Globalization. And Cake.

In his essay entitled “An Archaeology of the Global Era: Constructing A Belief,” Armand Mattelart investigates the “archaeology” of the term ‘globalization’ as it has been adopted into our social and linguistic history. To trace the lineage of the term, he must look at the ideological models of what a civilized and unified society looks like over time. In addition, we must criticize the manner in which the term “globalization” has been employed and appropriated into our modern lexicon in order to note the implications of its connotation with a perceived social utopia as it stands against the discourse of power.

Mattlehart starts out by pointing to two important factors which define the history of globalization, the first being the notion of the modern “social utopia” where people are united by historically significant social institutions such as nationalism, common religion, political and economic systems (Mattlehart 2002). In order to understand how postmodern society envisions the progress of “the global era,” we must also look the place where technology and geopolitical systems of power intersect. For example, a utopic world view may correspond to social homogeneity.  In the example of Nazi Germany, a globalized society also meant the eradication of an ethnic population. In this case, a “global” society shares commonalities, such as race, religion, and ethnic backgrounds. A narrow view of globalization allows for us to envision a world in which hegemonic ideology rebuffs social heterogeneity. 

 At the same time, however, Mattlehart points out that by employing the social power of the global era, we are able to create social networks in places which transcend geographical remoteness. In other words, a classroom in New York can connect via the cyber world to a classroom in Japan in real time. The pervasive nature of telecommunications negates the challenges of social exclusion and creates a virtual world where inclusive classrooms literally may include students from another country, another language, another social space 5,000 miles away. For this, the term “globalization” yields a more positive connotation because it infers that the sharing of knowledge (and, thus, information) across borders can exceed the physical boundaries of the nation-state.

Beyond these two ways of looking at globalization, however, we must also look the place where technology and geopolitical systems of power intersect. According to Mattlehart, postmodern society envisions “the global era” as progressive whereas the dissemination of knowledge is far-reaching. Yet to see globalization as solely a concept which describes global knowledge-sharing can get us into trouble. Knowledge also comes in various forms: a shared political or economic system, for example. To further illustrate what he means, Mattlehart is careful to describe that American consumerism is not simply an American value. As America exports images of consumer capitalism to the world, the subtext of these images suggests that a global society is also a “western” society with western ideologies (p. 318) such as neoliberal free-trade markets. The problem with this particular notion of a global society lies within the underlying notion that for a culture to “progress,” it must also “possess” (material goods). Where we spoke of the global sharing of knowledge, we can see that information (or knowledge) can also produce a flow of dominant social values.

All in all, Mattlehart does an excellent job mapping out the origins of “globalization” over time—from the imperialist notion of owning the physical properties of the nation-state to a virtual imperialism where Western media flow saturates non-Western culture like an oil spill; oil and water will not necessarily mix, but nevertheless, the oil coats everything in its path. In a time when cultural diversity is celebrated, it is also institutionalized throughout places of business and incorporated into professional training. It seems as though this idea of “multiculturalism” is sanitary and almost commercialized, itself.  I bring up this topic in particular because, to me, the “other” has become exoticized in Westernized depictions of the cultural “other.” For example, Jim Jarmusch's film Dead Man (1995) is a critique on industry and the literal (and figurative) Westernization of the American West. Against the backdrop of the ruddy and arcane wilderness, we watch Bill Blake (a naive white man from Ohio) poorly navigate the rugged landscape. Only with the help of his Native American friend, Nobody (Gary Farmer), is he able to escape his fate of being hunted down by a vicious bounty hunter. The film speaks directly to this intersection between Westernization (industry) and the natural; Bill Blake represents the awkwardness of industry as it inserts itself into raw, natural terrain. However, the character of Nobody—although he has been educated in the “white man’s schools” in London—is seemingly more natural in this habitat than Bill Blake could ever be simply because of his Native American heritage. While this depiction of Nobody is certainly a nod to whiteness looking at non-whiteness, which at the time perceives the Native American perspective as “nobody,” it is also reminiscent of this idea that no matter the background of the individual, the Native American character will always know how to live amongst the wilds of the forest. This is simply not true; a person’s experiences and sociocultural background can sharply contrast the expectations that his or her skin color, ethnicity or native language may superficially imply. 

If we are to consider this aspect of transcendence, a place where cultural stereotypes are subverted in light of a globalized society, then perhaps the positive implications of "the global era" can include aspects of possibility as we imagine the nature of identity. We must be conscious, however, to consider the negative connotations of globalization which suggest that in order to be a part of a global society, you must also be connected to dominant cultural ideology. And those of us who are disconnected from it are, therefore, left to flounder awkwardly (as if you could flounder elegantly) on the fringes of civil "potential." Globalization can produce a false or illusory worldview of citizenship—that we belong to one (global) culture which recognizes similar beliefs, engages in similar rituals and possesses similar values. To progress into a global era, we must also think about what it means to possess sameness. I’m not sure if Mattlehart is successful in his final assessment of what a true social utopia looks like. If he wants us to consider that a globalized society is a society which collectively agrees to let “the singularity of places” remain culturally unique—then how can we celebrate the heterogeneity of the geopolitical landscape without trying to make it something that it’s not?  I have to wonder if we can have a truly connected and communal “universe” if the “universal” is inherently diverse. Indeed the notion of the global also denotes oneness, to belong to an interconnected system of beliefs and ideologies--a matrix of discursive communities. Can we be separate but together? In Dead Man, two worlds of man converge in the Western frontier: the industrial pitted against the natural. And when these two, diametrically opposed worlds converge, does this intersection not produce the possibility of a third? Nobody exhibits this possibility of a third as he is ethnically Native American, educated in a Western school,  and returned to his homeland as something other than the person he was before. He is Nobody. Yet he is a representation of Some-body who embodies the salient nature of identity in a globalized world even before the advent of the internet, before computers, before the vast network of telecommunications.

