In the briefest of descriptions, the history of composition has moved from ancient rhetoric to a domain of the elitist. After World War II composition fell victim to an overemphasis of grammar and punctuation due to overpopulated classrooms and overworked instructors. Writing was then bombarded with a tidal wave of theory, which has left the modern compositionist with a plethora or choices, but little assurance that one theory is better than another.
The parts of the readings that struck me as most important were those that were most personal. Bishop, Shultz, and Popken (through the eyes of Hopkins) opened my eyes to an unsung battle for recognition in the academic world. It is a given that teaching writing is difficult, but rarely does one take the time to ponder the line of teacher who came before and wonder at the sheer amount of work they were able to accomplish. It is also worth mentioning as well how noble educators were that did not bend to what was modern or new just for the sake of newness. Fulkerson reminded me why I am skeptical of new theory by introducing literary theories as composition theories, and Stewart brought out my anger toward dispensers of wisdom by bashing the very basis of composition and then attempting to soften the blow by admitting that he only wishes to see traditional composition enhanced, not replaced. Williams work didn’t really add to my knowledge, nor did it evoke any real emotion or opinion; hopefully someone will enlighten me in class.
My own practices in the classroom are grounded in traditional composition theory, which is probably why Stewart’s work came off as mildly offensive. I would like to think of myself and my approach to composition as pragmatic. The students have a set of skills that they need to master for the completion of their academic career and as a toolbox to draw from in their working career. Composition should serve as both a form of expression and a problem solving tool, but ultimately it must be something that is teachable and measurable. I know this is unpopular, but it is the responsibility of the teacher to do the job that is required without falling prey to the shiniest new toy or the most fun way of doing things. People who know me and who read this will probably be at a loss for words; I am one who lives for fun, new toys, and the easy way out, but molding the lives of others must be approached with an eye for only the benefit of the student. This is why when Fulkerson writes of expressionism, I cringe. I see the possibilities to enhance what is already being taught, but to replace a philosophy that is rule based for a theory based on the exaltation of freedom, ethos, and “what feels right” is a step in the direction of anarchy and one that I am more than hesitant to take.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Donald C. Stewart: Scholar does not Equal Teacher
It’s always refreshing to read a piece about teaching that is clearly written by someone who is not a teacher, but a scholar. Is this too sarcastic a statement to make about our friend Don? Based upon the reading of his article, I don’t think so. So Donny, prescriptive structure isn’t good enough for your students; well, let’s take a look at the examples that form the bases for your argument.
Stewart begins by letting us know that composition has a history, and I am intrigued. Unfortunately, the history lesson is largely overshadowed while Mr. Stewart verbally backhands the unfortunate “teachers at this stage.” I can totally see his point. These lost souls trying to teach composition to a room full of adolescents who would rather be somewhere else are focusing on structure, grammar, and punctuation. Barbarians! Mr. Stewart is, of course, correct in his assumption that “[t]eachers at this stage do not know that they have inherited the worst features of late nineteenth century composition teaching” (135). If only they knew the history of their discipline, they would know what they should be emphasizing. What these Neanderthals should be doing is “read[ing] and assimilat[ing] recent research on invention, arrangement, and style; on protocol analysis and problem-solving; on rhetorical epistemology;”…wait, wait; where are the concrete examples I can actually use; where are the examples I can put into practice in my classroom to replace those “outdated modes”?
Well silly cynic, I’m glad you asked. One possibility is new and improved Grammar B. Stewart is kind enough to include two solid examples. While these examples are sure to gain someone’s interest, I am doubtful they would elicit the desired response from anyone with the authority to help. On the other hand, if the plaintiff had used even the most basic rhetorical strategies as those taught by Mark Harmon in Summer School, which came out only four years AFTER this article was written (1983), I imagine the response would be more in line with the author’s expectation.
In all seriousness, this article was written to reprimand an education force more than twenty years ago. While it may have been insightful then, the real modern teachers of writing (I am referring to those individuals in the classrooms that ALL students must reside) are forced to teach measurable skills. They are asked to creatively instruct their students with the looming knowledge that the students will soon be judged, along with their teachers, with a standardized measuring stick that has no place for Grammar B. If I sound bitter, it is because Stewart’s voice is all too reminiscent of the other voices of authority asking for something that is beyond reach of the current educational system.
