So, why do I do it? This question is a response to my husband's revelation this past weekend that I have the most boring job in the world. I tutor students on writing. I make and revise grammar handouts and writing workshops. I fill out paperwork. I balance tutor schedules. I take classes on teaching. I teach a class on writing. I write. I do more paperwork. I make lesson plans and grade papers. I write papers. I attend countless meetings. I am always tired and there is always more work than time. Did I mention the paperwork? Oh, and I don't get paid very well, either. So, once again, why do I do it?
I have recently been offered, by a friend, a "chance of a lifetime" to "get in on the ground floor" of "an exciting and lucrative opportunity." Looking past all the cliches, for a moment I was intrigued. Even though I quickly recognized the "opportunity" for what it was - a pyramid scheme - I also recognized what intrigued me about my friend's offer in the first place = $. And $ means a better life, right? But did the boats and private jets and tropical vacations and early retirement tempt me? For a moment. Was I really willing to risk the loss of all my free time managing my new "business," possible bankruptcy and litigation to get it? Absolutely not. What about selling a few vitamin supplements door-to-door, like a good little Girl Scout, in what passes for free time? A resounding NO.
I'm sure lots of folks have come across such an "opportunity;" this is not a rare occurrence. I'm faced with such "opportunities" every day of my life. I could have enrolled in medical school rather than pursue a BA of Arts in English and had a much greater salary potential. I could have skipped school altogether and married rich. I could have opened a restaurant. Hell, I could have played the lottery this morning. But I didn't. Is it because I'd rather use that lotto dollar towards a new book that'll just make me poorer and take up more of my time? Or am I afraid of what all these "opportunities" might bring if I fail?
I took a big leap when I quit my job as a bank teller to go after a Masters degree. I might not make it til the end. I might burn out from the ever increasing work load, or worse, I might starve to death. Despite all this, I do not believe for a second that I passed on my "opportunity" for a better life. What that means might be boring to some. But I know that when I come home from work with an armload of student papers to grade and deadlines hanging over my head like a stormcloud and a pitiful paycheck to show for it, I can greet my husband with a smile on my face.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
My Literacy Narrative . . . Finally, "Paste" Works!
My Life as a Writer – In Brief*
From the time I learned how to scribble the alphabet to the time I registered for my first college courses, I never once felt vulnerable or insecure about my writing. In fact, I was quite the little wordsmith. In the fourth grade, I wrote the Thanksgiving play that my class would perform for all the doting parents (and Kenneth Bowman did not get to be a turkey that year, by God.) In middle school, I wrote an essay for a contest on the topic of “Kindness: What it Means to Me” and got published in the Smithville paper. I still have the article somewhere. And did I mention in high school, I wrote for and co-edited the Austin High literary magazine Reflections?
Seriously. I was that guy. Or girl. Whatever. I got a lot of praise for that one special thing I was good at, my niche, and it went straight to my head. I wrote poetry, contemplated life, brooded – a lot. Wore dark clothing, listened to The Cure (about ten years too late,) the works. I fell in love with Stephen King at the tender age of thirteen and imagined that one day, after I had made the New York Times Bestseller list a few times, I would have my own secluded estate in New England somewhere. I wanted to be a Writer. So I wrote. A lot. Of crap. And then one day the little poet grew up, went to college, and got serious. I declared myself (a dramatic act indeed, somebody find me a bullhorn) an English Major.
After a few years of knowing exactly what I wanted out of life, I jumped right into the serious study of Literature. Or should I say LITERATURE. I learned quickly the art of dazzling the Faculty with my impressive academic writing skills; the semicolon soon became my dearest friend. I wallowed in the cornucopia of knowledge that is the mighty and glorious Thesaurus; yea, verily I wielded it like Excalibur. Bow before me, three-point thesis, for you are my slave.