Perhaps the true meaning of the global era can be understood when we consider that it is possible to be both separate and together at the same time. It is possible to move at a differentiated pace over a vast technological frontier, and movement at any rate in time/space continuum provides for us a common ground--a global ground. I also wonder sometimes if you can have your cake and eat it, too. But that’s a different story all together. 

Or is it?

Beer me, Tuna.

I can't find the original. Only this spoof replacing the sound of a bottle opening with person peeing in the bottle. Classy, huh?

In only 30 seconds, you can view paradise. A lounging figure balances the opening scene with a two companions: the ocean and an empty Corona bottle. (Empty—isn’t that a party foul?) The commercial’s composition features an idyllic tropical environment with azure waters of the Caribbean, white sandy beaches, and shady palm trees. As the camera captures a medium, close-up shot of the empty beer bottle on the right side of the frame, the left portion of the frame reveals the back of an individual facing the ocean waves—the soothing watery song accompanies the scene. Not Enya, but the pure sound of nature without screaming city tires or the shrill wail of a sleepy child who thinks it’s too early for her bedtime. This must be paradise.

The composition of the commercial represents a sense of luxury and seclusion—a lifestyle that is, for the average individual, not easily attainable. In a sense, this commercial clearly intends to “sell” its audience a lavish lifestyle through the experience of drinking a cold Corona. The composition of the commercial is a single, ongoing shot which opens to the figure of an individual whose back faces the audience. From the viewer’s vantage point, one cannot tell if the featured individual is either male or female. The aspect of ambiguity suggests that this figure could be replaced with anyone who wishes to enjoy a Corona on the beach. While this commercial could take place in someone’s backyard, sitting peacefully in a lawn chair, the location of tropical “paradise” sells the idea that drinking Corona is anyone’s paradise.

Let us not forget that the space in the frame is also occupied explicitly by an empty Corona bottle. The placement of the bottle within arm reach from the individual sitting comfortably in the chair is supposed to indicate accessible luxury. The bottle’s emptiness is also an objective correlative to the viewer’s sense of longing or anxiety for it to be full. This implicit (yet intended) effect demonstrates what the advertiser wants the audience to feel: longing. Longing, as a form of desire, speaks to a sense of entitlement for the product consumer. “If my beer is only an arm’s length away, shouldn’t I go ahead and reach for it?” When Xeno sings, “I want you to want me,” this could be the very voice of the Corona bottle if it could sing—not Enya, but Cheap Trick.

As if to speak directly to this moment directed to the theme of “longing,” a hand (belonging to another unidentified individual) reaches into the frame to take away the empty bottle. The audience sees only this alteration to the frame, and in this moment we are introduced to another sound: the “cracking” of a beer bottle. This sound is explicit and intentional, as the commercial now appeals to the sense of sight, sound, and now taste. Beer drinkers know to associate the sound of a fresh “crack” to previous experiences of the first taste of a crisp beer. The advertiser expects the audience of beer drinkers to connect that sound to taste and, in a sense, also cue the salivating taste buds.

The sound of a fresh beer is followed immediately by a display of a full bottle of beer, as it is placed upon the table in the exact location of the previous (and empty) bottle. The sitting figure’s hand reaches for the bottle, presumably takes a sip (one cannot see the mouth of this person from the angle in which the scene is being shot), and sets the bottle back upon the table. This movement is a figurative “quench” to the audience’s thirst and provides an implicit sense of satisfaction or closure. After all, isn’t it a relief to crack open a cold beer when you’ve just realized you’re finished with the one you were drinking? Let’s keep relaxing—and therefore, let’s keep on drinking! Another interesting aspect of this mysterious (yet oh so wonderful) “helping hand” lies within its ability to serve. Because the seated figure does not move to serve him or her-self a new beer, this lack of movement signifies a tactic to sell luxury: serve the self bybeing served.

Beyond this commercial’s elements of theme (paradise) and stylization (mise-en-scène), the viewer must take into consideration the overall product: alcohol. The advertiser explicitly links the perfect picture of paradise to the effects of alcohol. This implicitly suggests that the anesthetic effects of alcohol are a desired outcome. Once again, the advertiser incorporates the sentiment of desire—a desire to drink Corona—in order to reproduce paradise, a place where one does not even have to think. Is buying Corona, then, a thoughtless process? Should we not consider the price of an imported beer when we can achieve the same anesthetic affect from domestic brands? Nope. Just hand over the cash.

The entirety of this advertisement sells an ideal paradise, which is communicated through the paring of product and sentiment: Corona is luxury. The paradoxical aspect of this commercial is that beer is highly accessible in American culture, and the Caribbean getaway is not. Beer is typically a “blue-collar” beverage of choice, and the Corona label intends to convey an impression that beer is a “high society” beverage as well. The consequence of pairing these aspects of film composition and the intended message encourages the audience to justify the expense of imported beer. That is to say, “If you decide to drink a beer (and want to relax and feel extravagant), then choose Corona.” You can have your beer (your paradise), and drink it (maybe with a pinky up?), too.

***
So I’d like to think that it is no secret: I love beer. Beer in the morning? On a good day of fishing, yes. Beer in the afternoon? After a day of shooting sporting clays, absolutely. Beer in the evening? If it’s the weekend, count me in. For the sake of not sounding like a full-fledged alcoholic, I confess that I am a beer enthusiast for its carbonated splendor and hop-infused glory. If Willy Wonka wants to talk “fizzy lifting drinks,” then please refer him to me.

