excessive amounts of writing. Instead, many will be working with others on projects, presentations, proposals, and other official communications involving the letter “p.”

In addition to providing skills for the future (and by that I mean preparing them to be able to self-edit their papers and read their own work with a critical eye) group work also helps students to learn skills of cooperation and to evaluate the work of others.

However, if collaborative pedagogy is really the wave of the future, and as Howard suggests, the best method for teaching students to become better writers, then what is the point of learning anything about composition or how to teach it? She writes that one of the goals of group work “not only removes the teacher from directive instruction, but it also prevents students from assuming that role in their responses” (60). This idea is effective since it allows students to find their own mistakes, rather than have them pointed out, but in this case, if the teacher simply assumes the role of the facilitator, then why hire composition or writing teachers at all?

It is an interesting paradox. We want students to be able to write well, yet our positions as composition teachers depend on students not being able to write. When we are relegated to being mere “facilitators,” it diminishes us as educators, but we still want our students to be equipped with skills they can use in their future careers. Group work is definitely helpful, but at what point do we sacrifice our positions for student learning?

Another picture of Hemingway...cause he's stylish!

 

 

 

 

13 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

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21

Sep

I don’t actually hate grammar!

Before reading this article, I was a hardcore no-grammarist. Throughout years of mandatory grammar instruction, watching my peers fall asleep in class while we attempted to distinguish a participle from a gerund, I determined that grammar was completely useless and had no place in my teaching philosophies. However, Patrick Hartwell’s article “Grammar, Grammars, and the Teaching of Grammar” made me realize that I am a little more inclined to formal grammar instruction than I have always believed.

Hartwell’s article begins by acknowledging the controversy that exists between the “grammarians and anti-grammarians,” or more specifically, those in favor of formalized grammar instruction, and those against (206).

Hartwell then divides the studies of grammar into five separate sections. Grammar 1 deals with our innate sense of grammar, the way humans organize word patterns in order to convey meaning. Grammar 2 is more concrete; it refers to the fully explicit definitions and formal grammar rules (or “scientific grammars” as Hartwell puts it). Grammar 3 is  “not grammar at all, but usage” (210). Grammar 4 is “school grammar” and the rules that are “clear only when known.” These rules are the sort used in rubrics and grammar lessons at school. Grammar 5 is stylistic grammar, and deals specifically with the way we manipulate language

Although these individual definitions are fascinating, I was most interested in Hartwell’s conclusion. He examines a number of studies on the formal teachings of grammar, and writes that current research has seen no relationship between the study of grammar, and the ability to think logically. He states  “our theory would predict that formal grammar instruction, whether instruction in scientific grammar or instruction in the ‘common school grammar,’ would have little to do with control over surface correctness nor with quality of writing” (226).

Hartwell concludes that essentially it is useless to have any sort of formalized grammar instruction, since it has no effect on a student’s ability to think and reason. He writes that instead of confining it to a set of prescriptions we should appreciate and use language like “verbal clay, to be molded and probed, shaped and reshaped, and, above all, enjoyed” (226).

As utopian and nice as this may sound, this way of thinking is extremely problematic. Taken to its extreme, Hartwell seems to be suggesting some sort of linguistic free-for-all, guided simply by a student’s innate, Grammar 1 rules. Now, I realize that this is not necessarily the case, since Hartwell is merely writing about formalized grammar instruction, so here is a more immediate consequence:

As composition teachers, we expect student work to be readable, and relatively free of mechanical errors. We want students to write well and to write clearly, and convey their ideas with lucidity. Is this even possible if students are simply relying on the grammar in their heads? Maybe one-hundred years ago, when spoken and written English were more closely entwined, but when today’s students are used to thinking in terms of “LOL ok c u l8r” it is difficult to explain to them exactly why a sentence such as “the kitten was gave to me by my mom for my birthday” is problematic.

I’m not saying grammar is exciting…in fact it is often extremely boring. In addition, students with without formal grammar instruction may still be able to critically think and reason. However, I still believe that there needs to be knowledge of the why behind our seemingly arbitrary use of grammar. Perhaps it is simply the method of teaching grammar that needs to be changed, not the instruction itself.

