Saturday, December 15, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Mitchell Report and Cultural Change
Today’s release of the Mitchell Report reminds me of an old, dear friend of mine in high school who was abusing steroids. He was a sweet kid, and I remember even then that I was so worried about him that, for a class, I did a research project on steroid use and athletics so I could try to learn more and convince him that aiming for biceps the size of my waist was not worth the risk he was taking.
I came of age in what has now been dubbed the Steroid Era in sports, and I find the implications of such a moniker more than disturbing: they are misleading. The truth is that performance enhancing techniques are not at all limited to athletics, and congressional inquiries that call out professional athletes do little to mitigate the problem.
Here’s what I mean: ours is a culture obsessed with performance, with besting, with record breaking, with exponentially—and often falsely—inflating human capital. In a competitive market, this drive for ‘excellence’ can be a useful thing, something that spurs progress and resourcefulness. But when any capital is falsely inflated, including human capital, the consequences can be devastating. Where, then, is the line? The balance?
Case in point: a recent study at Columbia confirmed what those in academe have heard about in hushed asides for some time: students’ abuse of drugs like Adderall and Ritalin to enhance their academic performance through increased concentration has risen sharply over the last 15 years—somewhere in the vicinity of a 93% increase. What was once an overuse of caffeine in academic life has become an abuse of other types of pharmacological stimulants. Students who turn to these measures have little difficulty rationalizing their choice because taking measures to improve oneself in any manner possible to achieve ‘excellence’ is deeply ingrained in our cultural attitude.
Arguably, as our technologies advance, as we demand more of ourselves, as we understand more about the ways our bodies and minds perform, it is logical to apply our emergent findings and resources and meld body with science in order to increase our collective human capital. When one considers the ways in which scientific intervention has allowed individuals to improve their quality of life—I myself have titanium in my ear where my malfunctioning stapes used to be—the occasional misuse of drugs to enhance performance—say, during finals or during the World Series—follows an accepted cultural trend.
Now, before anyone accuses me of making a faulty argument through a false analogy (or worse), let me be clear: I understand that correcting a hearing impairment is very different, ethically, than abusing steroids or Ritalin or any other controlled substance. I also want to make clear that I am neither endorsing nor condoning the misuse of substances to increase performance; I am merely trying to make the point that given our cultural climate, the use of such performance enhancing techniques should not be surprising.
To my mind, the Mitchell Report speaks to a cultural issue, not a policy issue. This brings me to my main contention: what, exactly, is the role of governance in shaping culture? While this question is central to my dissertation, it holds particular importance as we approach an historic presidential election where most if not all candidates are running on a platform focusing on cultural or social issues rather than policy issues. While the relationship between governance and culture cannot and should not be denied, relying on governance or repeatedly turning to governance to mitigate social and cultural trends and problems absolves those who are truly responsible for cultural change: we individuals who regularly define through our actions and voices and choices our collective cultural identity.
I came of age in what has now been dubbed the Steroid Era in sports, and I find the implications of such a moniker more than disturbing: they are misleading. The truth is that performance enhancing techniques are not at all limited to athletics, and congressional inquiries that call out professional athletes do little to mitigate the problem.
Here’s what I mean: ours is a culture obsessed with performance, with besting, with record breaking, with exponentially—and often falsely—inflating human capital. In a competitive market, this drive for ‘excellence’ can be a useful thing, something that spurs progress and resourcefulness. But when any capital is falsely inflated, including human capital, the consequences can be devastating. Where, then, is the line? The balance?
Case in point: a recent study at Columbia confirmed what those in academe have heard about in hushed asides for some time: students’ abuse of drugs like Adderall and Ritalin to enhance their academic performance through increased concentration has risen sharply over the last 15 years—somewhere in the vicinity of a 93% increase. What was once an overuse of caffeine in academic life has become an abuse of other types of pharmacological stimulants. Students who turn to these measures have little difficulty rationalizing their choice because taking measures to improve oneself in any manner possible to achieve ‘excellence’ is deeply ingrained in our cultural attitude.