In the spirit of this week’s readings regarding visual media and the role it plays in the realm of composition, I thought I’d revisit a writing assignment that I composed for my Pop Culture class at Wilson College. For the sake of keeping things interesting, I’ve edited it a great deal. To refer to the Miller & Shepherd reading, I wanted to keep in mind my own “blogging voice” and make it less of an academic assignment and more of a commentary on how a simple beer commercial, while it appears subtle and visually restrained, it is packed-full of implicit cultural codes.

Indeed, the simple act of purchasing beer speaks more about a person’s right and ability to consume popular product than we may consider. When Moran suggests that students’ use of technology facilitates the control that both teachers and students maintain over the classroom environment (Moran 208), I would propose that technology permits control via means of a virtual (pun intended) exchange. Moran mentions that “students are individuals with different histories of experience” and that “they will connect with technology in different ways” (208). Therefore, adapting curriculum material creatively to connect to individual histories of students—including their interests and expertise in technology—both teacher-student goals can be met. Of course these goals can be met without technology, but when opportunity allows for an incorporation of technology, a teacher may have a better buy-in with it. To be sure, the stock of a classroom/intellectual marketplace is based upon the rate of what a teacher wants to sell against the demand for the information that a student wants to buy (into).

If we think about pop culture and the modern consumer, consider the Corona commercial as an example of purchasing both a product as well as an identity. Products are not just products—they are an extension of the self, a (re)presentation of the individual. To consume a product is to produce a particular image of the self. In a sense, I can see the use of technology as a means to produce information, sell it, and consume it within the classroom.

Take the blog, for example. I love that Julie has given us a means to produce our own ideas about the text that we have consumed as a part of this class. She has sold me, at least, on the idea that this virtual space is a fantastic medium for me to express my personal thoughts and opinions regarding composition pedagogy. At the same time, I participate in this exchange with all of you as we share our ideas, consume each others’ thoughts, and therefore offer our feedback as currency to participate in this virtual community and classroom network. While a system has been set into place (the ENG 507 class, Julie’s syllabus that maintains we blog each week, the blogging website, blog templates, blog as a genre), we can actively change the landscape of the virtual network. We are not just writing about the world of technology, teaching, and composition pedagogy. We are in it.

Just think for a moment how much power we can offer to our students if we can offer a way to participate in this culture which they are already consuming. Just think of how much power teachers have if we can teach our students how to responsibly participate in the very products they wish to consume. So while some may argue that technology is an unneccessary evil, I'll say it's something to be incorporated responsibly. In the meantime, I'll try to drink my beer responsibly, too.

If my blog sucks, I want you to tell me.

Before you read this, please note: I am a hypocrite. I have yet to make the responses I’d like to make to my classmates’ blog posts this week. I understand we have jobs and families and other responsibilities and that we’re all not perfect. I get that. I guess what I’m trying to do, here, is to stir the pot a little, to be a cheerleader of sorts, and to point out above anything, that I need to be a better classmate. Maybe my lapse in performance will inspire others? I hope.

I’m frustrated. Why? Because I always feel like I have no clue what I’m talking about in my blogs. While I enjoy reading about teaching writing, ways to offer student writing guidance, syllabus recommendations, and teaching style suggestions, etc., I am at a loss to apply these recommendations in a real-time setting. In other words, I am not managing a class where I can apply the “oh yeah, I do this and this doesn’t work for me but this will” frame of mind. All I can do is take up the spectator’s point of view and try to make some out-of-the-box connection between what I’ve just read and what I can say about my own experiences. Usually I make up some wacky connection because it’s a way for me to make sense of what I’m reading. Also to entertain myself. But at the same time, I wonder if my connection is a disconnect for others. I DON’T KNOW unless someone responds to me and either asks a poignant question or says something like “I see what you’re saying here, but I would like some clarification.” If I write something that no one responds to, then what the heck am I writing for? If you write something that no one responds to, what the heck are you writing for? All I can think is, then: apparently whatever I’m saying is crap. As a student, I do not feel validated when no one responds because I am hungry for comments, for feedback, for controversy, for any kind of communication that suggests that someone is simply listening. Before I make anyone angry, I really don’t want to come off as all “woe-is-me” to anyone. Instead of speaking for myself, I’d like to think I am speaking for everyone when I say that it is an important part of the learning process (especially learning about writing, for goodness sakes!) if we all try to do a better job at acknowledging what others have said in our blogs whether we agree or disagree or agree to disagree. I’m guilty of being lazy and waiting until the last minute to read a blog. Or forget to read your blog entirely. This is crap. I’m owning up to my inadequacies, here, to say that even I need to do a better job at consuming your writing. Talk about applying textual lessons, here, huh? Maybe I am able to do some “real time” application after all. But either way, I’m still going to vent that:

I’m frustrated.

I feel like sometimes I come off as preachy in my blog posts. I never want to appear as a person who simply says “we should be doing this,” or “this is wrong, and this is why something else is so much better” when I truly have no authority to say so. Or do I? Is this what we’re supposed to question—how much authority we have, as students, to question the learning process about the writing process? In a very real sense, Julie is teaching us how to produce text for a specific audience (our class—and the world wide web, even!) so that we can not only use blogs to broaden our understanding of each reading assignment, but so that we can see each other as resources. Our blogs validate us as students. Our blogs belong to us, not the class, not the teacher, to US! Our blogs allow us to develop our own teacher and student identity at the same time. How cool is that?! So why do I feel so freaking

Frustrated.