Stewart begins by letting us know that composition has a history, and I am intrigued. Unfortunately, the history lesson is largely overshadowed while Mr. Stewart verbally backhands the unfortunate “teachers at this stage.” I can totally see his point. These lost souls trying to teach composition to a room full of adolescents who would rather be somewhere else are focusing on structure, grammar, and punctuation. Barbarians! Mr. Stewart is, of course, correct in his assumption that “[t]eachers at this stage do not know that they have inherited the worst features of late nineteenth century composition teaching” (135). If only they knew the history of their discipline, they would know what they should be emphasizing. What these Neanderthals should be doing is “read[ing] and assimilat[ing] recent research on invention, arrangement, and style; on protocol analysis and problem-solving; on rhetorical epistemology;”…wait, wait; where are the concrete examples I can actually use; where are the examples I can put into practice in my classroom to replace those “outdated modes”?
Well silly cynic, I’m glad you asked. One possibility is new and improved Grammar B. Stewart is kind enough to include two solid examples. While these examples are sure to gain someone’s interest, I am doubtful they would elicit the desired response from anyone with the authority to help. On the other hand, if the plaintiff had used even the most basic rhetorical strategies as those taught by Mark Harmon in Summer School, which came out only four years AFTER this article was written (1983), I imagine the response would be more in line with the author’s expectation.
In all seriousness, this article was written to reprimand an education force more than twenty years ago. While it may have been insightful then, the real modern teachers of writing (I am referring to those individuals in the classrooms that ALL students must reside) are forced to teach measurable skills. They are asked to creatively instruct their students with the looming knowledge that the students will soon be judged, along with their teachers, with a standardized measuring stick that has no place for Grammar B. If I sound bitter, it is because Stewart’s voice is all too reminiscent of the other voices of authority asking for something that is beyond reach of the current educational system.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Lucille M. Shultz: How I Found the Problem in History and Why the Modern Band-Aid is Worse
Irony on top of irony, I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry. Schultz’s piece is interesting and effective in its function as an observation of historically marginalized theory, but what the article fails to mention is the ultimate consequence of this discovery: the paradigm shift is not one of equality between rule-based structure and free flowing expressivism. Where the emphasis was once squarely in the realm of prescriptive rules, the focus of expressivism now seems to be, as Fulkerson puts it in “Composition at the Turn of the Twenty-First Century,” “quietly expanding its region of command” (655).
I suppose the first order of business should be an observation of Shultz’s excellent scholarship regarding the ridiculous approach to writing taken by scholars in the early 19th century. John Walker is Shultz’s primary target, and he serves as a fairly easy punching bag. I don’t believe anyone in our small discourse community will argue that students can only learn by “learning rules;” that “young writers are not capable of inventing their own subject matter,” or that students should only “write about general, abstract topics, not about their personal experiences” (14). The first task of just getting the students to memorize the rules of composition would extremely difficult, not to mention boring beyond belief, and I find it difficult to believe that a majority of students cannot form an original idea, or at least their own interpretations of an early idea, without the all-knowing sage to tell them. That being said, the introduction of “new” composition theory sheds some light onto many problems that I have seen firsthand in the modern classroom.
First of all, I think it is important to point out that regular people become teachers, and as I know them, regular people rarely enjoy teaching rules. It is far easier and more enjoyable to read a story and freely write about how it makes us feel or what the text reminds us of in our own lives; in short, expressivisim is fun and rules are not. This brings me to a description of my freshman classroom; of course I am writing about generalities—not every student fits the following mold—but if one were to choose from any one of my students at the beginning of the year, each one, if willing, could explain his or her summer vacation with great detail. Each student in the class could put in writing a description of how a story made him or her feel, or he or she could discuss and write down the similarities and differences in one another’s experiences. What almost no student can do is write a paragraph using commas correctly or read a story and pick out the main idea and its support. The focus of early education has foregone any rigor in the memorization of rules and structures. The buck is passed from grade to grade, and ultimately the student graduates with a fine grasp of ethos and self-esteem, but can he or she understand why a complex sentence beginning with a subordinate clause needs a comma? Drop in on any graduation and ask.
I suppose the first order of business should be an observation of Shultz’s excellent scholarship regarding the ridiculous approach to writing taken by scholars in the early 19th century. John Walker is Shultz’s primary target, and he serves as a fairly easy punching bag. I don’t believe anyone in our small discourse community will argue that students can only learn by “learning rules;” that “young writers are not capable of inventing their own subject matter,” or that students should only “write about general, abstract topics, not about their personal experiences” (14). The first task of just getting the students to memorize the rules of composition would extremely difficult, not to mention boring beyond belief, and I find it difficult to believe that a majority of students cannot form an original idea, or at least their own interpretations of an early idea, without the all-knowing sage to tell them. That being said, the introduction of “new” composition theory sheds some light onto many problems that I have seen firsthand in the modern classroom.
