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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Bringing Students' Writing to the Forefront
First of all, I would like to address the issue of genre that I promised to reintroduce to my class this week. After reading last week’s article I realized that I had miss-taught the concept of genre by defining it as a means to categorize writing styles; however, I now understand it to be a unifier of dichotomies such as style and content, form and context. Instead of relating the complexity and inclusive nature of genre to Swale’s discourse community definition, I decided to explain it through our rhetorical analysis piece, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. As a class, we discussed how the text’s form could not be separated from its content, purpose, audience, and social context. We concluded that genre encompasses all five components of the rhetorical situation and that it is not a static process. Rather than simply studying the definition of genre, we put it into conversation with not only the speech but also with the students' own papers.
Kathleen Welch’s article “Ideology and Freshman Textbook Production: The Place of Theory in Writing Pedagogy” focuses on the importance of using students’ work as the writing classroom’s primary texts and textbooks as secondary references. Textbook examples alienate the students because they are usually presented out of context (273). The students do not benefit from these perfect and, consequently, purposeless papers that offer no explanation for the writer’s writerly choices. When classes focus on students’ papers, teachers can highlight the rhetorical situation. Students can talk about what they did and why they did it and whether or not it was successful; then they can debate what they could do to make their work more effective. Last semester in 101 we stressed that writing is a recursive process, but textbook examples seldom illustrate this. By concentrating on student writing, teachers can prove to students that writing is fluid and, like language itself, ever changing (274). Welch advocates for student writing as the best example of powerful writing: “By giving up the disconnection and decontextualizing of freshman writing texts, we unlock the energy of the students’ and our own expertise as writers” (274). Following this method supports the idea that students are not only capable of producing readable texts but that they are already writing experts in the sense that they see language as living. Presenting writing instruction in this more effective and personal manner proves to students that they are already successful writers and that composition courses are not a waste of their time.
Kathleen Welch’s article “Ideology and Freshman Textbook Production: The Place of Theory in Writing Pedagogy” focuses on the importance of using students’ work as the writing classroom’s primary texts and textbooks as secondary references. Textbook examples alienate the students because they are usually presented out of context (273). The students do not benefit from these perfect and, consequently, purposeless papers that offer no explanation for the writer’s writerly choices. When classes focus on students’ papers, teachers can highlight the rhetorical situation. Students can talk about what they did and why they did it and whether or not it was successful; then they can debate what they could do to make their work more effective. Last semester in 101 we stressed that writing is a recursive process, but textbook examples seldom illustrate this. By concentrating on student writing, teachers can prove to students that writing is fluid and, like language itself, ever changing (274). Welch advocates for student writing as the best example of powerful writing: “By giving up the disconnection and decontextualizing of freshman writing texts, we unlock the energy of the students’ and our own expertise as writers” (274). Following this method supports the idea that students are not only capable of producing readable texts but that they are already writing experts in the sense that they see language as living. Presenting writing instruction in this more effective and personal manner proves to students that they are already successful writers and that composition courses are not a waste of their time.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Re-Thinking and Re-Teaching Genre
Just when I thought I had finally gotten this genre stuff all figured out, I read Devitt’s article “Generalizing about Genre,” and I realized that I had been as lost as my students. “Genre” sounds too complicated a term for something simply describing form, and, as it turns out, it is much more involved. I definitely have some explaining to do for my students who still believe that genre only means knowing the difference between an essay, a letter, and an e-mail. Actually, I think Devitt’s more encompassing definition of genre will make more sense. We tell our students that context (both textual and social), form, situation, purpose, and audience all impact writing, the writer, and the reader, yet we try to break up these integrated components into separate dichotomies. Devitt provides a way out of the corner that we have found ourselves facing. We do not have to choose between whether the context or the form determines the genre of the piece because they are both factors. When students learn that rhetorical situations are all about making well-informed choices rather than memorizing which form and style to use in every situation, they will become unburdened. Understanding genres allows students to tap into their previous experiences and knowledge about a particular piece of writing, without having to start from scratch every time they sit down to write out a grocery list or a research paper.