I feel like I “get it,” but at times I feel I’m forced to take a back seat point of view and watch and listen to the experts. This is incredibly helpful, don’t get me wrong. I feel as though I have learned just as much from my teacher/practitioner classmates than I learn from the reading. I’m frustrated because I lack the ability to come at each point from a similar perspective; I really am an observer. And that’s frustrating. True life, but still frustrating. Maybe a way to solve this particular frustration is to understand, for myself, ways in which I have the agency to apply lessons learned on teaching writing—in scholarship workshop sessions or in helping the student ethics committee write letters of counseling, for example. Maybe my own frustration stems from failure to see where I already do apply the principles of discovery through writing. Still,

I’m frustrated.

I want you to help me know what I don’t know. I want you to be just as much a part of my own discovery as I am excited to be a part of yours. If we’re talking about writing and audiences and content and purpose and style and grammar, what are we getting from these assignments if no one says anything about my (or your!) content and style and thoughts and ideas and personal discoveries? Aren’t we learning how to give feedback? Aren’t we learning how to validate students’ perspectives as diverse texts from varied points of view? Aren’t we all the same team despite our advantages or disadvantages of having classroom experience?

I want to get as much out of this classroom experience as I possibly can. I bet, too, that I’m supposed to feel frustrated—isn’t that a part of the learning process? Right now, I’m negotiating my own understanding of the writing process, wrestling with topics that I’ve never considered before. This is certainly no easy task! I need to try to be more helpful to my classmates, to offer feedback and to post blogs that don’t suck. But if they do suck, I want you to tell me…

because I don’t want to be frustrated anymore.

Eliza Does Little & The Beatles

DO COME IN. WHAT SHALL I CALL YOU?
To reply, just type into the box below and click on the "Talk button" to say something.

hi eliza. my name is jess.
NAMES DON'T INTEREST ME.
you asked me what you should call me.
WHY DO YOU ASK?
i didn't ask.
SAY, DO YOU HAVE ANY PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS?
well, i do hear voices sometimes.
WHAT DOES THAT SUGGEST TO YOU?
that i have psychological problems.
I SEE. TELL ME MORE.
well, what do you think i should do about my problems?
DOES THAT QUESTION INTEREST YOU.
does it interest you?
WE WERE DISCUSSING YOU--NOT ME.
right. how could i forget?
WHAT ANSWER WOULD PLEASE YOU THE MOST?
i would like you to say that you're a stupid program and that you don't know what you're talking about.
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT I AM A STUPID PROGRAM AND THAT I DONT KNOW WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOUT
because you are.
DOES IT PLEASE YOU THAT I AM
yes.
WHY DO YOU THINK SO?
i'm just kidding Eliza. i think you're awesome.
PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE AWESOME
not as awesome as you though.
YOU'RE NOT REALLY TALKING ABOUT ME, ARE YOU?
uh, yes i am, you wench.
DID YOU COME TO ME BECAUSE YOU ARE I WENCH? (sic)
yes. and also because you have a fat ass.
DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH?
my mother is dead.
TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR FAMILY.
i'm just kidding. tell me more about your fat ass.
WHAT GUTTER DID YOU GRADUATE FROM.
screw U.
I'M NOT SURE I UNDERSTAND YOU FULLY.
Screw U---niversity.
COME, COME; ELUCIDATE YOUR THOUGHTS.
okay, okay. so what's new
CAN YOU ELABORATE ON THAT?
no
WHY NOT?
tell me about your family
HOW DO YOU GET ALONG WITH YOUR FAMILY?
how do you get along with your family?
IS YOUR FAMILY IMPORTANT TO YOU?
is your family important to you?
DO YOU OFTEN THINK ABOUT YOUR FAMILY?
do you often think about your family?
HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO CHANGE YOUR FAMILY?
shut up.
THAT IS QUITE INTERESTING
yes. it is. you're stupid.
DO YOU SOMETIMES WISH YOU WERE STUPID?
not as stupid as you (i know you're going to say, you're not talking about me, are you?)
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I AM GOING TO SAY YOURE NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU AM YOU (sic)
blah
YOU ARE BEING SHORT WITH ME.
profound thought, eliza
SAY, DO YOU HAVE ANY PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS?
i already told you. i hear voices.
WE WERE DISCUSSING YOU-NOT ME.
haha. yeah. how could i forget
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
bye eliza
WHAT DOES THAT SUGGEST TO YOU?

--------------------------

My apologies for not clarifying the scenario you just read. The conversation that occurred was between myself and a linguistic computer program called "Eliza." Part of the assignment was for students to assess grammatical and pragmatic errors that took place during the conversation. Clearly, there were a few. I also tried to pay close attention to both my and Eliza's use of punctuation throughout. Obviously we both falter from traditional standards, but oh well.

The reading this week brought to mind this particular assignment--another thing I found while rummaging through my mom's basement recently. I thought of the artificial conversation that occurred between myself and the computer program and likened it to the software that Hesse covers in his "Who Owns Writing" presentation (1247-1261). In it, he regards this process of computer correction as a significant factor in both writing motivation (am I writing to a computer, seriously?) and to seeing writing as a learned skill rather than a form of art, something that is developed along with the acquisition of knowledge. If writing is discovery, then how is a computer grading program validating the process of discovery? I don't believe it is. Hesse remarks that "students would perceive writing for computer programs as a kind of interesting dummy-exercise preparation for 'real writing," much like I saw my conversation with Eliza as a talk simulation with a "stupid computer program."

I enjoyed how Hesse brought into mind the role of "self-sponsored writing," as it is indeed a significant part of today's culture of technology. We are hungry to consume it as much as we feel the need to produce it; in the world of technology (blogs, etc.) we can participate without the worry of correction, of red marks, of grades that tell us if we pass or fail. We're passing if people are consuming what we write.