First of all, I think it is important to point out that regular people become teachers, and as I know them, regular people rarely enjoy teaching rules. It is far easier and more enjoyable to read a story and freely write about how it makes us feel or what the text reminds us of in our own lives; in short, expressivisim is fun and rules are not. This brings me to a description of my freshman classroom; of course I am writing about generalities—not every student fits the following mold—but if one were to choose from any one of my students at the beginning of the year, each one, if willing, could explain his or her summer vacation with great detail. Each student in the class could put in writing a description of how a story made him or her feel, or he or she could discuss and write down the similarities and differences in one another’s experiences. What almost no student can do is write a paragraph using commas correctly or read a story and pick out the main idea and its support. The focus of early education has foregone any rigor in the memorization of rules and structures. The buck is passed from grade to grade, and ultimately the student graduates with a fine grasp of ethos and self-esteem, but can he or she understand why a complex sentence beginning with a subordinate clause needs a comma? Drop in on any graduation and ask.
Richard Fulkerson: Theories of Writing that Aren’t
After reading Richard Fulkerson’s article, I find myself questioning my own interpretive ability. The focus of Fulkerson’s piece was supposed to be essentially a review of the four philosophies dividing composition theory. However, I find the first two philosophies to have almost NOTHING to do with composition theory at all. As to the final two philosophies dealing with rhetoric, I think we will probably kick that dead horse beyond even dental recognition during Tuesday’s class.
Critical Cultural Studies entails many aspects that are near and dear to my heart. I find no fault in grounding a class in a group of texts, nor do I have any problem with the idea that part of the instructor’s responsibility is to focus on “the interpretation … of readings, either about cultural theory or the experiences of a cultural group or individual” (660). This is a wonderful way to approach the creation and purpose of literature; however, it cannot exist as a philosophy of composition because there is no way to gauge a student’s work. Thankfully, Fulkerson agrees: “What we come down to is that the writing in such a course will be judged by how sophisticated or insightful the teacher finds the interpretation of the relevant artifacts to be” (662). The grading would have nothing to do with actually judging composition. Instead, this theory would place the focus of the grade on how much the teacher liked the student’s ideas. This must only be part of judging a work; to be whole, the theory of composition must also have a strong grounding in the “process” that Fulkerson occasionally alluded to but rarely elaborated upon. The best application I found of CCS in action was his case study of the duel class approach on pages 662 and 663; however, even here the students would have their writing judged in the first class with little structural foundation.
I did not find Contemporary Expressivist Composition to be any more complete. Instead of focusing on a literary surgical device, like in the CCS model, CEC appears to be grounded precariously on “voice.” While voice is an important component to good writing, it is nowhere near the foundation. When I teach my freshmen, one of the first things I tell them is that I will accept well structured garbage much more readily than garbage that is clearly theirs. In fact, I go so far as to exclude their ability to use first and second person pronouns for their formal work until they are able to see that the focus of their work is found in structure and content. If these are well written, their voice will become clear through their choice of vocabulary, rhetorical structure, and appropriate support. Expressivist writing, like Critical Cultural Studies, has its place in the classroom; “freewriting, journaling, and small group dialogic response[s]” are excellent modes of writing to focus the ideas of the students and to create good discussions (567). This theory of composition would be better labeled as a theory of pre-composition.
Well, reader, rarely do I ask for this, but I hope that someone takes me to task for my readings of these two theories. I find it difficult to believe that professionals who are clearly smarter than I am could stand behind theories of writing that focus on areas besides actual writing structure as a foundation for good composition.
Critical Cultural Studies entails many aspects that are near and dear to my heart. I find no fault in grounding a class in a group of texts, nor do I have any problem with the idea that part of the instructor’s responsibility is to focus on “the interpretation … of readings, either about cultural theory or the experiences of a cultural group or individual” (660). This is a wonderful way to approach the creation and purpose of literature; however, it cannot exist as a philosophy of composition because there is no way to gauge a student’s work. Thankfully, Fulkerson agrees: “What we come down to is that the writing in such a course will be judged by how sophisticated or insightful the teacher finds the interpretation of the relevant artifacts to be” (662). The grading would have nothing to do with actually judging composition. Instead, this theory would place the focus of the grade on how much the teacher liked the student’s ideas. This must only be part of judging a work; to be whole, the theory of composition must also have a strong grounding in the “process” that Fulkerson occasionally alluded to but rarely elaborated upon. The best application I found of CCS in action was his case study of the duel class approach on pages 662 and 663; however, even here the students would have their writing judged in the first class with little structural foundation.