Needless to say, academic writing gets no one on the Bestseller list. But it got me through. I started my undergraduate degree set on becoming a writer. What I in fact became, my friends, was a scholar. I learned to study things, to absorb. Now, in my second year pursuing a Masters of Arts in English degree, that seems to be all I know how to do. I can produce research and argumentative papers like no one’s business. I can even infuse my own creative je ne sais quoi into the most lifeless of assignments (go on, ask Dr. Donovan about my final paper in Research and Bib.) But when I sit down to create – not just produce – I hit a wall. I’ve forgotten how to write just for me. Not to get a grade, to win an award, to produce something that someone else wants to read, but to create something for the sake of creating. Where did my spark go?
I believe this is, fundamentally, a problem of audience. I’ve never had a concept with this problem before now. I’ve always made it a point to know who I’m writing for, and this is something I try earnestly to pass on to my students. The problem is that when I sit down to write just for the pleasure of writing, to try to recapture that sense of immense accomplishment I felt as a high school poetry geek when I finished a new poem, my mind goes blank. This is the first time in my life that I don’t feel like a writer. The one thing that I can get out of this in the short term is holding on to that feeling for the benefit of my students and tutees. If I can explore this feeling of being incapable, insecure about my own writing, maybe I can relate to them in some way.
From the time I learned how to scribble the alphabet to the time I registered for my first college courses, I never once felt vulnerable or insecure about my writing. In fact, I was quite the little wordsmith. In the fourth grade, I wrote the Thanksgiving play that my class would perform for all the doting parents (and Kenneth Bowman did not get to be a turkey that year, by God.) In middle school, I wrote an essay for a contest on the topic of “Kindness: What it Means to Me” and got published in the Smithville paper. I still have the article somewhere. And did I mention in high school, I wrote for and co-edited the Austin High literary magazine Reflections?
Seriously. I was that guy. Or girl. Whatever. I got a lot of praise for that one special thing I was good at, my niche, and it went straight to my head. I wrote poetry, contemplated life, brooded – a lot. Wore dark clothing, listened to The Cure (about ten years too late,) the works. I fell in love with Stephen King at the tender age of thirteen and imagined that one day, after I had made the New York Times Bestseller list a few times, I would have my own secluded estate in New England somewhere. I wanted to be a Writer. So I wrote. A lot. Of crap. And then one day the little poet grew up, went to college, and got serious. I declared myself (a dramatic act indeed, somebody find me a bullhorn) an English Major.
After a few years of knowing exactly what I wanted out of life, I jumped right into the serious study of Literature. Or should I say LITERATURE. I learned quickly the art of dazzling the Faculty with my impressive academic writing skills; the semicolon soon became my dearest friend. I wallowed in the cornucopia of knowledge that is the mighty and glorious Thesaurus; yea, verily I wielded it like Excalibur. Bow before me, three-point thesis, for you are my slave.
Needless to say, academic writing gets no one on the Bestseller list. But it got me through. I started my undergraduate degree set on becoming a writer. What I in fact became, my friends, was a scholar. I learned to study things, to absorb. Now, in my second year pursuing a Masters of Arts in English degree, that seems to be all I know how to do. I can produce research and argumentative papers like no one’s business. I can even infuse my own creative je ne sais quoi into the most lifeless of assignments (go on, ask Dr. Donovan about my final paper in Research and Bib.) But when I sit down to create – not just produce – I hit a wall. I’ve forgotten how to write just for me. Not to get a grade, to win an award, to produce something that someone else wants to read, but to create something for the sake of creating. Where did my spark go?
I believe this is, fundamentally, a problem of audience. I’ve never had a concept with this problem before now. I’ve always made it a point to know who I’m writing for, and this is something I try earnestly to pass on to my students. The problem is that when I sit down to write just for the pleasure of writing, to try to recapture that sense of immense accomplishment I felt as a high school poetry geek when I finished a new poem, my mind goes blank. This is the first time in my life that I don’t feel like a writer. The one thing that I can get out of this in the short term is holding on to that feeling for the benefit of my students and tutees. If I can explore this feeling of being incapable, insecure about my own writing, maybe I can relate to them in some way.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Where's the "Happy Medium?"
