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).
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