Finding the Real within the Grand

I have been to the Grand Canyon twice and will be returning for my third visit this August. The first time I gazed at the canyon I was fifteen-years-old. And as discussed in "The Loss of the Creature," I felt like I was looking at a postcard. I don't have any pictures from that time, but I remember that it was cold, and I remember that it felt appropriate to be arriving there in a red convertible. Watching the sun rays bounce off the walls, I knew that I might as well be staring at eternity. We were only there for two hours, but I knew that I would be back.

The summer after my senior year I went to Las Vegas on a mission trip. My boyfriend who has now been my husband of two years came, too. Although this side trip to the Grand Canyon was also brief, it was completely different. I was no longer looking at the canyon as a stranger. I was one of the only ones in my group who had seen it before and that made me feel like I had some type of privilege that they didn't. I dangled my feet one at a time over the edge. I jumped in Logan's arms for a picture. I walked off the beaten path with my friends, but I refused to leap from the rock formations like some of the guys did. I wasn't completely oblivious to the dangerous openness.

When I read this chapter from The Message in the Bottle I first thought that I managed to have a genuine experience like Cardenas, yet I realized that I couldn't help compare the actual canyon and all its splendor to not only my created expectations of it but of my own memories. While I strayed off of the beaten path, I was not conscious of what I was doing and, therefore, could not fully experience it. When I go back this August, I am going to try to be the complex tourist who sees the canyon through others' generic experience, even though I think that sounds terrible. I am going to read the canyon rhetorically and try to look at it any way other than straight on.

While reading this passage I could not help but think about the new assignment that is going to be implemented in our comp classes next year, the one about the rhetorical analysis of an object. I think this would be a great article for the students to read when thinking about this project. So often we think we see things for how they are, but we really see a shadow of their true selves. By approaching an object from a new perspective, the students could actually learn to see something for the first time.

I was thinking about the example of the family who gets trapped at the Grand Canyon all by themselves and how they can have a legitimate experience. When I was in the first grade we had to put on a school play. A couple of my friends and I arrived early and had a little while to explore around the school (of course we were not supposed to). Those dark hallways and empty classrooms seemed nothing like our school, but when I think about my elementary school, I often recall those images. It was probably the only time I really saw the place where I spent six years of my childhood.

The next time I teach, I think I will try the experiment suggested at the end of the chapter, which is to give your students something "out-of-place" to learn, such as poetry in a biology class. To be given something unexpected will encourage the students to see something in a unique way. I think this "out-of-placeness" could be incorporated in the object rhetorical analysis project is some way.

I am excited about seeing the Grand Canyon for the third time...or first time, depending on how one looks at it.

Balancing Binaries

Bruce Horner’s “Students, Authorship, and the Work of Composition” is all about removing the binaries which divide composition studies. Rather than reinforcing the binaries, such as author/student, and classroom/real world, Horner proposes a balanced approach, one that takes into consideration both sides of the spectrum.
His first concern, the duel relationship of the author/student, illustrates the conflicting nature of what teachers teach and what they expect from students’ writing. Horner advises teachers to revisit their comments on student papers and rather than critiquing their writing, focus on how they achieved or failed to satisfy the purpose of the assignment. When grading my own students’ papers, I have tried to focus on global issues rather than sentence-level grammar errors; however, with my pen in hand, it is so easy to circle everything I see. I know that if I condense and reshape my comments then my students would be more likely to benefit from them.
We can learn so much from our students’ writing, and as Ballinger would claim, our students’ writing is our best resource. Horner also believes in the relevance of student writing, and, in fact, credits student writing with much of the progress made in composition. He contends, “Much that has been accomplished in composition has come from the practice of paying close attention to student writing; indeed, composition distinguishes itself from other fields by its attention to student writing, so defined” (523). Therefore, student writing is not just something to evaluate but to reflect upon. By treating students as authors, while still realizing that they are evolving students, composition instructors can have a more balanced and productive view of their students.
Horner suggests giving the students room to breathe and not expecting the perfect paper. Sheldon tells us all the time that the assignments are intentionally challenging, and we do not expect perfection. If we set the bar high, our students will not only meet but exceed the expectations placed on them as first-year composition students.
Although I liked Horner’s balanced approach to most aspects, I had difficulty accepting his claim that a classroom should not be treated as a community. I have always thought that a communal approach to writing, reading, well, to learning in general is the most industrious stance. Through workshopping and Socratic seminars, I encourage my students to rely on their classmates for constructive feedback. At first I thought that Horner was against this ideology, but now I realize that he encourages combing the social with the classroom and the world, rather than only the classroom in isolation. Writing in classrooms in not meant to only prepare them for real life. It is real life. Our students need to understand the social aspect of writing. It is dangerous for the instructor to present the classroom as society, just as it is dangerous for society to be seen as only the outside. Writing, as a social entity, is complicated and cannot be neatly confined and defined. I understand that by broadening my students’ perspective of the community as both inside and outside the community, they will be better equipped to apply their writing practices to all rhetorical situations, instead of only those found within the composition classroom.