Is is just me, or does anyone else feel that when you read someone's "theory" of whatever, writing, tutoring , teaching, etc., that s/he is taking an extreme approach on purpose? In class today, I think we were able to negotiate a middle ground btw minimalist tutoring and directive tutoring, and no matter what side of the scale we were on, I don't think any tutor in their right mind would be on either extreme end of that scale.
I'm sure you have all heard the analogy of theory swinging btw extremes like a pendulum. The way I understand this is that we, as tutors and teachers, are constantly reacting to something that we don't like or isn't working, and instead of taking a step back and finding a reasonable solution, we run as far away from our original m.o. and create something new, exciting, and possible just as ineffective.
Expressionists were reacting against current-traditional modes of teaching and writing became a beautiful act of self-exploration and discovery; social constructionists reacted against the expressionists and writing became a conversation; linguists get a hold of it and it becomes a programmable code. Why can't it be all of these things? On the same note, why can't a tutor be minimalist and directive, when the situation calls for it?
I'm sure you have all heard the analogy of theory swinging btw extremes like a pendulum. The way I understand this is that we, as tutors and teachers, are constantly reacting to something that we don't like or isn't working, and instead of taking a step back and finding a reasonable solution, we run as far away from our original m.o. and create something new, exciting, and possible just as ineffective.
Expressionists were reacting against current-traditional modes of teaching and writing became a beautiful act of self-exploration and discovery; social constructionists reacted against the expressionists and writing became a conversation; linguists get a hold of it and it becomes a programmable code. Why can't it be all of these things? On the same note, why can't a tutor be minimalist and directive, when the situation calls for it?
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Is there such a thing as an "independent writer?"
In the long grueling search for a more focused paper topic, I have come across a ridiculous amount of discussion about "dependent" and "independent" writers/clients of the Writing Center. Specifically in the articles of Bruffee, Brooks, Shamoon and Burns, Clark and Healy, and Walker in the Longman Guide to Writing Center Theory and Practice. They all seem to want to avoid (as we have discussed at length in WCT class) creating a dependent writer, who cannot even get words on paper w/o someone there coaching them. On the other hand, the notion of independent writers is just as troubling since it implies that writing is in fact not a social act at all and that others (including the UWC) are not needed.
What I see as the real conflict is summed up quite well by Shamoon and Burns:
"In sum, [current] tutoring orthodoxy is: process-based, Socratic, private, a-disciplinary, and nonhierarchical or democratic. Many points in this characterization of writing [which smacks of Elbowvian expressivism, I must say] have been challenged by social-constructionist views. Social-constructionists characterize writing as a social act rather than as a process of personal discovery or individual expression" (228).
I find myself agreeing with Bruffee (whom Shamoon and Burns cite at length) that language use, whether it be written or verbal or signed, is always, on some level, a social act. Therefore, writing cannot occur independently; even a lone writer has an audience (imagined and real) that might not be there at the time of the writing. My problem with this way of thinking, though, is that the connotation is that the writer cannot construct original thought. Peter Elbow would say that at times we must ignore our audience (even the imaginary) to get out what we really want to say. He would also say (and has many times) that sharing what you write and say is key to growing as a writer (see Sharing and Responding if you don't believe me). I don't see these two ways of thinking (expressivist and social-constructionist) as two sides of an argument; rather, they are two sides of the same coin. Writing is a social and private act. Individuals can converse and still retain their individuality: this is the definition of voice.
What I see as the real conflict is summed up quite well by Shamoon and Burns:
"In sum, [current] tutoring orthodoxy is: process-based, Socratic, private, a-disciplinary, and nonhierarchical or democratic. Many points in this characterization of writing [which smacks of Elbowvian expressivism, I must say] have been challenged by social-constructionist views. Social-constructionists characterize writing as a social act rather than as a process of personal discovery or individual expression" (228).