Arguably, as our technologies advance, as we demand more of ourselves, as we understand more about the ways our bodies and minds perform, it is logical to apply our emergent findings and resources and meld body with science in order to increase our collective human capital. When one considers the ways in which scientific intervention has allowed individuals to improve their quality of life—I myself have titanium in my ear where my malfunctioning stapes used to be—the occasional misuse of drugs to enhance performance—say, during finals or during the World Series—follows an accepted cultural trend.
Now, before anyone accuses me of making a faulty argument through a false analogy (or worse), let me be clear: I understand that correcting a hearing impairment is very different, ethically, than abusing steroids or Ritalin or any other controlled substance. I also want to make clear that I am neither endorsing nor condoning the misuse of substances to increase performance; I am merely trying to make the point that given our cultural climate, the use of such performance enhancing techniques should not be surprising.
To my mind, the Mitchell Report speaks to a cultural issue, not a policy issue. This brings me to my main contention: what, exactly, is the role of governance in shaping culture? While this question is central to my dissertation, it holds particular importance as we approach an historic presidential election where most if not all candidates are running on a platform focusing on cultural or social issues rather than policy issues. While the relationship between governance and culture cannot and should not be denied, relying on governance or repeatedly turning to governance to mitigate social and cultural trends and problems absolves those who are truly responsible for cultural change: we individuals who regularly define through our actions and voices and choices our collective cultural identity.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Teaching Philosophy
Of late, I have been thinking more about my teaching philosophy, what grounds it, and how it informs my practice. This is ironic, perhaps, because I am not actually in the classroom this year, but I am, rather, serving in an administrative capacity for the program in which I taught for the last two years. I love the administrative work, and maybe it is because of the distance from classroom practice---or the regular encounter with other instructors' teaching philosophies and practices---that I am able to think more about my own.
My statement:
My teaching is informed by two positions: first, I believe that teaching, like all educational efforts, is an inherently rhetorical social practice. By this I suggest that teaching involves the dynamic interplay of ethos, pathos, and logos at a particular time and in a particular space (kairos) in order to persuade those involved to actively participate in the teaching-learning dynamic, for learning occurs only when those involved "buy-in" to the process.
It is my responsibility to construct an honest, responsive, and informed ethos that invites learners to engage; through preparedness, flexibility, reciprocity, temperance, empathy, and responsiveness to the unique circumstances each participant brings into the learning environment, pathos, I strive to foster a trusting and secure space where students will have the opportunity to explore their own and others’ knowledge and assumptions. I also believe in supplementing the learning that occurs in the group environment with regular, individualized instruction to ensure, to the best of my ability, that each student’s needs and expectations are being met, that each student and his or her work is recognized and respected. Finally, I invite my students to devise ways to make the course relevant to their own professional and personal development by selecting materials and designing assignments that offer a variety of approaches and perspectives, involve current events and figures, confront timely issues, and explore the implications of these perspectives and events; in this way, the content of the course, its logos, is balanced: it is both grounded and emergent.
Second, I believe that writing is a science, a craft, and an art. Through the introduction of method, form, and logical reasoning—as well as of rhetorical tropes, schemes, conventions, and modes—I attempt to reveal the science of writing, the "tools" that are available to writers and readers of texts. Never presented as prescriptive, but as techne that may be used by the writer as he or she chooses, these formal structures are effectively neutralized—a process that is explicitly discussed—giving writers power over them and over their writing; I have found that this approach lends students, especially, the confidence they often need to engage the writing process: what was once potentially dominating and oppressive becomes manageable and in service to the writer writing. It also provides an interpretive lens through which to view other texts. And, like a poet engages form, I charge students with the task of allowing their work to "find the form" that best compliments their ideas; this is the moment that the science meets the craft.
Writing is a deliberate act, and explicitly acknowledging writing as craft empowers writers to feel more in control of their prose. Further, it debunks the persistent myth of natural ability.
Finally, writing is an art. It is an act of creation and a symbolic extension of self. While this view is, admittedly, somewhat romanticized, when balanced against perspectives of writing that suggest both science and craft, it serves to allow students to invest themselves in their own writing, critique other texts critically and ethically, and take ownership of the writing act.
The relationship between these positions shapes the way I plan and design the courses I teach, the way I engage or attempt to engage the students with whom I work, the way I respond to events or challenges that arise in the learning environment, and the way I approach my scholarship. I see my role as one of facilitator but also as participant, and I recognize the absolute heterogeneity of interests, identities, ideologies, and investments at work in the learning dynamic.
