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.