I did not find Contemporary Expressivist Composition to be any more complete. Instead of focusing on a literary surgical device, like in the CCS model, CEC appears to be grounded precariously on “voice.” While voice is an important component to good writing, it is nowhere near the foundation. When I teach my freshmen, one of the first things I tell them is that I will accept well structured garbage much more readily than garbage that is clearly theirs. In fact, I go so far as to exclude their ability to use first and second person pronouns for their formal work until they are able to see that the focus of their work is found in structure and content. If these are well written, their voice will become clear through their choice of vocabulary, rhetorical structure, and appropriate support. Expressivist writing, like Critical Cultural Studies, has its place in the classroom; “freewriting, journaling, and small group dialogic response[s]” are excellent modes of writing to focus the ideas of the students and to create good discussions (567). This theory of composition would be better labeled as a theory of pre-composition.
Well, reader, rarely do I ask for this, but I hope that someone takes me to task for my readings of these two theories. I find it difficult to believe that professionals who are clearly smarter than I am could stand behind theories of writing that focus on areas besides actual writing structure as a foundation for good composition.
Jeffery Williams: If You Write a Twenty Page Outline for an Anthology, the Publishers Will Come
Jeffery Williams’ article was by far the least interesting of the five. I don’t find any fault with his argument, mostly because I am almost completely unfamiliar with the works he is citing as appropriate for the “Grand Anthology.” However, I will attempt to draw water from the rock and describe the two points that did slightly draw my attention. I enjoyed Williams’ description of how theory is codified into accepted doctrine, and he is the first writer from these articles to mention the monetary side of new literary and composition theory.
Williams begins his piece by highlighting the discrepancy in time between the introductory dialogues involving new theory and the publication of anthologies based solely on each new theory. It is Williams’ claim that the publication of new theory-based anthologies “mark[ed] a kind of closure of theory: theory is no longer a contested domain, a model vying for prominence, but has arrived as a fully licensed paradigm” (283). I find this interesting because his statement appears to broadcast the possibility that can be altered based upon a large enough audience. In other words, to borrow Williams’ overused transition, a theorist, much like a Biblical prophet, could change the face of modern theory if he or she could convince enough well-placed readers in the literary world to become “believers.” As I wrote above, this is not the most mind blowing of concepts, but it did make me stop and think about the nature of those who shape the theoretical lens I am suppose to apply in my classroom.
The notion that new theory acts as an economic stimulus was also moderately intriguing. I think the most interesting aspect of Williams’ even broaching the subject is the fact that he does so with the overt advertisement that he is not trying to malign any one school of thought by saying the publishers consecrated their theory through publication just to make a buck. Perhaps Williams’ own words would be more appropriate: “In short theory sells. and it has been largely responsible for the commercial viability of recent publishing programs…Without being overly cynical, I would say that theory has served to retool literary studies and work in a profound way” (284). I’m not convinced that Williams is not “being overly cynical;” if he was not considering the possibility of the publishing houses helping new theory as a way to help their bottom line, I don’t think the possibility would appear in this article.
Williams begins his piece by highlighting the discrepancy in time between the introductory dialogues involving new theory and the publication of anthologies based solely on each new theory. It is Williams’ claim that the publication of new theory-based anthologies “mark[ed] a kind of closure of theory: theory is no longer a contested domain, a model vying for prominence, but has arrived as a fully licensed paradigm” (283). I find this interesting because his statement appears to broadcast the possibility that can be altered based upon a large enough audience. In other words, to borrow Williams’ overused transition, a theorist, much like a Biblical prophet, could change the face of modern theory if he or she could convince enough well-placed readers in the literary world to become “believers.” As I wrote above, this is not the most mind blowing of concepts, but it did make me stop and think about the nature of those who shape the theoretical lens I am suppose to apply in my classroom.