The readings also cover an aspect of "expectation." What does the consumer expect from the producer? What does the producer expect from the consumer? The teacher, as a consumer, should expect students to write as both members of a civic sphere and members within a civic sphere based upon the assignment at hand. The producer, I hope, expects to be validated. I have to think that my (future) role as a teacher will be shaped by what students expect to learn from my wealth of knowledge, from my guidance and ability. I took from Hesse's essay that as a consumer of student text, our job is to see its potential and to guide the producer towards a product that represents the potential of the individuals' ability to produce. In other words, if our expertise is our "knowledge of what writing is and what it can be," then should we not simply try to, as The Beatles say, "let it be?"

Culture Club: are you in or are you out?

Do you really want to hurt me?
Do you really want to make me cry?

I don't believe you'd like to hurt me, and I certainly hope you wouldn't want to make my cry! But how would I know where your intentions lie if you were not able to express your true intentions to me? What if, when you mentioned in a meeting that my ability to do math in my head is sub-par, you really weren't trying to embarrass me? What if, when later on I shut myself in the bathroom to cry, I was completely overreacting because I now fretted that everyone will look at me and think, "Oh let's not talk to Jess because she can't multiply 45 x 3 in her head?"

We're talking about sharing messages and interpreting messages. I sometimes think that this is, in part, what understanding culture is all about: taking into consideration our way of interpreting messages and interpreting others' messages to derive a new meaning that is unique to the individual. If I'm locking myself into a bathroom stall as a result of a innocuous seemingly jovial statement, then perhaps both parties need some "time to realize [their] crimes." How? And...what does this have to do with writing and cultural studies?

I see two things happening within the discourse regarding cultural studies and teaching writing:

1) the interest to introduce students to a discourse which allows for them to investigate the devices of culture, the role in which culture plays in creating individual identity, how student texts can be seen as individual reproductions or representations of culture, and how culture shapes the production of individual texts (George & Trimbur, 83).
2) fear that “cultural studies” may be elitist. In other words, the course maintains dominant values, allowing teachers to instruct the course based upon traditional, majority only experience, minimizing the significance and voice of the minority experience. Thus, “cultural” is a term reserved for “this culture” and allows for negative stereotyping and Othering. Indeed this creates a problem in a diverse classroom or in any classroom, for that matter.

My fear for “cultural studies” is that it falls within the hands of situation #2. What do I mean by this? Isn’t culture about “multiple voices” instead of one, predominant voice? To an extent, I would not hesitate to argue that cultural studies should involve an array of view-points, critical analysis, styles of interpretation, controversy. I can best explain my apprehension regarding the integration of cultural studies in terms of my Ed. Psych prof who repeatedly referred to a population of people from Asia as “orientals,” rather than “Asians.” I would hesitate to call this professor unqualified or ineffective. In fact, his breadth of knowledge about educational psychology was quite vast and helpful. My problem with his aforementioned classification oversight stemmed from the situation that followed. I approached him privately after class to ask him if he had been aware that some people prefer to term “Asian” to refer to their ethnic heritage. He responded, “Well, yes, but Oriental people prefer to call themselves Oriental.”

This is not a joke, people. This is a true story.

He then referred to PDE’s website if I’d like to follow up with my inquiry. I did. In fact, PDE specifies “Asian” as the more “correct” terminology. Words are token, Boy George.
The lesson to be learned, here, is that neither of us is right or wrong (although I’d like to believe what I’ve heard about people saying “ ‘Oriental is for a rug or a piece of furniture than it is to describe people’”).

There should be a place for us to discuss these issues, understand each other’s points of view, and then to move forward and adopt different ways of saying things instead of deeming our one way right and absolute. We need to be able to be conscious of our word choice, which is I think precisely the benefit of cultural studies may introduce within an inclusive classroom environment. Also so that I know that a joke is a joke, but that I do have the ability to react in the way that I choose to react even if it's crying to "words that burn me."

I feel this tension within the argument for cultural studies in the classroom. If it is to take place, it must be done as a place where various viewpoints are welcomed, discussed, debated, and thus interpreted with the consideration of all players at stake: tacit knowledge, explicit knowledge, outside forces, and the individual who plays a part in re-presenting his or her own culture. Cultural studies should not be introduced as a passive “this is this, this is that,” manner; it should be an active exchange (just like any other class!). So I guess the question begs, if the approach to cultural studies is similar to the way in which a teacher already manages his or her class, then it’s up to the individual instructor to figure out how cultural studies fit into his or her curriculum. Some would argue “In every way possible!” and some may argue “When you feel confident to tackle those subjects as they arise within your course.”

I guess this is one of the loveliest and most difficult things about teaching: it is never static, never placid. It is all rocking waves and changing routes—the course, of course, being determined by the influential breath of wind and strength of sails.


I've been talkin, but believe me: the Culture Club is not only reserved for Boy George, Mikey, Roy & Jon. It's reserved for teachers who are willing to continue the cultural dialogue, to contribute to it and to honor where it has come from.

Style for Style and the Ugly Black Dress

Old school. New school. Vintage. Modern. Traditional. Edgy. Classic. Trendy.

Call me materialistic. Call me superficial. I'd hope that I was considered neither of those two terms, but I have to admit that I am a worshiper of all things sequins. Or silk. Or crystal. Gold. Patent leather. I am addicted to fashion, people. Perhaps it was my mother who played an early roll in my interest of aesthetics. It was she, after all, who would parodically mimic the wisdom of Suzanne Sugarbaker (Designing Women) who, when asked, would state that the most important thing in life is not things like love or friendship--it's "lookin' good!"