 

In conclusion, grammar is important…Just check this out!

http://www.grammarblog.co.uk/

 

 

 

 

 

 

13 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

14

Sep

I’m tired of grading papers…Let’s Reform!

So much of what we think about when teaching composition deals with the here and now: what will happen when I get in the classroom, how will I engage my students and what pedagogical strategies will I use? What isn’t often mentioned is what happens after we deal with these issues. And deal with them. And deal with them.

What happens when our starry-eyed idealism and first year excitement fades and we become that teacher; the one who hates his or her job and takes vicious pleasure in marking every comma splice and misused gerund? (A clue: we reform!)

Greg Myers tackles this concept (among many others) in his article Reality, Consensus, and Reform in the Rhetoric of Composition Teaching. In the article, Myers does not propose specific reforms, but instead offers an attitude toward teaching, which he suggests will help to reconcile the educator with the multi-faceted and multi-definitional approaches to teaching composition. To do this, Myers examines the concepts of reality and reform through the lenses of Sterling Leonard, Peter Elbow, and Kenneth Bruffee. He concludes with the idea that although each theorist employed different methods and studies, each also called for some sort of reform, presumably to guard against the ennui of working within an institution.

Although his views are decidedly Marxist, Myers does raise valid questions. How do we as educators escape what Sterling Leonard views as  “sodden, idealess drudgery of themes swoopingly re-inked and at the nearest possible moment thrown into the wastebasket” (193)?  In Leonard’s model, Myers writes, the only possible escape is new research and new approaches.  However, Myers then states, “Problems will not be solved by new methods, or new theories, or new knowledge” (436).  How paradoxical!

This idea seems to call for a “change in the conditions of work, and a system that allows them [educators] to teach as well as evaluate” (435). Unlike the others mentioned in his article, Myers indicates that this idea is not necessarily implemented in a concrete way, but should be reflected in the mindset of the teacher.

Myers proposes a more specific example of how composition teachers can embody this mindset near the end of his article. He writes that “if we see that schools can be both places of liberation and places of oppression, then we have to ask how we are using what limited power over people’s lives that we do have” (429).  And that “one teaches the basic forms of academic writing, so that students who might not finish four years of college have a better chance of finishing, without assuming that there is anything liberating about these forms or about academic discourse” (436). Essentially, Myers is advocating that teachers must do the best that they can with what they have, knowing that what they are doing equips students for the future (whether they finish college or not). In other words, instead of focusing our efforts on pointless slaving for the man, or trying to claw our way out of a miserable existence with useless “educational reforms,” we should simply do the best we can and be aware that we are working within a social construct which may or may not be reality. I think Gandalf the Grey in the Fellowship of the Rings better explicates this sentiment when he states, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

(Although personally, I think the enthusiasm displayed in the video is a much better way to keep drudgery at bay…)

13 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

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07

Sep

Audience, Idea Synthesis and Dinosaurs

If I were to begin my blog post with an amusing anecdote about a dinosaur eating a Popsicle, most people would be extremely confused. They might think Did I click the wrong link? Why should I care about dinosaurs or popsicles? Did I miss something in the reading? I’m allergic to popsicles!  While these questions are (for the most part) valid, who is to blame for the confusion? Is it my fault as the writer for not knowing and adapting to my audience (students and educators in 7040)? Is it the reader’s fault for failing to become my intended audience? Or it is something else entirely? This brings me to Lisa Ede and Andrea Lunsford’s article “Audience Addressed/Audience Invoked: The Role of Audience in Composition Theory and Pedagogy.” In their article, Ede and Lunsford present contrasting ideas regarding audience roles (advocated by Ruth Mitchell and Mary Taylor, and Walter Ong, respectively). They then present an “alternative” suggestion for the role of the audience, (which is essentially a fusion of the two ideas).

According to Mitchell and Taylor, writing essentially doesn’t exist without the audience. They argue that writers must “continually modify their work with reference to their audience” (251). This idea is built upon the presupposition that a writer’s work exists solely for the audience, and that audience controls the direction and voice of a particular writer and/or work. Ede and Lunsford point out the obvious flaw in this model, stating that this degree of audience control over a writer’s work causes the writing itself to suffer, since the work  “becomes pandering to a crowd” [and heaven forbid we pander] (89).