The notion that new theory acts as an economic stimulus was also moderately intriguing. I think the most interesting aspect of Williams’ even broaching the subject is the fact that he does so with the overt advertisement that he is not trying to malign any one school of thought by saying the publishers consecrated their theory through publication just to make a buck. Perhaps Williams’ own words would be more appropriate: “In short theory sells. and it has been largely responsible for the commercial viability of recent publishing programs…Without being overly cynical, I would say that theory has served to retool literary studies and work in a profound way” (284). I’m not convinced that Williams is not “being overly cynical;” if he was not considering the possibility of the publishing houses helping new theory as a way to help their bottom line, I don’t think the possibility would appear in this article.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Randall Popken: Is It Really that Difficult to Understand?
The most depressing aspect of Poken’s research is that it has to be written at all. Many of his arguments, or better those of Hopkins, are nothing more than common sense. However, I am not so naive as to believe that because the knowledge is common sense the powers that be or the general public will understand or even care. Sadly, I believe this is the case more often than not with both teachers of writing and the educational system in general. Everyone I overhear speaking of education praises what a great and noble thing it is to be an educator, but in their next breath these same individuals make a crack about vacation time and the fact than they will never pass another worthless bond or mill levy.
I think that was plenty of steam; I believe part of this assignment was supposed to be focused on the actual article, so I’ll get back to that now. I found the beginning of Popken’s article to be both interesting and a little questionable. His opening remarks are grounded solidly in Bruce Horner’s flagrant argument over struggle between teachers, those who “labor,” and scholars, those who produce “work.” While this would be a great argument to pursue (I personally find the comparison hilarious, akin to the difference between a Green Beret and a reservist), the subject is never really picked up after the very, very lengthy observation of Hopkins’ personal struggles. I can only assume that Popken’s rhetorical strategy is grounded in the assumption that those who would side vehemently with Horner will also be sympathetic to the plight of Hopkins.
All of this then brings us to the man in question: Edwin Hopkins. As I stated above, Hopkins’ experience is not unique, though the lengths to which he went to solve his problems are notable. What I find more interesting and more significant the discourse of our class is his personal reason for such an ardent pursuit: he believed both his physical and metal health were less important than his “new composition pedagogy” (621). Hopkins was a strong proponent of both conferencing and the detailed review of ALL student writing. While I see the merit of Hopkins’ stance, I can only agree with him to a point. I love my students, and I love my job, but I love being alive more. Conferencing with students is vital to the teaching of good writing, but not all students will head an instructor’s words, nor will all students even care. Therefore, one must be judicious when applying conferencing as an integral component of composition pedagogy.
The other half of this “new” approach to composition is the detailed reading of all work. Now this is something that I can firmly get behind. I say this because a student should be able to trust that their effort to produce should be matched by the instructor’s effort to enhance. If the work isn’t going to be read thoroughly, it should not be assigned at all. Once again, I can actually feel eyes rolling in their sockets. Yes, I have assigned writing that did not receive the most intense of reading, but it is rarely related to choice; this is my strongest connection to Hopkins’ complaints. Because of the external factors that Hopkins’ described more than one hundred ago, writing teachers that truly desire to do the best by their students are asked to choose between their work and their lives; I for one am not as noble as Hopkins, but perhaps you are.
I think that was plenty of steam; I believe part of this assignment was supposed to be focused on the actual article, so I’ll get back to that now. I found the beginning of Popken’s article to be both interesting and a little questionable. His opening remarks are grounded solidly in Bruce Horner’s flagrant argument over struggle between teachers, those who “labor,” and scholars, those who produce “work.” While this would be a great argument to pursue (I personally find the comparison hilarious, akin to the difference between a Green Beret and a reservist), the subject is never really picked up after the very, very lengthy observation of Hopkins’ personal struggles. I can only assume that Popken’s rhetorical strategy is grounded in the assumption that those who would side vehemently with Horner will also be sympathetic to the plight of Hopkins.
All of this then brings us to the man in question: Edwin Hopkins. As I stated above, Hopkins’ experience is not unique, though the lengths to which he went to solve his problems are notable. What I find more interesting and more significant the discourse of our class is his personal reason for such an ardent pursuit: he believed both his physical and metal health were less important than his “new composition pedagogy” (621). Hopkins was a strong proponent of both conferencing and the detailed review of ALL student writing. While I see the merit of Hopkins’ stance, I can only agree with him to a point. I love my students, and I love my job, but I love being alive more. Conferencing with students is vital to the teaching of good writing, but not all students will head an instructor’s words, nor will all students even care. Therefore, one must be judicious when applying conferencing as an integral component of composition pedagogy.