I find myself agreeing with Bruffee (whom Shamoon and Burns cite at length) that language use, whether it be written or verbal or signed, is always, on some level, a social act. Therefore, writing cannot occur independently; even a lone writer has an audience (imagined and real) that might not be there at the time of the writing. My problem with this way of thinking, though, is that the connotation is that the writer cannot construct original thought. Peter Elbow would say that at times we must ignore our audience (even the imaginary) to get out what we really want to say. He would also say (and has many times) that sharing what you write and say is key to growing as a writer (see Sharing and Responding if you don't believe me). I don't see these two ways of thinking (expressivist and social-constructionist) as two sides of an argument; rather, they are two sides of the same coin. Writing is a social and private act. Individuals can converse and still retain their individuality: this is the definition of voice.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Peer Tutoring and the "Conversation of Mankind"
As I read this article, especially the first half, I begin to see why some would critique Bruffee for his "conservative" views. I agree that internalized thought and conversation (and other social interactions involving language) are intertwined, are not separated from each other. But, should "native aptitude, the gift of our genes," be relegated to an aside in this discussion? I realize my Elbowvian slant is showing, but isn't there something to say for the individual in all of this? Yes, language learning (and any other learning) occurs in social contexts, but is there not such a thing as original thought? And I don't mean thought that has originated in internalized conversation, but a creation of meaning, and not just the same old information that we have been swapping back and forth for millenia. (that quote's on pg 209, btw)
Bruffee's "aside" aside, I think what this article has to say about the mindset of students new to The University is completely valid. Even faculty can give off that "sink or swim" vibe, even as they encourage their students to seek help. Even though learning is a social act, especially language learning, a lot of people don't see it that way. And many of those same people see resources like the UWC as just another appendage of the institution, i.e. more work.
The idea of "peer tutor" that Bruffee is pushing for reminds me, yet again, of those after-hours study groups that students often set up themselves with other classmates in order to survive difficult classes. I participated in lots of self-made peer-tutoring groups, usually at the library or Starbucks, on a regular basis; I never once stepped foot in the Writing Center. Now I know that the UWC offers peer tutoring (more or less), but then I just thought it was more of the same institutionalized instruction and never bothered. I had the same attitude toward other services like the Math Lab and French tutoring. If I participated, I only did because I was told to. So, I am once again led to believe that it all comes down to perception and how we advertise ourselves.
Maybe the first step is getting across that learning, and not just literacy, is a social act and can and should occur in a social context (notes for the Mission Statement here). And that the tutors are actually "peers," despite whatever is implied about expertise or authority.
Bruffee's "aside" aside, I think what this article has to say about the mindset of students new to The University is completely valid. Even faculty can give off that "sink or swim" vibe, even as they encourage their students to seek help. Even though learning is a social act, especially language learning, a lot of people don't see it that way. And many of those same people see resources like the UWC as just another appendage of the institution, i.e. more work.
The idea of "peer tutor" that Bruffee is pushing for reminds me, yet again, of those after-hours study groups that students often set up themselves with other classmates in order to survive difficult classes. I participated in lots of self-made peer-tutoring groups, usually at the library or Starbucks, on a regular basis; I never once stepped foot in the Writing Center. Now I know that the UWC offers peer tutoring (more or less), but then I just thought it was more of the same institutionalized instruction and never bothered. I had the same attitude toward other services like the Math Lab and French tutoring. If I participated, I only did because I was told to. So, I am once again led to believe that it all comes down to perception and how we advertise ourselves.
Maybe the first step is getting across that learning, and not just literacy, is a social act and can and should occur in a social context (notes for the Mission Statement here). And that the tutors are actually "peers," despite whatever is implied about expertise or authority.
Having trouble . . .
Okay, so I'm having a bit of trouble copying and pasting from my original document, so the literacy narrative will have to wait. For now, I will continue commenting on class reading and discussions as per usual.
Literacy Narrative
So, the following posts will be the literacy narrative that I turned in to Prof. I avoided detailing specific episodes in favor of a more general autobiographical gloss. If anyone is interested (or even if you're not, I'm gonna anyway) I will suplement with all the pertinent details I feel like sharing in a given moment.
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