I'm trying to shock you, okay? I don't really think that the most important thing in life is lookin' good--nor do I "look good" half of the time (have you seen me in class???). I will, however, blame my desire for fashionable things to a simple appreciation for aesthetics. I am a sensory junkie. If I can get my paws on good music, food, shoes (oh shoes...), or find my gaze captured by the firey red of oak tree leaves in October, I'm going to tell you that, in my opinion, I'm a little bit closer to heaven. Fashion, to me, is a way in which I can express my adoration for aesthetics; I find much pleasure in wearing the sparkle of a vintage crystal necklace or the creamy luster of a silk jacket.

Old school. New school. Vintage. Modern. Traditional. Edgy. Classic. Trendy.

I'm not just talking about fashion now, but I am talking about style and self-expression. This week, we read about grammar--what it means, what it can mean, what it doesn't mean and how it's mean to teach it (joke). In all sincerity, I found this week's readings to be somewhat lack luster in the "wow this is interesting!" department. Not to say that all readings didn't appeal to me, I just had a hard time finding something interesting to say about them. I will admit, however, that Steven Lynn's discussion regarding style, audience, and grammar truly struck a chord with me; I was able to relate much of what Lynn said to my interest in elements of fashion, such as self-expression and personal style. Also I think that Lynn is a closet closet appreciator (did you catch all of the subtle fashion references?!).

For simplicity's sake, I'll keep my analogy on the shorter side. Lynn outlines:

AUDIENCE
What is style? Consider the following requests:
(a) Close the door.
(b) For God's sake, will you close the dadgum door?!"
(c) Would you please be so kind as to close the door?
(d) The lid on the casket holding our relationship is that door, which you now must shut.

For me, I'd like to consider the following outfits.

(a) The formal look is comprised of a classic black dress, a vintage silk jacket (a recent find!) and black patent stilettos.

Lynn suggests that our writing is "dressed up in style," and that we "learn how to adorn pre-existing ideas appropriately for a particular audience in a given time and place" (142). If you're heading out for an evening in formal evening attire, you may choose items that 1) articulate your own personal style, and 2) are based upon your ideas about what people wear at formal events. If a student embarks upon a journey to employ more formal diction, he or she will have to use his or her knowledge of "formality" and then mold formality to fit his or her expressive style. This is not easy! In fact, when you dress up for a formal event, how do you know that what you're wearing will be appropriate? Sure we can base our ensemble from our experiences attending formal events, but if you're new to a formal scene, how do you know what to wear? I would compare a "formal outfit" to the research paper assignment (in high school & in higher ed.), as it follows a particular pattern and is associated with a particular academic audience.

In any stylistic situation, Lynn speaks of writers in a similar predicament, for if we embark upon a composition assignment, we "often cannot see, engage with, assess, and react to...audiences" and are, therefore, at a bit of a disadvantage. It is here, then, that in all circumstances how a writer is perceived is often tied to the syntactical choices a writer makes. Is this a valid way to assess a writer's intentions? Here, Lynn points us to this idea of a "second persona,"--an identity that is somewhat removed from the text in which a writer produces. Is it an authentic voice? Lloyd Bitzer would argue, "no," it is not. How can writers have authentic voices if their stylistic choices are dependent both upon their ability to imagine an audience and the way an audience understands, rejects, adapts, or distorts the style (and therefore, meaning) of the writer's text?

Lynn points us in the direction of allowing the teacher to "play additional roles" besides just "teacher." In other words, allowing a teacher to metaphorically put his or her "casual clothes" on from time to time allows them to be perceived more as a peer than as an authority figure (see figure b).

I imagine that all of my classmates already do this in their classrooms, and I would also imagine that an apparent challenge is knowing when to dress-down and when to dress-up! I would liken, perhaps, the assignment of a book review or something of the like to a more "casual voice," yet not quite pajama-esque in nature.

If "identity is dynamic and adaptable," why not writing style? If, perhaps, the instructor can invite their students into a various array of creative settings, then it's possible that personal expression and style may adapt, too. I'm not suggesting that this isn't already done; I know that teachers assign various assignments particularly in order to allow a writer to express him or herself in similarly different voices (or outfits, if you want to talk fashion).

Old school. New school. Vintage. Modern. Traditional. Edgy. Classic. Trendy.

Our reading this week asked us to consider grammar and its place in the classroom. Is it Old School to believe that grammar is the center of composition? Yes. But is the New School way of thinking fully incorporated into the mode of today's classroom? No. Vintage pedagogy is never comprised of horribly "bad" ideas; there is a purpose, a process of trial and error, and a history to present practices and methodology. At the same time, however, sometimes vintage ideas can go out of style style like shoulder pads and dickies. I'd like to think that our "edgy" thinkers are always pushing the envelope, allowing the modern practitioners to see where pedalogical potential lies beyond the boundaries of what it has always been. At the end of the day, I have to wonder if there's an either-or answer: either you teach grammar OR you don't. I'm shaking my head--can that be right??! I think that the answer to this question lies in a better look at grammar as a conceptual piece of composition. Certainly we exercise an understanding of grammar in our writing, as it is a tacit part of language acquisition. But the way we teach grammar in the classroom (correction: are REQUIRED to teach grammar in the classroom) is like a classic black dress from the 80s. Conceptually, it seems to work, but the ruffles and dramatic rouching make it just plain ugly.

It seems to me that the most important aspect of teaching grammar is simply to question its place in the classroom. I don't think I'm completely convinced that it does not belong at all in a learning environment. In fact, part of me wants to maintain that grammar is the classic black dress of composition. However, in order for it to "work," you have to have a place to wear it.