The other half of this “new” approach to composition is the detailed reading of all work. Now this is something that I can firmly get behind. I say this because a student should be able to trust that their effort to produce should be matched by the instructor’s effort to enhance. If the work isn’t going to be read thoroughly, it should not be assigned at all. Once again, I can actually feel eyes rolling in their sockets. Yes, I have assigned writing that did not receive the most intense of reading, but it is rarely related to choice; this is my strongest connection to Hopkins’ complaints. Because of the external factors that Hopkins’ described more than one hundred ago, writing teachers that truly desire to do the best by their students are asked to choose between their work and their lives; I for one am not as noble as Hopkins, but perhaps you are.
Wendy Bishop: The Quest for Tenure, Better You than Me
The first thing that struck me in Wendy Bishop’s piece was, of course, her style; I suppose a chair of the CCCC had better have an excellent grasp of style, or the members elect a new chair. However, it wasn’t her beautiful grasp of syntax or near-seamless integration of others’ words but instead her overpowering use of allusion and imagery for the first half of the paper, which then acted as a rhetorical anchor for the rest of the paper. I found this strategy to be very effective. Even when I had little interest in many of her personal examples, I was still drawn to the beauty of her imagery which served both an aesthetic and pragmatic purpose.
As to the content of Bishop’s paper, I found myself vacillating between empathy and apathy. It was not that her argument wasn’t compelling, but I am tethered to university life by the thinnest of threads. I have only a vague memory of what it was like to be in the same room with more than one professor, let alone the conversations regarding their personal advancement within the school or that of their department. That being said, there were several strong connections between what she describes and the life of a writing teacher in high school. The two concepts that touched me most personally were her allusion to an asinine race to the “new,” and an impending feeling of burnout felt by those who are already giving so much of themselves.
In her work, Bishop cites how she felt that “activities and theories were being discarded or overwritten even as I felt I was just beginning to gain success with them” (327). In the past four years alone, my students have been provided with three separate writing models. We trade administrators like the NFL trades coaches; if they don’t make it to the playoffs in the first three years, they’re gone. And oh, by the way, guess who those administrators are glaring at while they watch the inevitable shadow of the ax drop on their necks? Their teachers. So the cycle continues; a new administrator is hired. He or she brings in a new (ha ha ha) perspective on writing; it’s always writing and math, and the teachers are asked to make it work. Three years later, it’s time to do it all over again. I’m not sure what it’s like to be dragged into a hurried race to publish so I can hit the moving target of tenure, but I can explain the feel of trying to integrate bizarre practice of drawing a “camera around the adjectives” and a “cloud around the nouns.”
While the continuous bombardment of the “new” is bad enough, the feeling that I just want to “call in dead” is more profound pain. There was no section that I felt closer to than that of the young man at his son’s soccer game “hunched over, marking student papers” (328). As I began this piece, my older son was right next to me watching Go, Diego, Go. Now I know as a good parent that he should be in bed by 8:00, but I’ve only sat with him for a total of maybe six hours this week. I can actually see the readers of this post rolling their eyes and thinking to themselves, “This guy brought this on himself,” and I suppose they are right, but this is just one more part of the job. It’s no less important than grading the quiz I gave to the freshmen this morning, or the comparative literature paper I’m planning for my seniors tomorrow; those are the next things on my list tonight, right after I find one more scholar to tie into the bib assignment for the Wednesday night class.
So as not to end on too depressing a note, I still love my job; my son still knows his dad loves him (we’ll spend all weekend together); and all of the paper work will get done, but I still can’t help looking at those phys ed teachers without at least a little envy.
As to the content of Bishop’s paper, I found myself vacillating between empathy and apathy. It was not that her argument wasn’t compelling, but I am tethered to university life by the thinnest of threads. I have only a vague memory of what it was like to be in the same room with more than one professor, let alone the conversations regarding their personal advancement within the school or that of their department. That being said, there were several strong connections between what she describes and the life of a writing teacher in high school. The two concepts that touched me most personally were her allusion to an asinine race to the “new,” and an impending feeling of burnout felt by those who are already giving so much of themselves.