I am also ever cognizant of my role and the role of the courses I teach in relation to the larger project of higher education, the specific mission of the course, and the departmental, programmatic, historical, and institutional contexts in which my teaching is situated. My job as an effective teacher, then, is to be aware of the nested missions and multiple stakeholders involved in the teaching transaction and to negotiate among them.
My statement:
My teaching is informed by two positions: first, I believe that teaching, like all educational efforts, is an inherently rhetorical social practice. By this I suggest that teaching involves the dynamic interplay of ethos, pathos, and logos at a particular time and in a particular space (kairos) in order to persuade those involved to actively participate in the teaching-learning dynamic, for learning occurs only when those involved "buy-in" to the process.
It is my responsibility to construct an honest, responsive, and informed ethos that invites learners to engage; through preparedness, flexibility, reciprocity, temperance, empathy, and responsiveness to the unique circumstances each participant brings into the learning environment, pathos, I strive to foster a trusting and secure space where students will have the opportunity to explore their own and others’ knowledge and assumptions. I also believe in supplementing the learning that occurs in the group environment with regular, individualized instruction to ensure, to the best of my ability, that each student’s needs and expectations are being met, that each student and his or her work is recognized and respected. Finally, I invite my students to devise ways to make the course relevant to their own professional and personal development by selecting materials and designing assignments that offer a variety of approaches and perspectives, involve current events and figures, confront timely issues, and explore the implications of these perspectives and events; in this way, the content of the course, its logos, is balanced: it is both grounded and emergent.
Second, I believe that writing is a science, a craft, and an art. Through the introduction of method, form, and logical reasoning—as well as of rhetorical tropes, schemes, conventions, and modes—I attempt to reveal the science of writing, the "tools" that are available to writers and readers of texts. Never presented as prescriptive, but as techne that may be used by the writer as he or she chooses, these formal structures are effectively neutralized—a process that is explicitly discussed—giving writers power over them and over their writing; I have found that this approach lends students, especially, the confidence they often need to engage the writing process: what was once potentially dominating and oppressive becomes manageable and in service to the writer writing. It also provides an interpretive lens through which to view other texts. And, like a poet engages form, I charge students with the task of allowing their work to "find the form" that best compliments their ideas; this is the moment that the science meets the craft.
Writing is a deliberate act, and explicitly acknowledging writing as craft empowers writers to feel more in control of their prose. Further, it debunks the persistent myth of natural ability.
Finally, writing is an art. It is an act of creation and a symbolic extension of self. While this view is, admittedly, somewhat romanticized, when balanced against perspectives of writing that suggest both science and craft, it serves to allow students to invest themselves in their own writing, critique other texts critically and ethically, and take ownership of the writing act.
The relationship between these positions shapes the way I plan and design the courses I teach, the way I engage or attempt to engage the students with whom I work, the way I respond to events or challenges that arise in the learning environment, and the way I approach my scholarship. I see my role as one of facilitator but also as participant, and I recognize the absolute heterogeneity of interests, identities, ideologies, and investments at work in the learning dynamic.
I am also ever cognizant of my role and the role of the courses I teach in relation to the larger project of higher education, the specific mission of the course, and the departmental, programmatic, historical, and institutional contexts in which my teaching is situated. My job as an effective teacher, then, is to be aware of the nested missions and multiple stakeholders involved in the teaching transaction and to negotiate among them.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
What is the Place of Rhetoric in Composition?
I have been surprised, over the last several weeks, to realize just how difficult it is to address the question at hand: just what is the place of rhetoric in composition? Until I actually tried to articulate my position, in preparation for our program's first C&R colloquium of the season, I assumed, intuited perhaps, that my view of the field was clear and secure. Yet, any premise I draw becomes transient—-almost ephemeral–-the moment I try to build upon it. I’ve realized, then, that perhaps this is the nature of the field: it is adaptable, malleable. It is not a static body. It defies categorical conclusions. It is emergent. And it has been so for 2400 years.
