After weeks of focusing on Kathleen Blake Yancey for my upcoming presentation, I felt I knew exactly where Peter Kratzke was headed from the moment I read his title: “Recopying to Revise: Composition in an Old Key.” And, Kratzke didn’t disappoint – though he was actually a little more adamant than I expected in his admonitions that “an ounce of precaution is in order,” and “we need to tell our students to slow down and double back” (10) before we get too caught up in Yancey’s “New” key.
In her 2004 CCCC Chair’s address, “Made Not Only in Words: Composition in a New Key,” Yancey empathetically states that “yes, it’s about change. Change, as we saw in the 19th century, and as we see now, can be very difficult, can be unnerving” (321).
“Unnerved” is the way Kratzke often comes across when he professes to not hear students talking about “drafts” and revision on campus anymore (10) as a consequence of an absorbing interest in and the rampant use of technology. As a student of composition who constantly revises (often by hand), I have to disagree that these discussions are not going on – more, as a writer-teacher, I know I constantly lead students into conversations about the art and craft of revision.
As I felt Michelle Sidler may have overstated her case for the privileging of biotechnology information by the rhetorical field, I feel here as though Kratzke is panicking a little more than may be called for when comparing the writing process with “warfare” and “nuclear power” (11).
Further, this technology is not just going to go away. Yancey points out that this “[has become] the language of the vernacular, [and] if we do not include it in school curriculum, we will become as irrelevant as faculty professing in Latin” (305). She does not say at any point I’ve found that we should eliminate print – or even typewriters if that is Kratzke’s want; though, I don’t remember them being my tool of choice for creativity, and I think he’d be hard-pressed to get his students to do more than play with one out of curiosity.
Still, I do encourage quite a bit of in-class writing myself, among other reasons, as a way for my students to experience this connection with their own work, but I’ve never seen anything in Yancey’s work to indicate she would be opposed to this. What she appears to be advocating, rather, is an exploration with our students of “a curriculum that carries forward the best of what we have created to date” (308).
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Still Running for the Canon
In her presentation on Andrea Lunsford, Nancy Albertson introduced Lunsford’s pedagogy of memory as the forgotten canon, and Kathleen Blake Yancey asserts in her 2004 CCCC Chair’s address that memory has been “separated” from the canons of invention, arrangement, and style “in ways that are counterproductive” (316). Into this separation step Elizabeth Tasker and Frances B. Holt-Underwood with their article “Feminist Research Methodologies in Historic Rhetoric and Composition: An Overview of Scholarship from the 1970s to the Present.”
The article looks at “feminist historic research” (54) in the context of its place among the constellation of historic research. They tackle this one decade at a time, reminding their audience of “scholars, teachers, and students” (67) of the importance of the first canon to our understanding of where we have been and where we are trying to go within the field of feminist theory.
They begin with definitional difference between feminist and traditional historical research methods. Patricia Bizzel, say Tasker and Holt-Underwood, “explicitly identifies the [feminist] researcher’s emotional involvement with the subject” (55), assuming the traditional (usually male?) researcher has no such connection to their subject of study. An argument could be made that the word Bizzell uses describing the historicists’ subject as “neglected” is not objective, implying that the researcher, indeed, could have a vested interest.
The authors also make the points that, according to Bizzell, feminist researchers are not “neutral” observers, “gain ethos not from objectivity but from community,” and “[embrace] pluralistic, rather than definitive, theories and conclusions” (55), a stance which not only takes scholarship away from feminist researchers, but, again, assumes traditional (read: patriarchal) researchers are always neutral and never affected by societal or community-related concerns – especially if we read community as “discourse community.”
Converging with other cultural historicists, as has happened since the 1990s, seems an obvious path for feminist theory, as does, finally, “restating the need to discern why certain historic women” were “rhetorically effective” (58). But, now, in the 2000s, we have come full circle and are being told that “feminist rhetorical methods have moved too far from mainstream academic strategies and therefore cannot be trusted to be truthful” (61). We are forced to establish ethos once more and continue to argue for our place in the canons of rhetoric and of literature.
But, thought is a construct, and there is no such thing as pure objectivity within in any genre, any pedagogy, or theory. We all begin from a different history – which is why we look to the canon of memory to, eventually, establish our agency once and for all.
The article looks at “feminist historic research” (54) in the context of its place among the constellation of historic research. They tackle this one decade at a time, reminding their audience of “scholars, teachers, and students” (67) of the importance of the first canon to our understanding of where we have been and where we are trying to go within the field of feminist theory.
They begin with definitional difference between feminist and traditional historical research methods. Patricia Bizzel, say Tasker and Holt-Underwood, “explicitly identifies the [feminist] researcher’s emotional involvement with the subject” (55), assuming the traditional (usually male?) researcher has no such connection to their subject of study. An argument could be made that the word Bizzell uses describing the historicists’ subject as “neglected” is not objective, implying that the researcher, indeed, could have a vested interest.
The authors also make the points that, according to Bizzell, feminist researchers are not “neutral” observers, “gain ethos not from objectivity but from community,” and “[embrace] pluralistic, rather than definitive, theories and conclusions” (55), a stance which not only takes scholarship away from feminist researchers, but, again, assumes traditional (read: patriarchal) researchers are always neutral and never affected by societal or community-related concerns – especially if we read community as “discourse community.”
Converging with other cultural historicists, as has happened since the 1990s, seems an obvious path for feminist theory, as does, finally, “restating the need to discern why certain historic women” were “rhetorically effective” (58). But, now, in the 2000s, we have come full circle and are being told that “feminist rhetorical methods have moved too far from mainstream academic strategies and therefore cannot be trusted to be truthful” (61). We are forced to establish ethos once more and continue to argue for our place in the canons of rhetoric and of literature.