In her work, Bishop cites how she felt that “activities and theories were being discarded or overwritten even as I felt I was just beginning to gain success with them” (327). In the past four years alone, my students have been provided with three separate writing models. We trade administrators like the NFL trades coaches; if they don’t make it to the playoffs in the first three years, they’re gone. And oh, by the way, guess who those administrators are glaring at while they watch the inevitable shadow of the ax drop on their necks? Their teachers. So the cycle continues; a new administrator is hired. He or she brings in a new (ha ha ha) perspective on writing; it’s always writing and math, and the teachers are asked to make it work. Three years later, it’s time to do it all over again. I’m not sure what it’s like to be dragged into a hurried race to publish so I can hit the moving target of tenure, but I can explain the feel of trying to integrate bizarre practice of drawing a “camera around the adjectives” and a “cloud around the nouns.”
While the continuous bombardment of the “new” is bad enough, the feeling that I just want to “call in dead” is more profound pain. There was no section that I felt closer to than that of the young man at his son’s soccer game “hunched over, marking student papers” (328). As I began this piece, my older son was right next to me watching Go, Diego, Go. Now I know as a good parent that he should be in bed by 8:00, but I’ve only sat with him for a total of maybe six hours this week. I can actually see the readers of this post rolling their eyes and thinking to themselves, “This guy brought this on himself,” and I suppose they are right, but this is just one more part of the job. It’s no less important than grading the quiz I gave to the freshmen this morning, or the comparative literature paper I’m planning for my seniors tomorrow; those are the next things on my list tonight, right after I find one more scholar to tie into the bib assignment for the Wednesday night class.
So as not to end on too depressing a note, I still love my job; my son still knows his dad loves him (we’ll spend all weekend together); and all of the paper work will get done, but I still can’t help looking at those phys ed teachers without at least a little envy.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Comp Theory
I am a member of Composition Theory 501 in order to fulfill the requirement of a master’s degree in English as CSUP; however, this is only one of the reasons why I am in this class. The more encompassing purpose is because I am passionate about literature and its composition. I am so passionate that I was willing to forgo several more lucrative careers in order to share the experience of the English language with young people, which brings me back to the subject of composition theory. Without a solid foundation of common ideas and theories, nothing meaningful can be shared, least of all something as complicated as written expression. All of the positive feeling, however, does not make me a master teacher, nor does it make me feel as comfortable as a teacher of writing as I ought to feel. So, how does one decide the parameters to judge good writing? How does one articulate these ideas into a language that can be processed by the adolescent brain?
Within my own classroom, my major focus has always been on the theory that good writing is rigidly structured with a concise purpose. While I’m sure this is both unoriginal and in direct conflict with my personality, I believe that each word in a sentence should have a purpose beyond the fact that it sounds pretty or “feels right.” I believe in a building block method that logically links thesis to topic, topic to detail, and detail to support. Creative writers will hate this I’m sure, but then again I am applying these ideas to the writing of the essay, not the short story or poem. Playful language has its place in well written composition, but I feel that our amusement to create a clever turn of phrase may detract from the focus of the piece and end up becoming the star attraction.
Through this class I hope to gain a more substantial grasp of the theories being discussed by the leaders in the academic field, as well a chance to hone my own theories for the benefit of my students. The opportunity to discuss others' ideas, as well as my own, with competent peers is also a major draw for the class; as I’ve stated before, I love to work with my students, but there comes a time when one feels the needs to discourse with others of a similar educational background. I hope this will be a positive learning experience, but I know it will be a necessary experience.
If I can sound any less interesting or more pompous, let me know.
Within my own classroom, my major focus has always been on the theory that good writing is rigidly structured with a concise purpose. While I’m sure this is both unoriginal and in direct conflict with my personality, I believe that each word in a sentence should have a purpose beyond the fact that it sounds pretty or “feels right.” I believe in a building block method that logically links thesis to topic, topic to detail, and detail to support. Creative writers will hate this I’m sure, but then again I am applying these ideas to the writing of the essay, not the short story or poem. Playful language has its place in well written composition, but I feel that our amusement to create a clever turn of phrase may detract from the focus of the piece and end up becoming the star attraction.
Through this class I hope to gain a more substantial grasp of the theories being discussed by the leaders in the academic field, as well a chance to hone my own theories for the benefit of my students. The opportunity to discuss others' ideas, as well as my own, with competent peers is also a major draw for the class; as I’ve stated before, I love to work with my students, but there comes a time when one feels the needs to discourse with others of a similar educational background. I hope this will be a positive learning experience, but I know it will be a necessary experience.
If I can sound any less interesting or more pompous, let me know.
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