Hidden Garage Door Openers and Expectations

My brother is an electrician. But he is more than an electrician. He does things with wires, electrical devices, random gadgets, and pieces of scrap metal that I know I could never do. Let me rephrase that: I could do, but won't ever do 1) because I don't care enough to try and 2) would have to spend the better part of my life trying to study enough to gain a certain "know how" that only true experts understand. He's installed a computer in his truck (not like the tower/monitor you might be thinking of); he figured out how to wire the mother board, processor, etc. through the seat of the passenger side, underneath the floor, which connected to a small computer monitor he found in a junk store. He's been known to wire my family's garage door so that you can step on a rock in the yard, and the garage door (magically) opens--I'm talkin' "open saysame" kinda stuff--real "impress your date" or "confuse your out-of-town guests" material. His latest invention is a small-scale Rube Goldberg machine that begins with a piece of wood, the remnants of an electric car key opener, and ends with a freshly brewed pot of coffee. So you get it: the kid is smart. And extraordinarily creative.

When my brother introduces me to his latest invention, I always ask him, "How in the hell did you figure out how to make that thing?", he usually responds: "I don't know; I just figured it out." If we're talking about the cognitive process of writing, I couldn't help but think about my brother and his non-chalant response to his latest spark of creative genius: "I don't know; I just figured it out." When Britton, et al. suggested that "highly effective writing may be produced in [a] spontaneous manner," I wondered if invention, in many contexts, was as spontaneous as a writers' ability to piece together words into unique patterns and utterances. Beyond an understanding of semantic and syntactical structure, how much of our writing process is intuitive and spontaneous? Flower & Hayes define this process as discovery, yet they maintain that "discovery" is not simply finding something hidden somewhere within a students' text or memory. Instead, discovery takes place when a writer is "hard at work searching memory, forming concepts, and forging a new structure of ideas, while at the same time trying to juggle all the constraints imposed by his or her purpose, audience, and language itself" (Flower & Hayes 467). If I think about my brother and his inventive strategy, would I be on the right track if I applied this definition of discovery to answer his response of "I don't know?" In some realm of certainty, he does know. He just doesn't know he knows what he's doing.

My overall impression of Britton, et al., Flower & Hayes, and Brand's observations regarding the cognitive process of writing allows me to consider that writing is both a process of memory and intuition. Memory connotes an understanding of the structure of language. Intuition refers to the feeling which tells the writer what detail to include and how those details should be arranged. To be sure, according to Flower & Hayes, a "good" writer intuitively understands the intention of each sentence--that in its final construction, a piece of writing will produce a particular effect by its structure and content.

Conversely, I have to think of the writers who are deemed more "basic" writers. I think about my brother who clearly demonstrates an above-average aptitude for mechanical invention, yet claims that writing is far beyond his comfort zone. Does this mean that this type of basic writer is unable to participate in the "cognitive process of discovery?" Absolutely not. In fact, I think that Brand points us towards an understanding that there is no "best" way for a writer to compose; there are many ways and that no model "is better than the other." To be more straightforward, if there are different types of thinkers, there are certainly different styles of composing (Brand 710).

I know that none of our theorists explicitly say this, but as teachers in the public education system, what are our expectations of students who are considered basic writers? Are they meant to write the next great American novel? I don't know. Is writing only a piece-of-the-pie example of a students' cognitive ability? I would argue, yes. Students have talents that stretch across the curriculum, so why do we all need to be experts in writing? How do we marginalize students who do not excel at writing? For the students like my brother who can piece together intricate electronic circuits and mechanical systems, who am I to say that his participation is limited in society if he can't piece together equally intricate phrases with the materials of pen and paper? I guess my impression of this weeks' readings led me to consider the importance of writing, or more so, what teachers can do (or are doing?) to access a similar pattern of thought for all students, the "experts" and the "basic" writers, alike.

Witchcraft! Sorcery! Frankenfurter?

Inspired by the mention of my alma mater, I decided to search through the relics of my college days to find my Eng Comp notes or something of the like. I thought: "Well if Bartholomae suggests that our comp classes should be structured in a particular manner, what better way to see if his vision is carried out by his very own English Comp staff?" I remember being subjected to a trace of the model which was discussed as a "theoretically driven seminar with challenging reading and writing assignments" (Mutnick 184). Each Eng Comp class at Pitt has a "theme" introduced by the professor, whether it be film, Feminism, Eastern European folklore, etc. Although I could not find the notes from Jack's class (they HAVE to be SOMEWHERE!--I think), I was successful in recovering the notes from my Women and Literature course from my freshman year and from my Cultures of Mesoamerica class. Let me tell you, people, it's some scary stuff.

I say "scary" for Women and Lit because I, as a 19 year-old, was charged to understand the ideas of Bakhtin and Foucault--to master their philosophy and put it to work. I admit that while I was able to understand, on a cursory level, what Bakhtinian and Foucauldian theory meant to the literary world, I was not able to fully employ their ideas into my own text. In other words, using the language of theory was like on the job training: we learned as we experimented. I thank my professor for allowing us some flexibility in that arduous task and also for understanding our struggle to comprehend things like sexuality and power or social phenomenon and polyvocality (what????). And if learning the language of the academie really was an "on the job" learning experience, I guess I should've gone to class more often.

As Bartholomae indicates, "some students will need to learn to crudely mimic the 'distinctive register' of academic discourse before they are prepare to actually and legitimately do the work of the discourse" (Bartholomae 627). I felt the truth in this statement in my Women and Lit class as I struggled to place words like "dialogism" and "historical poetics." Indeed this language is not part of my every day lexicon. (Okay. It totally is, but I just don't want to brag.) I believe that Bartholomae and Rose approach like topics--a students' place within making meaning of and creating text. However, they bring these topics up in different mediums: the college student entering the world of academic discourse (Bartholomae); the college students' native discourse as interpreted (and/or interrupted?) by academic discourse (Rose). On one hand, Bartholomae approaches how students can assimilate into the classroom culture. On the other hand, Rose lets us know that unique voices are no less intelligent because thoughts are not uttered through "academic" language.