But, thought is a construct, and there is no such thing as pure objectivity within in any genre, any pedagogy, or theory. We all begin from a different history – which is why we look to the canon of memory to, eventually, establish our agency once and for all.
Reading Charlotte Brammer and Mary Rees, Or "Uh-Oh! Am I Doing It Wrong?"
Reading Charlotte Brammer and Mary Rees’ “Peer Review From the Students’ Perspective: Invaluable or Invalid” with a bit of unease at first, not sure where this was going to end. As someone who graduated high school before peer review became a commonplace in classrooms, I first encountered this process in a literary survey class after returning to college at the age of 42 to finish my B.A.
I must admit that, at first, I did worry I might not give or receive adequate (or appropriate) feedback from the other students who acknowledged they felt as lost as I did. In the end, though, it made a difference in my comfort-level in both understanding and delivering on the expectations of a composition classroom. Now, as a teacher myself, peer review and collaboration are the backbone of my own pedagogy.
As a teacher myself, I absolutely get that “establishing a productive community of collaborative writers is anything but easy” (72). My question, I guess, is – is it supposed to be?
It also makes sense that L1 students respond better than L2 students who more than likely begin at a much different comfort-level; however, even with L2 students, if the teacher is able to take the time to teach the students what to look for and to help them “build rapport among classmates,” any student might be made comfortable with the process.
That students who are required “to complete in-class peer reviews,” tend to place more value on this collaboration than those who aren’t is not surprising as, for the most part I believe, they come into the classroom with the idea (maybe the ideal, obviously sometimes unrealistic) that the teacher’s mission is to demonstrate for them things of value they do not already possess.
I was relieved to discover that Brammer and Rees were not exhorting teachers to abandon the practice, but, instead, challenging teachers to “take the necessary steps to allow students to learn to trust their classmates as ‘true peers’” (82).
I must admit that, at first, I did worry I might not give or receive adequate (or appropriate) feedback from the other students who acknowledged they felt as lost as I did. In the end, though, it made a difference in my comfort-level in both understanding and delivering on the expectations of a composition classroom. Now, as a teacher myself, peer review and collaboration are the backbone of my own pedagogy.
As a teacher myself, I absolutely get that “establishing a productive community of collaborative writers is anything but easy” (72). My question, I guess, is – is it supposed to be?
It also makes sense that L1 students respond better than L2 students who more than likely begin at a much different comfort-level; however, even with L2 students, if the teacher is able to take the time to teach the students what to look for and to help them “build rapport among classmates,” any student might be made comfortable with the process.
That students who are required “to complete in-class peer reviews,” tend to place more value on this collaboration than those who aren’t is not surprising as, for the most part I believe, they come into the classroom with the idea (maybe the ideal, obviously sometimes unrealistic) that the teacher’s mission is to demonstrate for them things of value they do not already possess.
I was relieved to discover that Brammer and Rees were not exhorting teachers to abandon the practice, but, instead, challenging teachers to “take the necessary steps to allow students to learn to trust their classmates as ‘true peers’” (82).
Dancing on a Very Narrow Fence
When Emily Badovinac began her presentation on David Bartholomae, I did not understand the specifics of the feud between him and Peter Elbow. When she finished her presentation, I found I still didn’t understand what they think they are arguing about.
To be clear, I understand that Bartholomae gives agency to the teacher and the academic process and Elbow bestows agency on the student, but, the resolution must lie, as Badovinac asserts, in “[discovering] a more meaningful pedagogy and academic discourse” somewhere between the two sides. Certainly, both theorists must hold as their objective the successful teaching of composition skills to their students. The question for me, however, might more accurately be asked – who do they see as their student?
Badovinac defines “The Argument:”
1. “Humans are socially constructed.”
2. Students are “intellectually capable of critically examining their culture and themselves”
3. The “tools used to find the culture must be academically sound materials.”
I cannot argue that we not are social constructs, and, for the most part, I agree that students are “intellectually capable” of seeing their culture and themselves – but can they see it (themselves) accurately and objectively. Objectivity is not necessarily correlated with intellect. And, can we say it is all one culture – who decides what that culture looks like (besides the obvious – Bartholomae and/or Elbow)? How can we be certain which “tools” are “academically sound” unless we can fully define our student population and their culture?
In the same way we accommodate teaching writing as a process and teaching grammar as a necessity, there must also be a place in the academic community (and curriculum) for both an academic approach and for allowing students to reflect, be self-expressive, and freewrite as an entry to their essays (it apparently works for Elbow – and I’ve have not heard that Bartholomae believes Elbow to be an incompetent writer).
But, in a time in which the idea of a college education is not as easily defined as it once was – so many non-traditional students are returning to community colleges and online “virtual” colleges (i.e. The University of Phoenix) as well as returning to universities where they sit side-by-side with younger, traditional students – which of these students’ souls are Bartholomae and Elbow tugging between them?
I feel relatively safe in assuming they are thinking of the same demographic of student they may have encountered early in their separate careers – that is, possibly white and probably upper to middle-class; in which case, their definition of “student” may be too narrow a space for me to fall comfortably on either side.
To be clear, I understand that Bartholomae gives agency to the teacher and the academic process and Elbow bestows agency on the student, but, the resolution must lie, as Badovinac asserts, in “[discovering] a more meaningful pedagogy and academic discourse” somewhere between the two sides. Certainly, both theorists must hold as their objective the successful teaching of composition skills to their students. The question for me, however, might more accurately be asked – who do they see as their student?
Badovinac defines “The Argument:”
1. “Humans are socially constructed.”