The argument here is based largely upon the idea that there is some kind of truthfulness found in writing, and that the writer has a responsibility to convey that “truth” to the audience, regardless of whether the audience wants to hear it.

After presenting and rejecting the Mitchell and Taylor model, the authors consider the “Audience Invoked.” This idea springs primarily from Walter Ong’s article “The Writer’s Audience Is Always A Fiction”. Ong gives more power to the writer as an individual, and his or her ability to create an audience. Ede and Lunsford point out that while a writer can should have the power to both “project and alter audience,” he or she must consider that someone, sometime might read his or her work, and the audience cannot be only imaginary.

As a solution, Ede and Lunsford advocate a synthesis of the two ideas (a “can’t we all just get along” approach, for lack of a better phrase), stating that while the audience cannot be the sole focus of writing, it does play a vital role. They write that the audience isn’t specifically the addressed or invoked, but “all those whose image, ideas or actions influence a writer during the process of composition” (92). An audience is not always real, but it is not always imaginary either, since the authors seem to argue that an audience is necessary, otherwise what would be the point to writing (I realize this is the old “if a tree falls in the woods, does it still make a sound” reference, but I feel at this point it is apt).

The authors call for a collaboration of the writer and reader, stating that it is the writer’s job to write for a specific audience, but it is also the reader’s job to fit within the audience the writer has created (93). By now, we should realize that a reader and audience form an interdependent circle of life, and that, as the authors put it, “writers create readers, and readers create writers” (92). However, like many concepts in composition studies, the idea of a how a reader can become the intended audience is vague, as are the solutions for how a writer might learn to interact with this audience (imaginary or not).

13 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

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31

Aug

Process, Product, and the Perfect Ritual

Though my years of hunting for the perfect library nook, attempting study groups, and trying to write in Starbucks, I have at last developed what Lindemann refers to as a “starting ritual” for my writing (namely sit in quiet environment, preferably surrounded by books, set out notes and a pencil, turn on Mozart’s Requiem).  Although this blog post started with the same rituals, this time, the process was conscious one.

As graduate level writers, most of us are intimately familiar with the composing process. Although I have been drilled in the concepts of prewriting, writing and rewriting, it was interesting to see how Lindemann’s description of the composing process echoed my own. I have noticed that I tend to recreate not only the prewriting  “rituals” but also the writing processes on autopilot (for example, re-reading and editing as I go along, writing nonsensical margin notes, and reviewing the final draft).

While Lindemann’s article did allow me to consciously take note of my process as I write, I did take issue with the idea she presents regarding the necessity of imparting the composing process to other writers. There seemed to be a disparity between the experienced writer and the inexperienced writer (more specifically, how the experienced writer rose from the mundane ranks of inexperience).

On page 32 of her writing, Lindemann references Flower and Hayes, who write, “one way to improve people’s writing is to improve the planning process they go through as they write,” (29).  This strategy, while commendable, must contend with the idea that in order to become an effective planner/writer, one must have an understanding of the composing process. However, as Lindemann herself states, defining this process is a tricky business since “In real life, all these processes all interact with one another and are difficult to distinguish,” (31).

This article brings up the question, how can we expect our own students to master a process that we are unable to clearly define? For example, if a student of science were to attempt to follow our hazy process model, would he or she be able to understand? Could a person accustomed to thinking in concrete facts be able to not only follow, but also master a process that is almost essentially defined as “It’s important, so just do it”?

Like the Barthomae article assigned last week, it seems Lindemann offers problems without clear solutions. Both authors agree that there is a need to relate this process to younger writers, but just vaguely offer ways to do this.

Another (slighter) issue I take with this article is the overarching idea that process should take precedence over (or is equal to) product (a thought that was more overtly echoed in Murray). Although learning to employ the process (abstractly defined as it may be) is essential to become a “good” writer, in the long run, no one cares about the process. Conferences, senior projects, theses, dissertations…beyond freshman composition, academia doesn’t care whether a person achieved some sort of self-discovery through his or her writing; the only thing that matters is the finished paper.  I am not necessarily suggesting that this manner of thinking is correct, but it seems to be “the way we do things.” By this point in our education, most of us have realized that academia is slow to change, and often things are done a certain way simply “because.” So while we may advocate process over product, to study and live in the academic world, the idea is simply not viable.