Still, we have for the most part such anxiety about defining the discipline. Maybe this anxiety is in error: I am not convinced that ('big-D') Disciplinarity lends legitimacy or authority. With entities such as composition and rhetoric—-and despite my use of the conjunction I do believe they are discrete but similar systems-—we are dealing with complex forces, practices, objectives, histories, and pedagogies. With all the complexity, and all the possibilities for unique configurations, it seems to me impossible to view the field categorically or with the precision necessary for defining a discipline.
Having said that, I do think it is possible to offer a purview of the field. Describing what we do as a 'field' works for me because metaphorically it seems appropriate: a field, such as a hay field or corn field, offers an image of a vast space that can serve at different times many purposes; it changes according to multifarious and dynamic circumstances; to my mind (being a Pennsylvania gal) the landscape is rolling, creating a canvas of light and shadow at different times and in different seasons; it is both enduring and fragile; mostly, though, it is a location. In this way, the field of composition and rhetoric serves as a location for two components: composition and rhetoric. While different, they inform each other in significant ways.
I define rhetoric as the ways that symbols achieve efficacy. Here, I see 'efficacy' very much aligned with Aristotle’s notion of persuasion and 'ways' as "available means." I also recognize that the efficacy of symbols is not secure; it shifts with time, place, and purpose; it emerges in interaction. Defined such, rhetoric is inescapable—-but that doesn’t mean that it is limiting, because efficacy does not exist outside of kairos but rather emerges through it. I don’t believe this process is unlike poetry and poetic form: form must never be imposed on poetic expression. Rather, the expression must find the form that aids or enhances its expression; this is the only way to achieve poetic efficacy. I think this is the mistake that many current-traditional pedagogies make: in the name of efficiency, they compromise efficacy. I also think that it is the fear or resistance of imposition and efficiency that serves as the rationale that drives rhetoric out of composition.
The way I see it, though, composition is not only informed by rhetoric, it is itself rhetorical. Composition is both a creative and communicative act that adopts a mission that is closely tied to education and social justice. In fact, I don’t think it is possible to legitimately and responsibly discuss composition without addressing education and social justice. Rhetoric is implicated in all of these areas: the creative, the communicative, the educational, and the social. The creative act involves, among other things, invention, delivery, and cultural awareness. The communicative act involves utterance and audience, and here Furberg’s observation that “the phonetic act, the phatic act and the rhetic act are not subclasses, but parts of the locutionary act” is helpful in that it offers important insight into the dynamics of utterance: its power lies not in any one force but in the interrelatedness of several different forces: the epistemological (rhetic), the social (phatic), and the aural (phonetic). From a rhetorical perspective, Furberg’s synthesis of these three qualities associated with utterance may be understood in terms of the rhetorical triad, the interdependency of ethos, pathos, and logos in the Aristotelian paradigm, and the ways this relationship affords discursive efficacy. It offers a way of examining interaction through the dynamic alignment of rhetic/logos/text, phatic/ethos/author, phonetic/pathos/audience and the process of negotiation that occurs during interaction.
As for composition’s interests, the educational and the social, an important concern for education is “buy in” among different constituencies. At the institutional level, administrators and leaders must demonstrate and persuade state and federal supporters, as well as private investors, that their project, their institution, is worthy of continued or new funding. At the local, classroom level, instructors are hard-pressed to achieve their pedagogical objectives if students don't "buy in" to the course, if they don't--or can't--engage, take ownership, or otherwise invest themselves in the learning environment. At it's core, "buy in" is about persuasion and is, therefore, rhetorical. Further, because of its ties to and awareness of ethics, Rhetoric lends itself in theory and in practice to concerns of social justice. To my mind, and for all these reasons, rhetoric is solidly positioned in composition as much as it exists outside of it.
The question, then, is of relationship. Does rhetoric need composition? Probably. Mostly, though, our question, when it comes right down to it, is one of relationship, reciprocity, and symbiosis. I don’t think it is difficult to see evidence of these qualities “in each case.”
Still, we have for the most part such anxiety about defining the discipline. Maybe this anxiety is in error: I am not convinced that ('big-D') Disciplinarity lends legitimacy or authority. With entities such as composition and rhetoric—-and despite my use of the conjunction I do believe they are discrete but similar systems-—we are dealing with complex forces, practices, objectives, histories, and pedagogies. With all the complexity, and all the possibilities for unique configurations, it seems to me impossible to view the field categorically or with the precision necessary for defining a discipline.