2. Students are “intellectually capable of critically examining their culture and themselves”
3. The “tools used to find the culture must be academically sound materials.”
I cannot argue that we not are social constructs, and, for the most part, I agree that students are “intellectually capable” of seeing their culture and themselves – but can they see it (themselves) accurately and objectively. Objectivity is not necessarily correlated with intellect. And, can we say it is all one culture – who decides what that culture looks like (besides the obvious – Bartholomae and/or Elbow)? How can we be certain which “tools” are “academically sound” unless we can fully define our student population and their culture?
In the same way we accommodate teaching writing as a process and teaching grammar as a necessity, there must also be a place in the academic community (and curriculum) for both an academic approach and for allowing students to reflect, be self-expressive, and freewrite as an entry to their essays (it apparently works for Elbow – and I’ve have not heard that Bartholomae believes Elbow to be an incompetent writer).
But, in a time in which the idea of a college education is not as easily defined as it once was – so many non-traditional students are returning to community colleges and online “virtual” colleges (i.e. The University of Phoenix) as well as returning to universities where they sit side-by-side with younger, traditional students – which of these students’ souls are Bartholomae and Elbow tugging between them?
I feel relatively safe in assuming they are thinking of the same demographic of student they may have encountered early in their separate careers – that is, possibly white and probably upper to middle-class; in which case, their definition of “student” may be too narrow a space for me to fall comfortably on either side.
Bizzells's Holistic Bridge Between Bartholomae and Elbow
When thinking about the argument between Peter Elbow and David Bartholomae, I’m pretty sure I fall on the side of Patricia Bizzell.
Bizzell’s pedagogy of Additive and Holistic Teaching creates a bridge between Bartholomae’s need for formal teaching and Elbow’s belief in the student-directed writing experience. Bizzell seems to understand the assertion that “humans are socially constructed” (Badovinac), that it is important for students to explore their culture – while her epistemology also includes the consideration so necessary in today’s diverse learning community – not all cultures are the same, and the context for most students when they enter the classroom includes “various discourse communities.”
A nod to Bartholomae and the importance of academic writing, with which I whole-heartedly agree, Bizzell exhorts student exposure to “good writing,” according presenter Shaynee Jesik, as a way assisting student growth into “sophisticated writers and thinkers.” Where Bartholomae’s (and Elbow’s) pedagogical thinking seems to end at the door of the writing classroom, Bizzell, like Kathleen Blake Yancey, sees her role as teacher in a much broader perspective.
Yancey sees her teaching experience (especially in relation to technology) as a means of “[fostering] the development of citizens who vote, of citizens whose civic literacy is global in sensibility” (Yancey, “Made Not Only in Words,” 321). Where Yancey’s pedagogy embraces civic responsibility; however, Bizzell takes steps a little further – into territory where Bizzell and I must part ways.
At the university level – especially in a graduate situation – a teacher sharing personal political leanings is almost to be expected. But, in a pre-university setting – and perhaps even an undergraduate situation – a teacher needs to be careful exactly what it is they are trying to “model” for their students.
According to Jesik, Bizzell believes that “the teacher’s role is to get political,” but how political is political? And, where should a teacher (especially in a pre-university setting) draw a line determining how much personal input they add to the curriculum? While I believe a teacher can, and should, introduce current events and philosophies of civic responsibility in a balanced way, I cannot agree that a classroom ought to become the personal forum for an educator’s personal political agenda anymore than the teacher’s desk ought to become a pulpit from which to espouse their religious beliefs, but should, as Gerald Graff rather “[seek] to involve the student in a discussion of the issues through writing and literature without pre-determining a desired outcome for ways of thinking at the end of the course” (from Scott Lee’s presentation).
Bizzell’s pedagogy of Additive and Holistic Teaching creates a bridge between Bartholomae’s need for formal teaching and Elbow’s belief in the student-directed writing experience. Bizzell seems to understand the assertion that “humans are socially constructed” (Badovinac), that it is important for students to explore their culture – while her epistemology also includes the consideration so necessary in today’s diverse learning community – not all cultures are the same, and the context for most students when they enter the classroom includes “various discourse communities.”
A nod to Bartholomae and the importance of academic writing, with which I whole-heartedly agree, Bizzell exhorts student exposure to “good writing,” according presenter Shaynee Jesik, as a way assisting student growth into “sophisticated writers and thinkers.” Where Bartholomae’s (and Elbow’s) pedagogical thinking seems to end at the door of the writing classroom, Bizzell, like Kathleen Blake Yancey, sees her role as teacher in a much broader perspective.
Yancey sees her teaching experience (especially in relation to technology) as a means of “[fostering] the development of citizens who vote, of citizens whose civic literacy is global in sensibility” (Yancey, “Made Not Only in Words,” 321). Where Yancey’s pedagogy embraces civic responsibility; however, Bizzell takes steps a little further – into territory where Bizzell and I must part ways.
At the university level – especially in a graduate situation – a teacher sharing personal political leanings is almost to be expected. But, in a pre-university setting – and perhaps even an undergraduate situation – a teacher needs to be careful exactly what it is they are trying to “model” for their students.
According to Jesik, Bizzell believes that “the teacher’s role is to get political,” but how political is political? And, where should a teacher (especially in a pre-university setting) draw a line determining how much personal input they add to the curriculum? While I believe a teacher can, and should, introduce current events and philosophies of civic responsibility in a balanced way, I cannot agree that a classroom ought to become the personal forum for an educator’s personal political agenda anymore than the teacher’s desk ought to become a pulpit from which to espouse their religious beliefs, but should, as Gerald Graff rather “[seek] to involve the student in a discussion of the issues through writing and literature without pre-determining a desired outcome for ways of thinking at the end of the course” (from Scott Lee’s presentation).