While this article offered valuable insights, it left me with more frustrations than conclusions. I think I will have to be content with Lindemann’s explanation “ Clearly, writing is a messy business, rarely in real life as tidy as textbooks describe it,” (23).

13 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

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24

Aug

Imagine you’re someone else…

The first time I wrote an essay in a university setting was a five-page paper on the Romantic Poets for my survey of British Literature class. Although I was a naïve college freshman, I had already been imbued with the knowledge that my professor would not look kindly on a paper that began “Yo, there were these dudes and they liked nature and wrote stuff too and it was awesome!” Even if this was the gist of my essay, I accepted that the scholastic world has certain prescriptions and a particular language code that must be followed in order for a paper to become academically viable.  As I wrote the essay, I had to consciously tailor the language I used in order to imitate the style adopted by my professors and the rest of academia.

In his article “Inventing the University,” author David Bartholomae writes of the difficulties university students often face when attempting this sort of academic discourse, especially when their audience (often a professor) knows more about the topic than the students.

He writes that students must learn to “…speak not only in another’s voice but through another’s code; and they not only have to do this, they have to speak in the voice and through the codes of those of us with power and wisdom; and they not only have to do this, they have to do it before they know what they are doing, before they have a project to participate in, and before, at least in terms of our disciplines, they have anything to say.” In other words, students are expected to conform to specific writing patterns when they are inhibited not only by language itself, but are in fact encouraged to write and sound like someone else.

Sounds a little tough for an undergraduate entering university armed only with their high school English classes.

The task then seems to fall to us as future educators to guide students to this sort of writing, although the task seems daunting. While he expresses the problem, and the difficulties associated with this problem, Bartholomae is not quick to provide solutions.  Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be a universal “a-ha moment” where students will suddenly grasp the intricacies of discourse and emerge like butterflies into the garden of academia. However, Bartholomae does suggest that perhaps by teaching students to be knowledgeable in a subject (knowledge in general rather than mere syntactic knowledge) will allow them to become better writers.

This becomes difficult when combined with pedagogical strategies. If a student is not able to grasp these concepts, does it then become the fault of the educator when the student fails to reach a “position of privilege” in his or her writing?

In addition, assuming these students do experience this moment and are able to effectively transcend into the realm of “acceptable” academic discourse, does that negate one of the fundamental purposes of writing? One could argue that one reason a person learns to write is to be able to hold one’s own in an increasingly scholastic world. However, this does not necessarily supersede the idea that writing is (at its heart) a creative process.  Where does that process become nothing more than regurgitation and mindless parroting of information? In assigning work, professors constantly ask for the student’s thoughts, rather than just repeating research, but at the same time, advocate the adoption of a more impersonal writing style.  Can we reasonably expect students to come up with new research and insights if we are simply looking for them to repeat our own philosophies?

Even as a student of English, I struggle with the problem of working “within and against a discourse”. In my senior year of my undergraduate I had the opportunity to attend a conference and present a paper. While at the conference, I was overwhelmed by the number of amazing, intelligent scholars who all seemed to be speaking in a coded, academic language I couldn’t even hope to grasp. While I was excited at the chance to engage those people, I felt like a pretender, using a language that I didn’t fully understand, and speaking of topics I felt sure they understood better than me. Although I had researched my topic, I felt that reading a few books certainly did not qualify me as an expert.  In defense, I adopted the tone of the other scholars, hoping that my use of like discourse would prove I was worthy. I could not help but feel frustrated, both at my perceived inadequacy, and the thought that I might never understand the discourse that other scholars seemed to comprehend so easily.

David Bartholomae’s article brings a necessary humanity to teaching composition, demonstrating that infiltrating academia is difficult for both students and teachers. However, in understanding these difficulties, we cannot simply throw information at students in the hope that they will comprehend our points and suddenly become fantastic masters of scholarly discourse. Instead, we should remember that not all students will be innate writers, and be prepared to respond with more empathy and patience when teaching composition.

13 years ago Short URL 6 Comments

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