My Literary Heritage

Over the last several weeks I have been thinking about my literary heritage. When we first started discussing the idea of our personal literary heritages in practicum, I felt tears in my eyes, because I could recall myself as a little girl being read a bedtime story or going to the library on Friday afternoons. I can still smell the Lee County Library and hear my footsteps as I climbed the tiered platform in the children’s section. As I began examining all of the pieces to my literacy story, I was humbled. Not all of my students share the same fruitful background in reading. Knowing where we come from helps put things into perspective, and as I explore my background in literacy, I realize that my training in literature and composition began before my formal schooling.

I do not remember a time in my life when books were not around. My father had built a floor-to-ceiling bookcase in my room, which took up an entire wall. I would look at my books when I was trying to go to sleep. My mother started reading to me when I was very young. She either read to me or told me stories every night. One of the first books I remember her reading to me was Laura Ingles Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie. We read all the books in the series together. This time with my mother was what initiated my love for reading, but she was not the only one in my family who inspired me.

Every morning my father would read the newspaper. Actually, he had to have more than one paper, including his Daily Journal, USA Today, and the Commercial Appeal. Much to my mother’s dismay, he would often times read aloud word-for-word a story that caught his attention. Although my father did not read books all the time like my mother, who received her degree in library science, he valued reading. Whereas, my mother read mystery books for pleasure, my father read shorter pieces for information.
My grandmother also had a significant role in my literary heritage. I spent the night with her three times a week, and before going to bed she would read the Bible to me. After my grandmother had a massive stroke when I was in the fifth grade, I would read to her. We also enjoyed reading Chicken Soup for the Soul books together, and I would read a couple of stories to her before going to sleep.

Although I have an older sibling, I was raised as an only child. My parents were overly protective of me and rarely let me out of their sight. I longed for adventure, and since traveling the world by myself at the age of eight was out of the question, I read a lot. My favorite author growing up was Madeleine L’Engle. Every time I would finish one of her books I had the feeling that I had just become a better person in some way. I loved fantasy and adventure books as well as domestic girl stories. I associated reading with intelligence, and I thought that whatever I read was preparing me for something in real life. I didn’t read to escape; I read to experience. When I was in the seventh grade we had to choose a book for a basic report. I decided that the Baby Sitters Club and Goosebumps were not challenging enough, so I tackled Moby Dick. I read the last two hundred pages of the book in one evening, while sitting in my Nintendo chair in the basement. At that moment I hated Moby Dick, but I was pleased that I could say I had read it.

Every summer I would participate in the summer reading program. I always met or surpassed my goal, and I refused to read easier books just because I could have read them faster. In elementary school, I won several personal pan pizzas for reading a certain number of books, and in high school, I was one of the few who enjoyed taking accelerated reader tests.
Books were among my favorite presents. Sitting on Santa’s lap, I would ask him to bring me books and surprises for Christmas. For birthdays and other special occasions, my parents would buy me a beautiful hardback book. One year, I received a beautiful copy of Little Women and Little Men, another year it was the complete Winnie-the-Pooh stories. My mother would inscribe every book, something she still does. My parents constantly pick up books for me. I think I have more English Literature Anthologies than I could ever use, and even though I have yet to read a John Grisham novel, I have two of his autographed novels. I also give books as presents. I have two nephews and a niece, who can count on getting a book for a holiday or even just because. I introduced my nephews to Harry Potter, and it is one of the few movies that the three of us can agree on. When I have children of my own someday in the probably not-so-distant future, I am going to shower them with books. I often fantasize about having read-ins with pallets and pillows on the floor or which books we have to read when they are certain ages. As wonderful as my childhood was in regard to reading, I want theirs to be even richer.

As I’m older, I love to visit the sights associated with books and their authors. My parents took me to Muscle Shoals, so I could see the water spout which transformed Helen Keller’s life. The summer before I graduated with my Bachelor’s, I studied children’s literature in Britain. I walked in the hundred acre woods, stood on the platform of 9 and ¾, and visited Jane Austen’s tomb. For my honeymoon, I wanted to go to South Carolina, because one of my favorite authors, Nicholas Sparks, bases most of his novels there. Last August my husband and I went to the 100th anniversary of Anne of Green Gables in Prince Edward Island, and I can finally understand why L.M. Montgomery felt such an attachment to Canada’s smallest province. Also last summer I went to New York City, and walking along the Upper East Side, I traced the path of some of Madeleine L’Engle’s characters. I have a continually growing list of other literary places I want to visit.