Engaging with Graff and Lee
Reading works of theorist such as Graff, Bizzell, and Yancey – who find purpose in their field beyond the creation of robotic academic writers – I, finally, find myself engaged, even energized. And, I’m going to thank Scott Lee for this; his connection to his audience as well as to his subject during his presentation helped me connect to the class experience overall.
That said, knowing the three theorists mentioned above all have an eye toward “social purpose” (Lee) in the field of composition and rhetoric has given me hope that there’s life stirring among the dusty volumes of rhetorical literature after all.
I’ve never been a fan of reading theory because, most of the time, the on-going debates seem to be other, for lack of a better term. In the case of Bartholomae and Elbow, for instance, the “argument,” while interesting, is purely semantic. I doubt seriously Peter Elbow wants to take teachers out of classrooms, and he obviously entertains and takes part in academic writing, reading, and discourse. For Bartholomae’s part, unless he feels that Elbow’s actual product (that is, his actual writing) is somehow substandard, it cannot possibly matter to him whether Elbow came to it through freewriting or through use of a formal outline. Like the theories of evolution and “Intelligent Design,” I do not find the philosophies of these two men mutually exclusive, so I can't feel engaged by the "debate."
I understand (and agree with) Graff’s point, that the argument itself is the thing – argumentation can, and does stimulate and spark new thought, but it can also become repetitive, pedantic, and self-serving. Bartholomae and Elbow seem – to me – to have a very narrow view of what they are trying to accomplish (though maybe it didn't start out that way so many years ago) and of who the student’s are their theories are built around – I find no connection with their argument which often feels as though it has become an end in itself.
Bizzell, on the other hand bridges the gap between Bartholomae and Elbow with her holistic view which considers who students are in the real world and where they come from and how they can best be engaged. Yancey focuses on moving the field forward, constantly looking for new ways to integrate invention, arrangement, and delivery, hoping to light a fire under her students. Finally, Graff believes students should be included in on-going debates – and not just sent to their rooms to wait for the “adults” to finish their grown-up discussions. For Graff, “the debate becomes the curriculum” (Lee), includes the student, and is no longer other.
That said, knowing the three theorists mentioned above all have an eye toward “social purpose” (Lee) in the field of composition and rhetoric has given me hope that there’s life stirring among the dusty volumes of rhetorical literature after all.
I’ve never been a fan of reading theory because, most of the time, the on-going debates seem to be other, for lack of a better term. In the case of Bartholomae and Elbow, for instance, the “argument,” while interesting, is purely semantic. I doubt seriously Peter Elbow wants to take teachers out of classrooms, and he obviously entertains and takes part in academic writing, reading, and discourse. For Bartholomae’s part, unless he feels that Elbow’s actual product (that is, his actual writing) is somehow substandard, it cannot possibly matter to him whether Elbow came to it through freewriting or through use of a formal outline. Like the theories of evolution and “Intelligent Design,” I do not find the philosophies of these two men mutually exclusive, so I can't feel engaged by the "debate."
I understand (and agree with) Graff’s point, that the argument itself is the thing – argumentation can, and does stimulate and spark new thought, but it can also become repetitive, pedantic, and self-serving. Bartholomae and Elbow seem – to me – to have a very narrow view of what they are trying to accomplish (though maybe it didn't start out that way so many years ago) and of who the student’s are their theories are built around – I find no connection with their argument which often feels as though it has become an end in itself.
Bizzell, on the other hand bridges the gap between Bartholomae and Elbow with her holistic view which considers who students are in the real world and where they come from and how they can best be engaged. Yancey focuses on moving the field forward, constantly looking for new ways to integrate invention, arrangement, and delivery, hoping to light a fire under her students. Finally, Graff believes students should be included in on-going debates – and not just sent to their rooms to wait for the “adults” to finish their grown-up discussions. For Graff, “the debate becomes the curriculum” (Lee), includes the student, and is no longer other.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Donald Murray: Expressivist or Pragmatist?
Tony Filpi affirms, in his presentation on theorist, author, and teacher Donald K. Murray that Murray’s main aim was to “improve the teaching of composition to pre-university students,” and that, though Murray was often labeled an expressivist, “focusing more on writers and the experience of writing than on the final text” (Smith, 220), he was really a pragmatist at heart.
Filpi supports his claims by giving his audience a thorough background on Murray’s early years. The theorist dropped out of school not once, but twice because he felt the teaching practices were “too rigid.” But, Filpi reveals, it was Murray’s ambition as a writer and his aspirations to a “middle-class” lifestyle that took him back where he was able to “[finish] high school and college at the same time.” Not surprisingly, Murray developed an interest in the way composition was taught in public schools and wrote his seminal works (Writer Teaches Writing and The Craft of Revision) with public school teachers in mind. He used direct feedback from these instructors to rewrite and revise his work until he received their approval and support.
Murray adhered to the theory that “the best teachers of writing are writers” and cultivated his pedagogy around the view that “writing is product driven but process oriented,” but he also believed in vision and the element of “surprise,” as “Murray [claimed] that often he [did] not know where his writing [would] take him” (Smith, 223).
According to Filpi, Murray’s theory was a somewhat more realistic version of Peter Elbow’s theory of reflection (with freewriting at its center) in which the writer must think first about the product before sitting down to write. Murray’s theory broke down into three process stages:
Filpi supports his claims by giving his audience a thorough background on Murray’s early years. The theorist dropped out of school not once, but twice because he felt the teaching practices were “too rigid.” But, Filpi reveals, it was Murray’s ambition as a writer and his aspirations to a “middle-class” lifestyle that took him back where he was able to “[finish] high school and college at the same time.” Not surprisingly, Murray developed an interest in the way composition was taught in public schools and wrote his seminal works (Writer Teaches Writing and The Craft of Revision) with public school teachers in mind. He used direct feedback from these instructors to rewrite and revise his work until he received their approval and support.