Having said that, I do think it is possible to offer a purview of the field. Describing what we do as a 'field' works for me because metaphorically it seems appropriate: a field, such as a hay field or corn field, offers an image of a vast space that can serve at different times many purposes; it changes according to multifarious and dynamic circumstances; to my mind (being a Pennsylvania gal) the landscape is rolling, creating a canvas of light and shadow at different times and in different seasons; it is both enduring and fragile; mostly, though, it is a location. In this way, the field of composition and rhetoric serves as a location for two components: composition and rhetoric. While different, they inform each other in significant ways.
I define rhetoric as the ways that symbols achieve efficacy. Here, I see 'efficacy' very much aligned with Aristotle’s notion of persuasion and 'ways' as "available means." I also recognize that the efficacy of symbols is not secure; it shifts with time, place, and purpose; it emerges in interaction. Defined such, rhetoric is inescapable—-but that doesn’t mean that it is limiting, because efficacy does not exist outside of kairos but rather emerges through it. I don’t believe this process is unlike poetry and poetic form: form must never be imposed on poetic expression. Rather, the expression must find the form that aids or enhances its expression; this is the only way to achieve poetic efficacy. I think this is the mistake that many current-traditional pedagogies make: in the name of efficiency, they compromise efficacy. I also think that it is the fear or resistance of imposition and efficiency that serves as the rationale that drives rhetoric out of composition.
The way I see it, though, composition is not only informed by rhetoric, it is itself rhetorical. Composition is both a creative and communicative act that adopts a mission that is closely tied to education and social justice. In fact, I don’t think it is possible to legitimately and responsibly discuss composition without addressing education and social justice. Rhetoric is implicated in all of these areas: the creative, the communicative, the educational, and the social. The creative act involves, among other things, invention, delivery, and cultural awareness. The communicative act involves utterance and audience, and here Furberg’s observation that “the phonetic act, the phatic act and the rhetic act are not subclasses, but parts of the locutionary act” is helpful in that it offers important insight into the dynamics of utterance: its power lies not in any one force but in the interrelatedness of several different forces: the epistemological (rhetic), the social (phatic), and the aural (phonetic). From a rhetorical perspective, Furberg’s synthesis of these three qualities associated with utterance may be understood in terms of the rhetorical triad, the interdependency of ethos, pathos, and logos in the Aristotelian paradigm, and the ways this relationship affords discursive efficacy. It offers a way of examining interaction through the dynamic alignment of rhetic/logos/text, phatic/ethos/author, phonetic/pathos/audience and the process of negotiation that occurs during interaction.
As for composition’s interests, the educational and the social, an important concern for education is “buy in” among different constituencies. At the institutional level, administrators and leaders must demonstrate and persuade state and federal supporters, as well as private investors, that their project, their institution, is worthy of continued or new funding. At the local, classroom level, instructors are hard-pressed to achieve their pedagogical objectives if students don't "buy in" to the course, if they don't--or can't--engage, take ownership, or otherwise invest themselves in the learning environment. At it's core, "buy in" is about persuasion and is, therefore, rhetorical. Further, because of its ties to and awareness of ethics, Rhetoric lends itself in theory and in practice to concerns of social justice. To my mind, and for all these reasons, rhetoric is solidly positioned in composition as much as it exists outside of it.
The question, then, is of relationship. Does rhetoric need composition? Probably. Mostly, though, our question, when it comes right down to it, is one of relationship, reciprocity, and symbiosis. I don’t think it is difficult to see evidence of these qualities “in each case.”
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Vive le Tour!
I have heard and read commentaries this week of the Tour de France hallmarked by the phrase "the Tour’s darkest hour." I disagree, and I was pleased to hear Phil Liggett give a public voice to my own conviction: that despite the tragic controversies, the heartbreak and betrayal, and the innate cynicism born of cheating scandals, the Tour is as powerful, graceful, and awe-inspiring as it has ever been.