Although I focused on the reading portion of my literary heritage, I enjoyed writing as well. I kept stacks of journals and wrote letters to friends. I even joined a pen pal program and wrote to kids my age all over the world. Whenever I’m upset or angry, I have to write it down, just like L.M. Montgomery. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can make me feel better. I don’t always enjoy writing papers because it takes so much out of me, and I always feel rushed. Writing is work, no matter what some people may think. As I’m beginning my thesis, I am truly excited about this writing project because I have given myself plenty of time for researching and writing. This summer, my sole responsibility will be to read, research, and write on my two favorite authors.

In essence, my literary heritage is also my legacy. The more I think about how much of my life has been invested in literacy, the more I understand that if I can sometimes have resistance to reading and writing, that it is no wonder some of my students share this frustration. Because this exploration has been so beneficial for me, I’m going to ask my students to write about their own literary heritages. I can’t wait to read them. I even think I’ll post mine for them to read, but I think I'll let them post theirs first. I want to see what they can come up with on their own.

Practicing Multimodality

As much as I hate to admit this, this week is the first time since the beginning of the semester that I have looked at anyone else’s blog. Once I started reading my classmates’ blogs though, I couldn’t stop. Also, I was really impressed by the different ways everyone made their blogs multimodal. In a way I feel a little bit like a hypocrite, because as much as I agree with the move to multimodality, and, even though, I openly expressed my new-found comfort with technology, I almost dreaded putting it into practice with my own blog. I thought that the blog in and of itself was enough to prove I was technological savvy; however, after seeing my friends’ pictures, videos and links, I realized that I did, indeed, need to spruce up my own blog.

I agree with Billy that the “what if” personal narrative essay offers an interesting option to the photo essay. I also had several photo essays about graduation or a beloved deceased grandparent. Some of the essays managed to be original even with a common topic, yet I think by giving the students more room for creativity, there photo essays will be even more interesting to them and to their audience. I found a website with an article on how and why to include multimodality in a first-year composition personal narrative. It reinforced not only what Billy was suggesting what, I think, we are striving to do in our program: Article about infusing multimodality elements in the personal narrative.

I feel like I have to comment on Heather P.’s blog especially, since a lot of her thoughts were in response to what I wrote last week. I completely agree with Heather that the efforts to go multimodal in the classroom should be interdisciplinary and not just the responsibility of composition instructors. Nevertheless, I believe we are the ones who should get this party started, so to speak, and hope that the other departments follow suit. Heather begs the question, “Should we keep putting all the weight, and all the blame, on comp teachers?” And I concur with her implied, “No, we should not.” Yet, we can play the pass-the-buck and share-the-responsibility games all day long, and our students will continue to suffer. Yes, we are under-paid and over-worked, but so are all teachers and most anyone in a service profession. Gradual implementation is the way to start. According to the article “Thinking about Multimodality,” instructors can begin by offering a multimodal option to one assignment. Major reconstruction is not necessary in order for students to feel like what they are learning in their composition courses is relevant to the types of technologies they use in their free time and careers.

Below is a link to a video, which provides an interesting alternative for the photo essay.

Link to a video which offers another interesting adaptation to the photo essay.

Embracing Multimodality

A few years ago if I had read Takayoshi’s and Selfe’s chapter “Thinking about Multimodality,” I would have thought to myself, “It’s a noble concept, including multiple mediums in a composition course, but it’s not for me.” I was so overwhelmed by videos, hyper-linking, and even internet classes that I would have shied away from teaching composition in a “non-traditional” format. According to Takayoshi and Selfe, the act of reformatting composition to include cultural practices and modern technology is not new (7). There will be those who are always intimidated and put-off by change, but, for educators, we owe it to our students to teach curriculums which are relevant to their lives. Rather than being distracting to the conventional “alphabetic” assignments, multimodality enriches the students’ overall understanding and application of analytical skills (5). A student-centered pedagogy, which I strongly value, demands that we frame assignments within students’ “own cultures and discourses” (5). When students can utilize what they enjoy doing outside of class with their course work along with preparing them for a technological-dependent society, they are more likely to be engaged and successful. Does this mean that instructors will need to put in extra time training themselves and developing new assignments and how to evaluate them? Well, of course, however, if the results are that students see composition as relevant rather than archaic, then the extra time is well spent.
No longer threatened by ever-changing technology, I began thinking of how our composition courses could adapt some of our existing assignments to make them even more multimodular. For instance, I thought about how the review essay could be expanded to include the actual song, movie, restaurant, etc. that is being reviewed. The song could be playing for the audience to hear while they are reading, or a video file of a commercial or trailer could be inserted within the text. Also, the research discourse community assignment lends itself to this type of expansion. Students could video their interviews and segments of their field research and link them right into their papers. I can see how this interaction with words and visual elements would only increase the students’ excitement about the projects.