Murray adhered to the theory that “the best teachers of writing are writers” and cultivated his pedagogy around the view that “writing is product driven but process oriented,” but he also believed in vision and the element of “surprise,” as “Murray [claimed] that often he [did] not know where his writing [would] take him” (Smith, 223).
According to Filpi, Murray’s theory was a somewhat more realistic version of Peter Elbow’s theory of reflection (with freewriting at its center) in which the writer must think first about the product before sitting down to write. Murray’s theory broke down into three process stages:
Pre-vision – Pre-writing and a practice of delay and rehearsal. He believed there were eight “signals” a writer might receive when the visioning process was complete and it became clear that it was time to write. This could include the revelation of a genre, a POV, or a voice among other things.- Vision – the development of order (sequence) and meaning suggested by the pre-vision signal to write
- Re-vision – which discovers language and voice and flow through editing and proofreading.
According to Filpi and to Smith, et al in Compbiblio: Leaders and Influences in Composition Theory and Practice, Murray “is probably most remembered for being the youngest journalist to win a Pulitzer Prize” in 1954 (220).But, his legacy might center more around an approachable pedagogy, even for pre-university students, including the charge that writers are also readers and ought to “remain open to the lessons that their [own] writing will reveal to them” (Smith, 223).
Collaborating with Albertson and Lunsford
Nancy Albertson presents a brief introduction to Stanford Professor Dr. Andrea A. Lunsford’s long, dynamic career by explaining Lunsford’s theoretical approach to “Memory (the 4th canon), collaboration, women and writing, audience, intellectual property, and writing and technology.” In order to illustrate for the audience Lunsford’s argument in Why Words … Together – written in 1983 with her some-time writing partner Lisa Ede – that “all writing is collaborative” in one way or another, Albertson began her presentation with an exercise; her audience was asked to “collaborate” with one another while defining words that in turn defined Lunsford’s research.
Albertson then gave a brief survey of Lunsford’s research into the “female voices” she believes to be of equal importance to the male in developing the history of writing and rhetoric. Lunsford, according to the presenter, also believes that rhetoric’s fourth canon, memoria, has not been accorded the importance it deserves in twentieth century rhetorical theory.
The human rights movements of the 1960s and 1970s was fundamental to Lunsford’s work, according to Albertson, who cited Ms. Magazine founder Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, author of The Feminine Mystique, and the racial struggles of author and Professor of Rhetoric and Composition, Victor Villanueva as mitigating influences on her own writing on the subjects of feminism and discrimination.
Albertson tells us that Lunsford’s ideologies encompass vast areas of interests, including “a broader definition of ‘literature,’” “shared dissertations,” and extended training and responsibilities for, and collaborations with, Teaching Assistants. Lunsford has also written critically on the subjects of intellectual Property and textual ownership as well as on the “technologies of writing.”
The main thrust of Albertson’s presentation surrounded collaboration and its importance to Lunsford’s own writing, but a glance at an annotated bibliography in Compbiblio: Leaders and Influences in Composition Theory and Practice (Allison D. Smith et al, 2007) reveals a well-rounded vision for the future of composition and rhetorical theory, but also for the role of the teacher (201-04).
There is, of course, only so much that can be said in forty minutes regarding a career spanning decades, so it is fair to say that Albertson has given us a point from which to launch our understanding of the work of Andrea Lunsford.
Albertson then gave a brief survey of Lunsford’s research into the “female voices” she believes to be of equal importance to the male in developing the history of writing and rhetoric. Lunsford, according to the presenter, also believes that rhetoric’s fourth canon, memoria, has not been accorded the importance it deserves in twentieth century rhetorical theory.
The human rights movements of the 1960s and 1970s was fundamental to Lunsford’s work, according to Albertson, who cited Ms. Magazine founder Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, author of The Feminine Mystique, and the racial struggles of author and Professor of Rhetoric and Composition, Victor Villanueva as mitigating influences on her own writing on the subjects of feminism and discrimination.
Albertson tells us that Lunsford’s ideologies encompass vast areas of interests, including “a broader definition of ‘literature,’” “shared dissertations,” and extended training and responsibilities for, and collaborations with, Teaching Assistants. Lunsford has also written critically on the subjects of intellectual Property and textual ownership as well as on the “technologies of writing.”
The main thrust of Albertson’s presentation surrounded collaboration and its importance to Lunsford’s own writing, but a glance at an annotated bibliography in Compbiblio: Leaders and Influences in Composition Theory and Practice (Allison D. Smith et al, 2007) reveals a well-rounded vision for the future of composition and rhetorical theory, but also for the role of the teacher (201-04).
There is, of course, only so much that can be said in forty minutes regarding a career spanning decades, so it is fair to say that Albertson has given us a point from which to launch our understanding of the work of Andrea Lunsford.
Orality, Spirituality, and Father Walter Ong
In his presentation on Walter Ong, Eric Beard asserts that Ong’s major impact or “legacy” to the field of composition studies lies mainly in the areas of “tracing orality,” the idea of “oral residue,” and in the exploration of spirituality, rhetoric, and pedagogy. In order to support his assertions, Beard begins by developing a framework of an “obsession with orality” by explaining the importance of Ong’s religious roots as an ordained Jesuit priests on his pedagogy, and referring to Ong as a “Consummate Scholar,” who theorized on the purpose of poetry (to “mimic dialogue”) then went on to write his dissertation on sixteenth century theorist Peter Ramus. Beard also presents what he names Ong’s “Foundational ideas:”
· Orality & Literacy
· Rhetoric & Pedagogy
· Rhetoric & Faith
· Western Culture
Beard then offered his audience a video clip of Ong speaking on the cultural changes created by introducing the written word into pre-literate society, arguing that these cultures did not “speak the same once writing [existed].” Ong’s dissertation on Ramus, Ramus, Method and the Decay of Dialogue, details the spread of thought through writing – though he felt Ramus’ thinking was “unoriginal,” Ong claims that this was the time when thinking began to take on a more linear form than was possible in oral, storytelling societies which relied on an unreliable and cyclical “Memoria.”