I admit that Vinokourov’s positive test for blood doping left me in a state of disappointed wonder akin to the say it ain’t so bereavement experienced by Shoeless Joe fans in 1919. I wanted to believe that his performance in Stages 13 and 15 was the product of sheer grit, determination, and heart—after all, this was the man who had been riding the Tour against unimaginable injuries and a time deficit that would whittle even the most steadfast competitor’s resolve. Team Astana seemed a ghostly presence when the race resumed without him, and through my brumous veil I almost failed to notice that both Moreni and Sinkewitz produced positive A samples.
Then came Rasmussen. The Maillot Jeune. The leader. This was the man I’d cheered for the last two years, grinding his way up formidable ascents to win the King of the Mountains competition. He had been, in recent years, a brilliant competitor, winning on what seemed to be raw hunger and carefully-wrought skill. Despite the reports that he had failed to report his whereabouts and his cavalier attitude regarding what he called an administrative error, his performance in this year’s tour seemed a natural progression from performances past. But then, watching his time-trial set the red—and yellow—flags aflutter: he looked like a different rider. What would, under other circumstances, be celebrated as the athlete overcoming his Achilles heel collapsed under the burden of suspicion, of guilt by association. I want to believe he is clean, believe that his test results are accurate—but I also wanted to see the leader, well, lead . . . in more than just minutes and seconds. Leadership is a double-edged sword, no?
Still, when one witnesses Leipheimer’s humility during his pre- and post-race interviews, or glimpses Contador’s face as he is draped in slim-fitting yellow, or follows stand-out achievements like Evans’ believable-yet-unbelievable final 5K on Stage 19, one can see the true beauty of the Tour. These are the survivors. They have overcome so much more than injuries, quirky fans, roadside bombs, grueling climbs and treacherous descents. They have survived each other.
I, for one, will celebrate as they round the Champs-Elysees. Few could claim a better-earned victory lap than the riders who remain, and I suspect the historic cobbled avenue will seem smooth compared to the rest of the ride that got them there.
Vive le Tour!
I admit that Vinokourov’s positive test for blood doping left me in a state of disappointed wonder akin to the say it ain’t so bereavement experienced by Shoeless Joe fans in 1919. I wanted to believe that his performance in Stages 13 and 15 was the product of sheer grit, determination, and heart—after all, this was the man who had been riding the Tour against unimaginable injuries and a time deficit that would whittle even the most steadfast competitor’s resolve. Team Astana seemed a ghostly presence when the race resumed without him, and through my brumous veil I almost failed to notice that both Moreni and Sinkewitz produced positive A samples.
Then came Rasmussen. The Maillot Jeune. The leader. This was the man I’d cheered for the last two years, grinding his way up formidable ascents to win the King of the Mountains competition. He had been, in recent years, a brilliant competitor, winning on what seemed to be raw hunger and carefully-wrought skill. Despite the reports that he had failed to report his whereabouts and his cavalier attitude regarding what he called an administrative error, his performance in this year’s tour seemed a natural progression from performances past. But then, watching his time-trial set the red—and yellow—flags aflutter: he looked like a different rider. What would, under other circumstances, be celebrated as the athlete overcoming his Achilles heel collapsed under the burden of suspicion, of guilt by association. I want to believe he is clean, believe that his test results are accurate—but I also wanted to see the leader, well, lead . . . in more than just minutes and seconds. Leadership is a double-edged sword, no?
Still, when one witnesses Leipheimer’s humility during his pre- and post-race interviews, or glimpses Contador’s face as he is draped in slim-fitting yellow, or follows stand-out achievements like Evans’ believable-yet-unbelievable final 5K on Stage 19, one can see the true beauty of the Tour. These are the survivors. They have overcome so much more than injuries, quirky fans, roadside bombs, grueling climbs and treacherous descents. They have survived each other.
I, for one, will celebrate as they round the Champs-Elysees. Few could claim a better-earned victory lap than the riders who remain, and I suspect the historic cobbled avenue will seem smooth compared to the rest of the ride that got them there.
Vive le Tour!
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Addressing Tragedy in the Writing Classroom
On Tuesday, April 17, I made a decision to open the class up to a discussion regarding the events that occurred at Virginia Tech the day before. I have been thinking more about that decision, and in doing so I have realized, learned, or have been reminded of a few things that have shaped my teaching.