This semester in my 102 class we have discussed genre several times. I know that my students have heard this term in other classes, but the definition doesn’t stick with them. I think it is because they also realize that “genre” is a much larger concept than they are being taught. Starting next week, I am going to attempt to expand their view of genre by building on what I know they already know: that genre is connected to form. Since my students are much more familiar now with the idea of a discourse community and because Devitt uses John Swales’ definition of a discourse community to illustrate his own point, I plan on using discourse communities as a springboard for re-teaching the complete definition of genre. I will report back next week with the results of this in-class experiment.
This semester in my 102 class we have discussed genre several times. I know that my students have heard this term in other classes, but the definition doesn’t stick with them. I think it is because they also realize that “genre” is a much larger concept than they are being taught. Starting next week, I am going to attempt to expand their view of genre by building on what I know they already know: that genre is connected to form. Since my students are much more familiar now with the idea of a discourse community and because Devitt uses John Swales’ definition of a discourse community to illustrate his own point, I plan on using discourse communities as a springboard for re-teaching the complete definition of genre. I will report back next week with the results of this in-class experiment.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Understanding Resistance
Reading Douglas Hesse’s article, “Teachers as Students, Reflecting Resistance,” I could not help but think about our practicum class last semester. As first-time composition teachers and first-time practicum students, I think Hesse more than accurately described our limbo situation. In the dual role as teacher and student, we struggled with resistance, not only our students’ resistance but surprisingly our own. I was shocked by how much our attitudes towards the new material in our text The Politics of Writing resembled our students’ attitudes towards our department’s approach to teaching composition. We failed to notice our own resistance to an unfamiliar discourse community, composition and rhetoric. Hesse contends in his article that all first-year students, whether freshman or beginning graduate students, experience a strong level of resistance with new material; furthermore, they tend to discount the writing style and content as unapproachable rather than accepting that the difficulty exists within themselves (225). Naturally, one’s initial response to complicated material is that the information is too complex or written in a purposefully confusing manner. We expect our freshman to need help interpreting content, yet as graduate students we believe we are prepared for deciphering sophisticated information. Our pride takes a hit when we struggle because we know that we have put effort and years into our field of study.
Personally, I am a literature person, so comp theory was completely new to me. I assumed because I was becoming adept in the literature discourse community that I could navigate all sub-communities of academic English. I completely identify with Hesse’s claim to salvation: “What “saved” me was a realization that the field needed to be learned from within and that a considerable amount of mucking around––reading and writing as if things made sense––was necessary” (227). Without knowing, I adopted this approach to entering the comp community. In no way do I understand everything about composition, but by throwing myself into it, I now feel more comfortable discussing and writing about the subject than I did at the beginning of last semester.
I was reminded of my struggle with new material even at this level for one purpose: to be more sympathetic towards my own students. Resistance is a defense mechanism and a sign that students are having difficulty engaging in the material of a new discourse community. Does this mean that none of our students have a lazy bone in their bodies? Probably not, but if we can show them that we honestly understand their resistance then we have found a starting point for entering the conversation. In addition, as teachers/students we are in the unique position to share with our students what we do when faced with resistance and other academic challenges. We can prove to them that we are on their side, not just their evaluators.
Personally, I am a literature person, so comp theory was completely new to me. I assumed because I was becoming adept in the literature discourse community that I could navigate all sub-communities of academic English. I completely identify with Hesse’s claim to salvation: “What “saved” me was a realization that the field needed to be learned from within and that a considerable amount of mucking around––reading and writing as if things made sense––was necessary” (227). Without knowing, I adopted this approach to entering the comp community. In no way do I understand everything about composition, but by throwing myself into it, I now feel more comfortable discussing and writing about the subject than I did at the beginning of last semester.
I was reminded of my struggle with new material even at this level for one purpose: to be more sympathetic towards my own students. Resistance is a defense mechanism and a sign that students are having difficulty engaging in the material of a new discourse community. Does this mean that none of our students have a lazy bone in their bodies? Probably not, but if we can show them that we honestly understand their resistance then we have found a starting point for entering the conversation. In addition, as teachers/students we are in the unique position to share with our students what we do when faced with resistance and other academic challenges. We can prove to them that we are on their side, not just their evaluators.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)