In The Presence of the Word: Some Prolegomena for Cultural and Religious History, Beard tells us, Ong related “The Word,” with “The Word of God;” though, perhaps, Beard does not go quite far enough in connecting this concept to his explanation of Ong’s four elements or orality: Primary Orality, Writing, Print, and Secondary Orality.
Ong explores the idea of Secondary Orality further in “Orality & Literacy: The Technology of the World,” which was published, surely not coincidentally, in the era in which gave us Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and the personal computer. Beard states that, though Ong was somewhat “hesitant to speculate” on just how far the new technology could take us, he introduced “sweeping ideas” and explored the concept of “Oral Residue” – the idea that, just as the written word changed oral communication, so orality influences our writing, especially as we become more immersed in technology. He points to the way people are writing in e-mails and other text-based communications, spelling words the way they sound (e.g. “How R U?”).
(Eric) “cast his net widely” as he gave an overview of Ong’s life and contribution. Unfortunately, there was not more than passing mention of the importance of religion and spirituality on Ong’s perspective, yet it is listed as a “Foundational Idea.” It would be interesting to explore the ways theology informs the work of theorists such as Ong and James L. Kinneavy and their overarching “unifying” and “sweeping” philosophies. It was discussed after the presentation that this perspective might cause a theorist to categorize and dig deeper for the “ultimate truth,” but it can also be argued that it was awareness of something bigger than themselves and some greater purpose – that allowed both Ong and Kinneavy to take the broad, encompassing views that continue to shape the twin fields of composition and rhetoric.
· Orality & Literacy
· Rhetoric & Pedagogy
· Rhetoric & Faith
· Western Culture
Beard then offered his audience a video clip of Ong speaking on the cultural changes created by introducing the written word into pre-literate society, arguing that these cultures did not “speak the same once writing [existed].” Ong’s dissertation on Ramus, Ramus, Method and the Decay of Dialogue, details the spread of thought through writing – though he felt Ramus’ thinking was “unoriginal,” Ong claims that this was the time when thinking began to take on a more linear form than was possible in oral, storytelling societies which relied on an unreliable and cyclical “Memoria.”
In The Presence of the Word: Some Prolegomena for Cultural and Religious History, Beard tells us, Ong related “The Word,” with “The Word of God;” though, perhaps, Beard does not go quite far enough in connecting this concept to his explanation of Ong’s four elements or orality: Primary Orality, Writing, Print, and Secondary Orality.
Ong explores the idea of Secondary Orality further in “Orality & Literacy: The Technology of the World,” which was published, surely not coincidentally, in the era in which gave us Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and the personal computer. Beard states that, though Ong was somewhat “hesitant to speculate” on just how far the new technology could take us, he introduced “sweeping ideas” and explored the concept of “Oral Residue” – the idea that, just as the written word changed oral communication, so orality influences our writing, especially as we become more immersed in technology. He points to the way people are writing in e-mails and other text-based communications, spelling words the way they sound (e.g. “How R U?”).
(Eric) “cast his net widely” as he gave an overview of Ong’s life and contribution. Unfortunately, there was not more than passing mention of the importance of religion and spirituality on Ong’s perspective, yet it is listed as a “Foundational Idea.” It would be interesting to explore the ways theology informs the work of theorists such as Ong and James L. Kinneavy and their overarching “unifying” and “sweeping” philosophies. It was discussed after the presentation that this perspective might cause a theorist to categorize and dig deeper for the “ultimate truth,” but it can also be argued that it was awareness of something bigger than themselves and some greater purpose – that allowed both Ong and Kinneavy to take the broad, encompassing views that continue to shape the twin fields of composition and rhetoric.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Elbow: A Student's Perspective
Tim Wenger asserts in his presentation on Peter Elbow that Elbow’s work encompasses “varying degrees of freewriting” which allow students and other authors to get out from under the ever-looming cloud of writer’s block. Wenger begins by explaining Elbow’s background of struggle with his own composition classes and then the subsequent discovery of an ability to learn reflexively which, in the end, led to an illustrious place in the history of composition-theory.
As a student, according to Wenger, Elbow was unable to relate to teaching traditions which included the development of outlines and attempted to force students to “know” exactly what they wanted to write about as soon as they sat down. Elbow claimed this “inflated” the power of the teacher and emphasized social construct over individual “voice.” Apparently, Elbow became so distraught and frustrated with the system that he left behind his own studies to pursue a career in teaching – because, he believed, it is often “easier to be a teacher than a student” (not necessarily a view the owner of this particular blog subscribes to).
Wenger describes Elbow’s process of reflecting on his own writing, on “his own mind” and his discovery that, if he allowed himself to simply write, without thought, self-criticism, direction, or even grammatical concern – and without stopping for a specified number of minutes – it allowed his subconscious to find not only its topic, but it allowed him to find his own voice as well. Elbow calls this process “making a mess.”
He did not advocate writing in a vacuum, however, and he emphasized the necessity of “fluctuation” between freewriting and critiquing – including a focus on order, coherence, and audience.
One of the most practical and accessible aspects of the presentation was Wenger’s discussion of Elbow’s process of writing drafts, in which he writes in short spurts as ideas occur to him then later orders and transitions them into a coherent work.