Writing Performance in the Classroom

Before I even comment on this week’s article “Performing Writing, Performing Literacy,” I want to address how teaching 102 has affected the way I now read articles. I caught myself deliberately looking for the authors’ rhetorical moves, and when I detected them, I made notes, not just for the sake of annotating this article but to think about how I would mimic the moves in my own writing. The article opens with a breakdown of composition research then explains the methodology of the said study before launching into the pedagogical implications of incorporating writing performance in the classroom. At this moment in my writing timeline, I am particularly interested in the moves articles make because I am drafting my thesis prospectus. Consciously, I have never paid as close attention to the steps an article takes in relaying information to the reader. Usually I am too wrapped up in analyzing the content, rather than both the content and the form.
One of the first research question asked by the authors of this piece is “Can we expand our curricula and our pedagogies to make room for performance in the writing classroom?” (226) Throughout the article they answer this question by suggesting that performance “stands to reinvigorate both teaching and learning in the writing classroom” (227). Realizing that performance cannot be separated from audience, the writer is forced to think about the complexity and individuality of every piece. Knowing that a piece will be performed effects every step of the writing process and often serves as motivation for the writer to think about not just the clarity and organization of the material but the entertainment value for the proposed audience. Take for example, 102’s performance component. In groups, our students will present their research project on a particular academic discourse community. The more successful performances will be those that are organized around specific research questions, such as the study illustrated in this article.
But as the article claims, the performance element of writing does not only come at the end of the process; it can come at the beginning or even the middle. One of the student writer contributors, Beth McGregor, describes her performance as a writer. She takes on a character while she is writing, who assists her in silencing her inner critic in order to conquer writer’s block. This section reminds me of Ballinger’s advice in The Curious Writer to give the writer “permission to write badly.” In McGregor’s case, acting like a writer, or taking on the character of a writer, helps her to write. She describes this liberating experience, “Success! My paper got written, largely because of the help of an adopted character, who was just an elevated form of myself, but a character, nonetheless […]” (236). The performance aspect of writing is not reserved for the end but any part of the process. Writing performance as a tool should be implemented in our composition courses because it is empowering and relevant for our students.

Making the Comments Count

Commenting on students’ papers is a topic of great interest for me, especially given my background in secondary education. In my undergraduate English licensure courses, we sometimes spent an entire class period practicing writing thorough and helpful comments on students’ papers. Then we had to include evaluated students’ work in our student teaching portfolios. I have always enjoyed commenting on student papers, and I credit my professional and engaging instructors who encouraged me to engage in my students’ work rather than simply stain them with red ink. Connors and Lunsford’s article “Teachers’ Rhetorical Comments on Student Papers” sympathizes with overworked teachers who struggle to find the time to write extensive commentaries; however, the data from the article’s study proves that we, as teachers, are not always commenting on what we are saying is important nor do we focus on our students’ writing as a continual work in progress. While I acknowledge that there is still room for improvement in this and all other teaching practices, I am confident that this is one of my strengths as an instructor. According to the essay, in the history of writing instruction the ideas that students have something worthwhile to say and that teachers are their students’ real audience are relatively new, yet they strongly affect the way teachers will respond to their students’ writing (203-204). If we focus more on global comments and the effectiveness of the piece in considering its rhetorical situation then we will be able to provide comments that could positively influence our students and their writing rather than discourage them. The easy thing to do is to mark where words have been misused and semicolons are needed, but these corrections cannot make our students better writers. If we expect our students to write with the rhetorical situation in mind, how can we expect anything less from ourselves when we are evaluating/commenting on their work?
For as long as I have been turning in papers to teachers, I have enjoyed getting them back so I could look at the comments. Which comments meant the most to me? It wasn’t the ones that pointed out a typo or a grammatical error or some punctuation mishap. The comments that I loved to read were the global ones. The comments that stated my teacher enjoyed reading my work and had some suggestions for how to make it even better. As a student, I do my best work when I know that my teachers care about me and my scholastic growth, and even though I am now a graduate student, this still holds true.
I was disheartened to hear a favorite instructor of mine say that he hoped all of his students’ essays were “Bs.” When I asked why, he told me that a B paper does not require any comments or grade justification; simply, they’re the easiest/quickest to grade. Now, I have a strong respect for this man’s abilities as a teacher; therefore, I attribute his weariness of commenting on papers to something Connors and Lunsford covered: teachers are overworked, have a multitude of students, and, have plenty of other responsibilities. Writing lengthy comments on papers takes time, but done wholeheartedly they can truly improve student writing. At the very least, this article has reminded me of why it is essential to not only include extensive comments on students’ writing but to make the suggestions correlate with what we expect them to learn from our course.