What I did:
Having begun a unit on creative nonfiction a week prior, my plan for the day was to open class by posing the question of whether language, specifically writing, can adequately capture the complexity and entirety, the enormity, of experience. I hoped to invite a discussion based on my students’ experiences and their perceptions of writing, grounded in the work we did as a class in the previous two units, and related to the texts, three nonfiction essays, that were assigned for that day. I then planned to move to a discussion of rhetorical modes, or forms, that are helpful (rather than prescriptive) in trying to capture and organize experience.
On Monday, the context for this discussion shifted. How was I to raise questions about capturing the enormity of experience in class on Tuesday without talking about the events at Virginia Tech the day before? Not doing so, it seemed to me at the time, seemed callous and disconnected; a discussion on this topic that ignored Virginia Tech would be a discussion in the presence of the proverbial elephant.
While I deliberated on whether to address it and how to go about it, I was struck by the ethical dilemma the situation posed: to what degree would a discussion of the Virginia Tech tragedy exploit the tragedy and the experiences of those involved? Was bringing these events into the classroom a tactless move? I still wasn’t certain when I walked to my classroom.
I begin each class period with a bit of "business," and then usually mention something about current events relevant to whatever we’ve been discussing in class and solicit responses from my students. This usually "primes the pump" before we transition into the class topic for the day. I began Tuesday’s class the same way, taking care of business, then it clicked: I had to introduce the topic of Virginia Tech. It was appropriate at that time and in that context to talk about current events. To ignore the previous day’s events, to skip the current events segment, would have made a statement that I wasn’t prepared to make.
I began with some hesitation, first asking if anyone in the room had friends or relatives at VT. I then asked if the group wished to discuss the events. Everyone agreed, but the discussion did not proceed without some awkwardness. One student hadn’t heard the news; since I had assumed everyone had, I did not begin by summarizing, but after the student asked what happened, the class reconstructed what they know from the media and that led into a discussion of the validity of early reports, misinformation, etc.
Then one student asked how, as writing instructors, we can assess writing, how we can tell the difference between writing that is creative or kathartic or just 'bad' and that which signals danger. It was a different kind of question, one that was not posed to the class but directly to me, asking for my authority or expertise on the issue. I answered him the best I could: that I didn’t know. That writing can only be assessed on a case by case basis and in context. That small class size and regular one-on-one conferencing is important because if writing seems troubled, perhaps that writing can be cross-referenced with the writer’s interpersonal behavior. Perhaps. I said, "Imagine how an early Tarantino script might look to a new TA." There’s just no real way to tell. I also pointed to what action the English faculty took, or at least that which was reported in the earliest days following the massacre, and said that we can only hope for best practices and to use the resources on campus to try to reach out to those who may seem troubled. But that is delicate territory, too.
This is now the second time I’ve faced something like this in my teaching. The first, of course, was on and after September 11, 2001. When a tragedy of such magnitude ripples the waters of our collective social experience, what is the place of writing? of writing classrooms? as instructors, what are our responsibilities and limitations? Here are a few things I've been considering:
What I did:
Having begun a unit on creative nonfiction a week prior, my plan for the day was to open class by posing the question of whether language, specifically writing, can adequately capture the complexity and entirety, the enormity, of experience. I hoped to invite a discussion based on my students’ experiences and their perceptions of writing, grounded in the work we did as a class in the previous two units, and related to the texts, three nonfiction essays, that were assigned for that day. I then planned to move to a discussion of rhetorical modes, or forms, that are helpful (rather than prescriptive) in trying to capture and organize experience.
On Monday, the context for this discussion shifted. How was I to raise questions about capturing the enormity of experience in class on Tuesday without talking about the events at Virginia Tech the day before? Not doing so, it seemed to me at the time, seemed callous and disconnected; a discussion on this topic that ignored Virginia Tech would be a discussion in the presence of the proverbial elephant.
While I deliberated on whether to address it and how to go about it, I was struck by the ethical dilemma the situation posed: to what degree would a discussion of the Virginia Tech tragedy exploit the tragedy and the experiences of those involved? Was bringing these events into the classroom a tactless move? I still wasn’t certain when I walked to my classroom.