As a writer and a student, Elbow’s struggles with the writing process and finding his own voice I find imminently relatable, and, through video clips of an actual interview with the theorist, and his own thoughtful research and skilled delivery, Tim Wenger’s presentation conveyed this understanding to his audience.
As a student, according to Wenger, Elbow was unable to relate to teaching traditions which included the development of outlines and attempted to force students to “know” exactly what they wanted to write about as soon as they sat down. Elbow claimed this “inflated” the power of the teacher and emphasized social construct over individual “voice.” Apparently, Elbow became so distraught and frustrated with the system that he left behind his own studies to pursue a career in teaching – because, he believed, it is often “easier to be a teacher than a student” (not necessarily a view the owner of this particular blog subscribes to).
Wenger describes Elbow’s process of reflecting on his own writing, on “his own mind” and his discovery that, if he allowed himself to simply write, without thought, self-criticism, direction, or even grammatical concern – and without stopping for a specified number of minutes – it allowed his subconscious to find not only its topic, but it allowed him to find his own voice as well. Elbow calls this process “making a mess.”
He did not advocate writing in a vacuum, however, and he emphasized the necessity of “fluctuation” between freewriting and critiquing – including a focus on order, coherence, and audience.
One of the most practical and accessible aspects of the presentation was Wenger’s discussion of Elbow’s process of writing drafts, in which he writes in short spurts as ideas occur to him then later orders and transitions them into a coherent work.
As a writer and a student, Elbow’s struggles with the writing process and finding his own voice I find imminently relatable, and, through video clips of an actual interview with the theorist, and his own thoughtful research and skilled delivery, Tim Wenger’s presentation conveyed this understanding to his audience.
Kinneavy: Categorizing Chaos
In the Précis to his presentation Klayton Kendall asserts that James L. Kinneavy’s “purpose [was] to provide a theoretical framework for the field of composition in order to establish it as a discipline worthy of study in higher education.” Kendall develops his ideas by giving the audience background on Kinneavy’s life and on the importance of Kinneavy’s seminal work, A Theory of Discourse. In order to illustrate what he calls Kinneavy’s “desire [for] a unifying theory,” Kendall follows up the background discussion with some compelling video clips, asking the audience to categorize them as Kinneavy might (using the Kinneavy’s “Basic Purposes of Composition:” the Expressive, Referential, Literary, and Persuasive groupings). The purpose would be to impress upon his audience the importance of Kinneavy’s work, with the caveat that even Kinneavy understood no composition could be perfectly categorized into one specific purpose.
The apparent contradictions in Kinneavy’s work are not surprising after reading Thomas P. Miller’s “In Memorial Tribute to James L. Kinneavy.” Miller points to Kinneavy’s “self-deprecating wit” and his “breadth of focus and depth of vision” (313) as an indication of Kinneavy’s grasp of metatheory and its basic precept that “context shapes purpose” (Miller, 314).
Kendall’s thorough backgrounding of Kinneavy’s life – from his elementary school education during the Great Depression, to his college years during World War II, to becoming a member of the Catholic teaching order known as the Christian Brothers – was an essential and important part of his presentation, as it can be seen that Kinneavy’s history certainly “[spoke] to [his] future” (Miller, 316) in the field of composition theory. Growing up in times of such great change and chaos might make anyone yearn for a unifying theory and to find neat categories in which to place ideologies. But, Kinneavy’s “broadly cultural” Catholicism kept his mind open to “understanding traditions as ongoing arguments about the means and ends of [historical] experience” (Miller, 316), allowing him to be fully aware that even his unifying theory could not always hold its center. His self-deprecating humility could then have led him to expose the “contradictions” in his most important work.
Overall, Kendall’s presentation was an informative and interesting glimpse at a man we could spend a lifetime studying and whose work might take several more lifetimes to fully grasp.
The apparent contradictions in Kinneavy’s work are not surprising after reading Thomas P. Miller’s “In Memorial Tribute to James L. Kinneavy.” Miller points to Kinneavy’s “self-deprecating wit” and his “breadth of focus and depth of vision” (313) as an indication of Kinneavy’s grasp of metatheory and its basic precept that “context shapes purpose” (Miller, 314).
Kendall’s thorough backgrounding of Kinneavy’s life – from his elementary school education during the Great Depression, to his college years during World War II, to becoming a member of the Catholic teaching order known as the Christian Brothers – was an essential and important part of his presentation, as it can be seen that Kinneavy’s history certainly “[spoke] to [his] future” (Miller, 316) in the field of composition theory. Growing up in times of such great change and chaos might make anyone yearn for a unifying theory and to find neat categories in which to place ideologies. But, Kinneavy’s “broadly cultural” Catholicism kept his mind open to “understanding traditions as ongoing arguments about the means and ends of [historical] experience” (Miller, 316), allowing him to be fully aware that even his unifying theory could not always hold its center. His self-deprecating humility could then have led him to expose the “contradictions” in his most important work.
Overall, Kendall’s presentation was an informative and interesting glimpse at a man we could spend a lifetime studying and whose work might take several more lifetimes to fully grasp.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Bio-Future of Better Teaching
I cannot lie - at first, I had a difficult time understanding Sidler's assertion that "many computers and writing scholars are poised to lead discussions about access to - and ownership of - the genetic information uncovered by HGP and Celera" (133), (I still cringe at the arrogance of the word "ownership), but the more I thought about it, the more I began to understand the impact this technology will have on the field of teaching in general, let alone teaching composition (I contend that the full impact will even be imagined for many years to come).
If "biotechnological research is discovering the codes our bodies use to communicate" (130), what does that say about how we can understand the teaching-learning process and how much more effective we can be at guiding our students? That is the exciting part.
