FoolsCap

Some responses to J. Harris’s A Teaching Subject:

p. 14: "We have yet to find ways not only to have our teaching be better informed by theory but to make our theories more responsive to the scene of teaching."

I agree, for the simple reason that I don’t think Derrida has anything at all to do with the way people naturally respond to writing/reading.  I understand Harris more specifcically probably means teaching theory here, but for me it raises a question: Can literary theory inspire a pedagogical methodology, and if so, how so, and once established, how do you employ it in the classroom.  I’ve already suggested that I don’t think Derrida would be of any value in this arena (which is not to devalue his work utterly); however, a reader-response critic like Stanley Fish seems to suggest a pedagogical model anyway when he writes of interpretive communities and the like.

p. 15: "[. . .] growth theorists tended to depict the teacher as [. . .] supportive and nurturing [. . .]"

Two thoughts:

1. Not in my classroom, sucka!
2. We talked about pop images of the "savior" teacher in class this week; I wonder if that trope has its origin in growth theory.  Even the "tough love" model of savior-teacher has the students’ best interest at heart, despite what might not seem a "nurturing" approach.

pp 23-24 Re: group work, peer editing, et cetera:

I confess that I don’t really respond well to small group work in writing/lit classes.  For one, since I [usually] excel in these classes, I often look at such group activities as a hindrance: I see it more as being burdened by some remedial boob rather than an opportunity to help said boob maybe improve whatever infelicities (a word that keeps reappearing in our reading) are present in his writing.  I might not feel so callous about group work if I’d ever had a real helpful fellow student in these activities, but since I usually encounter this sort of pedagogy in survey courses, I find myself often teamed with a chem major or something who doesn’t really know what to do when asked to respond to a text.  I hesitate to say that she (my hypothetical chem major classmate) just reads my work in awe, but often I don’t get any usable feedback; thus, I am wary of using group work in my own pedagogy because I’ve had such uneven results with it personally.

I also think there’s a danger in getting students accustomed to textual analysis through group work.  We don’t usually have the luxury, as students of literature, to ask the writer what he or she means if his meaning is unclear, and I worry that group exercises encourage a certain laxity: if you don’t understand something, there’s no need to exercise it since the author (or some other authority [pun semi-intended])can just tell you what it means rather than poducing your own reading.  On the other hand, rereading my own writing now, I see that maybe my own interest as a lit/cult person is being exposed here.  I see group exercises more as an opportunity to practice reading skills rather than an opportunity for young writers to get feedback and hone their craft.  Hm.  Dang it. . .I think I just learned something.

p. 38: "Voice thus becomes that quality of a writer’s work which resists such easy kinds of appropriation, that somehow marks a phrasing or sentence as the writer’s own."

One of the things that fascinated me about this book was the chapter on "Voice."  In particular because I don’t really feel like I’ve got a unique voice of my own when I write "academically."  Or rather, the voice in which I write seems pedantic, remote, and inauthentic.  But when I write in more informal settings (say, perhaps, on a blog) something more like an authentic voice becomes evident, at least to my eyes (or ears).

[Sidebar: Do we "see" or "hear" text?  This might seem an odd question, but I’m wondering if anyone has thoughts on this.  Since writing is a derivation of speech (at least, that’s what de Saussure seems to suggest) should we speak of writing as an aural or visual stimuli?  I don’t really think of writing–the actual printed word on the page–as something I "look" at, but obviously my eyes are involved in the process.  Any thoughts, reader?]

pp. 47-48, Heather’s high school journalism career

I wonder if there’s not something punitive in some of our classroom language.  Take, for example, the phrase "turning it in."  Doesn’t sort of sound like you’ve found a wanted criminal and "turned him in" so that he can face judgement?  I know this is really a small point to make, but I wonder if it doesn’t reflect an attitude about pedagogy.  Would you rather "turn in" your work, or "submit" it?  The idea of submission seems a bit more user-friendly to my eyes (or ears)–less chance your paper will get sentenced to death.

p. 67: "The process you teach turns out to depend on the sort of product you want."

Not much to say here, but Harris seems to see this as a negative.  I agree insofar as process can easily become dogmatic, but I also think that for students who struggle with writing, a process can be an invaluable aid.  When someone faces a composition assignment and has no idea where or how to begin, an explicit process can aid her in developing her work.  I understand Harris wants to teach students that there is no "right" way to write, but I think he is too hasty to chide the use of a writing "formula."

p. 85: "[. . .] Explicit teaching of grammatical forms usually has little effect on the abilities of students to write fluently or correctly."

Okay, but when and how are students meant to learn grammar?  Again, I know Harris prizes the development of analytic strategies and the ability to "converse" with texts more than the "technology" of writing, but it won’t do a brilliant thinker any good to have great ideas and be unable to write them cogently.  I know too that we aren’t supposed to be a proofreader when grading students’ papers. . .anyone have a good handbook or primer they can recommend for basic guidelines that they’ve found students work well with?

Some overall thoughts:

I have to say I found this book very useful and (dare I say it?) inspiring.  Harris’s view of composition is one I find appealing and adaptable to a variety of possibilities one may encounter in the classroom.  By establishing the aim of freshman comp as more an attempt to prepare students for the intellectual work they will need to produce in their university career than course in grammar and mechanics, Harris offers me some answers to some of my big questions, primarily this one: What is freshman comp for?  I feel confident that I can teach a class that is about reading a text (whatever form that text may be), thinking about it, responding to it, and then responding to other responses–far more confident than I can teach a class about grammar, mechanics, et cetera.