I begin each class period with a bit of "business," and then usually mention something about current events relevant to whatever we’ve been discussing in class and solicit responses from my students. This usually "primes the pump" before we transition into the class topic for the day. I began Tuesday’s class the same way, taking care of business, then it clicked: I had to introduce the topic of Virginia Tech. It was appropriate at that time and in that context to talk about current events. To ignore the previous day’s events, to skip the current events segment, would have made a statement that I wasn’t prepared to make.
I began with some hesitation, first asking if anyone in the room had friends or relatives at VT. I then asked if the group wished to discuss the events. Everyone agreed, but the discussion did not proceed without some awkwardness. One student hadn’t heard the news; since I had assumed everyone had, I did not begin by summarizing, but after the student asked what happened, the class reconstructed what they know from the media and that led into a discussion of the validity of early reports, misinformation, etc.
Then one student asked how, as writing instructors, we can assess writing, how we can tell the difference between writing that is creative or kathartic or just 'bad' and that which signals danger. It was a different kind of question, one that was not posed to the class but directly to me, asking for my authority or expertise on the issue. I answered him the best I could: that I didn’t know. That writing can only be assessed on a case by case basis and in context. That small class size and regular one-on-one conferencing is important because if writing seems troubled, perhaps that writing can be cross-referenced with the writer’s interpersonal behavior. Perhaps. I said, "Imagine how an early Tarantino script might look to a new TA." There’s just no real way to tell. I also pointed to what action the English faculty took, or at least that which was reported in the earliest days following the massacre, and said that we can only hope for best practices and to use the resources on campus to try to reach out to those who may seem troubled. But that is delicate territory, too.
This is now the second time I’ve faced something like this in my teaching. The first, of course, was on and after September 11, 2001. When a tragedy of such magnitude ripples the waters of our collective social experience, what is the place of writing? of writing classrooms? as instructors, what are our responsibilities and limitations? Here are a few things I've been considering:
- Writing instructors are not trained or qualified to diagnose, or treat, serious problems. Writing instructors are not therapists . . . YET as writing instructors, we are often placed in that position, I think because of the nature of writing. It is at once personal and social. There is something to be said for engaging students at that level, for establishing rapport, but it is essential that we, to the best of our ability, continually examine and be cognizant of our personal and professional boundaries. When a student is working through something difficult and wants to talk, I have found in my practice that it is useful to be open to that . . . to a degree. If the conversation becomes too much like therapy, I try to tactfully steer the context, not the content, of the talk back to the writing. It is also essential to familiarize ourselves with the resources available on campus and use them. As one of my professors noted, consultation, communication, is key. To discuss concerns with aprropraite people through appropriate channels does not violate FERPA, and it may be the most important decision one can make in this context.
- Best practices are often defined by what is already established in the classroom. For me, the structure and content of my class lent itself to a discussion of the events at Virginia Tech. In this case, it was more appropriate for me to open the discussion that it would have been to ignore it. The ethical dilemma was resolved by the context of my course.
I also realized how much of my teaching style is actually informed by my teaching philosophy. I believe in designing a course that make the assignments and content relevant to my students’ personal and professional interests. I am also committed to making explicit connections between the work we do in the classroom and the significance of lived practice, which is one of the reasons I try to connect current events to the issues that ground the course. This is my approach; in this case, my teaching philosophy directly influenced my practice.
- Give the students a say. I believe this is what, in organizational theory, is called shared governance. It is also referred to as decentralized authority, or a student-centered classroom, depending on what lens you use to view the landscape. This can be taken too far, of course, but understanding that balance is important.
- "It is okay to admit that you don’t have all the answers. In fact, it is better to admit that you don’t know than try to pretend that you do. Your students will never be fooled." Dr. Teresa Hunt, who just passed away last December, was the first person to teach me how to teach. She was a brilliant and caring instructor whose dedication to her students, undergraduate and graduate, was laudable, remarkable. This was one of her gems.
While the VT tragedy is set apart because of its magnitude, it seems to me that at any time writing instructors may be faced with delicate and challenging circumstances that directly impact the classroom, the students, or a student. What we as instructors do in those moments is as much a part of the rhetorical process, and is as essential to learning about writing, as the curriculum itself.
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