The, possibly, amusing part, is the confusion this might cause in the world of theory. It might, for instance, make McGee and Ericsson's "politics of the program" a mute point, because grammar-syntax rules could be "programmed" right into our minds (I'm thinking "Matrix" stuff here); of course, this would be bound to lead to a huge argument surrounding the specific theoretical approach which should be used for such a program. A comforting thought is that, maybe we will all be smarter then, realizing that arguing in circles through one line of reasoning at a time (instead of seeing the greater picture in which process and grammar must both play an intricate role) ultimately gets us nowhere.
It's important to remember, however, that like the computers Sidler wishes to "parallel" with this new biotechnology (132), technology and the science behind it have limitations; to think of either as magical is to fall prey to a scary delusion. We are not "creating" the genome, we are only learning (finally) to tap into the human potential that already exists.
If "biotechnological research is discovering the codes our bodies use to communicate" (130), what does that say about how we can understand the teaching-learning process and how much more effective we can be at guiding our students? That is the exciting part.
The, possibly, amusing part, is the confusion this might cause in the world of theory. It might, for instance, make McGee and Ericsson's "politics of the program" a mute point, because grammar-syntax rules could be "programmed" right into our minds (I'm thinking "Matrix" stuff here); of course, this would be bound to lead to a huge argument surrounding the specific theoretical approach which should be used for such a program. A comforting thought is that, maybe we will all be smarter then, realizing that arguing in circles through one line of reasoning at a time (instead of seeing the greater picture in which process and grammar must both play an intricate role) ultimately gets us nowhere.
It's important to remember, however, that like the computers Sidler wishes to "parallel" with this new biotechnology (132), technology and the science behind it have limitations; to think of either as magical is to fall prey to a scary delusion. We are not "creating" the genome, we are only learning (finally) to tap into the human potential that already exists.
The Frustration of Those Squiggly Green Lines
Without doubt, I too have encountered the "inane recommendations" (453) of the MS Word "grammarian" and have, consequently, been awed by the idea of computer programmers teaching the world how to write. I've also felt compelled, just by the sight of those squiggly green lines, to leave off typing in order to go back and "fix" my "mistake," becoming annoyed when I discover that it wants me to change "I am going to the store" to "I is going to the store" and now I've lost my train of thought when I return to my narrative.
I have to say, however, that - until now - I had never thought about which particular grammatical theory these computer gods subscribed to. While I am not sure how much time I will spend taxing my brain on this issue, Mcgee and Ericsson make a great point that, as teachers of end users, we should be aware of what is happening in the magical world of software - the magic is not always quite that strong; it has its share of bugs, and it definitely has its limitations, as the authors point out in the "Code upon code" (458) section of their paper.
It is up to us to point out to our students that we are not putting our first emphasis on grammar - so they really shouldn't worry if Microsoft does.
In fact, we might point out that it will be a good exercise for them to watch the green lines disappear as their writing gets stronger, only to have them return once more when they've reached a point of confidence in their composition that allows them to really play with language and grammar.
I have to say, however, that - until now - I had never thought about which particular grammatical theory these computer gods subscribed to. While I am not sure how much time I will spend taxing my brain on this issue, Mcgee and Ericsson make a great point that, as teachers of end users, we should be aware of what is happening in the magical world of software - the magic is not always quite that strong; it has its share of bugs, and it definitely has its limitations, as the authors point out in the "Code upon code" (458) section of their paper.
It is up to us to point out to our students that we are not putting our first emphasis on grammar - so they really shouldn't worry if Microsoft does.
In fact, we might point out that it will be a good exercise for them to watch the green lines disappear as their writing gets stronger, only to have them return once more when they've reached a point of confidence in their composition that allows them to really play with language and grammar.
The Serious Consequences of Matsuda's "Composed Product"
As I read theory - of any kind - I am constantly surprised by the number of theorists who seem surprised to find themselves dealing with the same arguments over and over again.
Matsuda is quite concerned about the consequences of "the use of concepts developed in another site of intellectual practices" (66) on L2 theory; we need only look at our other readings for this week, however, to see that dealing with this issue is inescapable. How "serious" are the consequences?
Well, that depends on how gullible we choose to be when we read theory. Because knowledge itself is "discursive construction" (66), we need to constantly read "with a grain of salt," and a little common sense. More than this, we need to be aware that it is our "shared axiology" (68) (like gold in Ft. Knox) that allows us to buy into "the rhetorical nature of writing" (68) in the first place.
All of which still only begs the deeper question: "What is the best way to teach composition?"
It is the underlying question on everyone's mind - and arguments surrounding what we may or may not call our exploration of ideas ("Current-Traditional, "Process," "Post-Procss," "Bob") don't get us any closer to answering it.
Obviously, I haven't been in this field for long so have very little in the way of ethos on which to base my feelings, but I can't deny that it sounds as though much of the debate on theory simply surrounds the debate on theory.
Matsuda is quite concerned about the consequences of "the use of concepts developed in another site of intellectual practices" (66) on L2 theory; we need only look at our other readings for this week, however, to see that dealing with this issue is inescapable. How "serious" are the consequences?
Well, that depends on how gullible we choose to be when we read theory. Because knowledge itself is "discursive construction" (66), we need to constantly read "with a grain of salt," and a little common sense. More than this, we need to be aware that it is our "shared axiology" (68) (like gold in Ft. Knox) that allows us to buy into "the rhetorical nature of writing" (68) in the first place.
All of which still only begs the deeper question: "What is the best way to teach composition?"
It is the underlying question on everyone's mind - and arguments surrounding what we may or may not call our exploration of ideas ("Current-Traditional, "Process," "Post-Procss," "Bob") don't get us any closer to answering it.
Obviously, I haven't been in this field for long so have very little in the way of ethos on which to base my feelings, but I can't deny that it sounds as though much of the debate on theory simply surrounds the debate on theory.
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