Allow me to summarize using my notes from my Cultures of Mesoamerica course (another personal relic discovered in the abyss of my mother's basement):

In the Mesoamerican culture post Spanish colonization, religion is a veritable blend of indigenous tradition and colonial influence. In other words, "Catholicism" is not "pure"; it incorporates the personae of local gods, goddesses, and the principles of magical folk ritual. Enough with the boring stuff.

We have WITCHES who are:
*born with their supernatural powers
*have an innate/inherent gift
*able to project themselves as (anthropomorphic) entities to explain something that they cannot explain through words
*are independent from "ordinary" man

We have SORCERERS who are:
*people who have learned their powers over time
*are public about their powers
*use them to cure
*hired to cause harm
*use powers to socially interact with others

I wanted to have some fun with this analogy. I thought of WITCHES as people who enter higher education with the basic fundamentals of composition--perhaps like the students whom Bartholomae refers to. Although we cannot say that each student is "innately" talented, witches have been acculturated to understand the system of traditional education. That is to say, they are able to use their "powers" of understanding the system of educational prose so that they may project themselves into the text of the academy. Talented witches may be able to accurately portray themselves (identity) into their texts--or, metaphorically speaking, when a witch anthropomorphically projects herself or himself into animal form to convey meaning inexplicable through human words. (Which is exactly you were thinking, right?)

The SORCERER is a "basic writer" who must learn the language of the institution. To be sure, a basic writer is neither stupid nor incapable of writing coherently. The key, here, is that the Sorcerer is capable of learning the "spells" of the institution. The Sorcerer's challenge is to take his or her ability and apply it to the form of academic discourse so that the or she may be increasingly power-full. Rose indicates that any type of literacy (cultural, visual, historical, textual) is as significant as the other, and to be able to participate in multiple layers of a literate world, it is like a Sorcerer learning the spells of his magical counterparts.

What am I? I think that we are all Witches and Sorcerers in our own right. The Witch in me enjoys writing. The Sorcerer in me likes to think that I have the ability to learn, to "grow," to appreciate my own unique cultural literacy. The moral of the story is that as each of these characters, as a student, I have power. As a Witch, I can project myself onto the page, "morph" my thoughts into written word because I have learned that system of communication. But if I didn't already behold the powers of the Witch, I could be a Sorcerer--one who learns how to interpret her own view of the world over time, suggesting that I am not "fixed" into one magical (or social) status. So what are you? A Witch? A Sorcerer? Hopefully not the third kind of magical persona: the blood sucking vampire. Although, I'm really not one to judge; I'm, like, really into vampires.

Sh*t my rhetorical essay says

The bumper sticker, I think, is a wonderful example of social rhetoric. I used this example specifically to tie-in the messages that Covino, Lynn and D’Angelo share with us in this weeks’ readings regarding the traditional and contemporary applications of rhetorical pedagogy. While I realize could have much to say in regards to my previous post, I’ll try to keep things simple (which is ironic considering the subject matter). I might be wrong to make these associations, but what if:

1) we see the bumper sticker as an allegory for traditional rhetorical pedagogy. To me, the bumper sticker is merely a simplified message whereas (to nod to Steven Lynn) “form” is “function.” The function is to relay a message—whether it be profound or something silly—through a medium (mode) which allows for no rebuttal, discussion, etc. It is, as I mention in my own essay, a “passive” mode of communication. That being said, I took the form of the bumper sticker as a way to perceive the traditional use of the 5 paragraph essay. While you can’t obviously say so much in a 2” x 6” block of space, I have to ask: what can you really say within the confines of a 5 paragraph essay?

2) To assume that a proper argument (one which would please the likes of Quintilian, for example) can be made in the form of a 5 paragraph essay is as ridiculous as assuming that you will be able to sway someone with flashy bumper sticker. Is it possible? Sure. Is it likely? Not really.

3) I mentioned earlier “form” and “function” of the bumper sticker. Its limited form limits its function. To assume that the aim of rhetoric is merely to convince your audience is, in fact, quite limiting. Indeed to give a student a particular task with a strict rubric with a particular goal in mind is—you guessed it—limiting.

I took from the readings a few things that have helped me understand the function (aim) of rhetoric, as well as its diverse forms (modes). To escape the limited scope of the traditional rhetorical pedagogy, I interpreted the function of rhetoric is to persuade someone to see that your point of view is valuable (or valid?). I’m not 100% convinced that a well-developed rhetorical assignment has one purpose only: to persuade. If we assume that this is so, then we are also saying that an audience need not think critically about the subject they are reading if the audiences’ job is to give their attention in exchange for conviction. I would like to give more power to the audience. If ancient rhetoricians tell us that a well-developed argument takes time to consider in its fullest potential, then wouldn’t an audience require the same or similar allowances? If a teacher maintains that a persuasive argument MUST convince, then we are teaching a paradox: writers do the thinking for their audiences. But in a classroom environment, who do we consider the “audience?” The student? The teacher? Probably both at times. Perhaps it is better to envision the function of rhetoric as a way to convince an audience to see in new ways.

I propose that Covino, Lynn & D’Angelo lead us to envision rhetoric as a process which enables a student to develop his or her ideas in various forms as part of a larger dynamic social context. I enjoy that Covino points out “the dynamism of rhetoric,” as it is precisely this kind of attitude that, well, gets us somewhere (nod to the bumper sticker, car, huh huh?). I was waiting for the word to be uttered: synecdoche. The parts equal the whole; the whole identifies with its parts. I used several modes—narrative, exposition, argumentation and persuasion—in my essay particularly because I wanted to show that the parts (various modes of rhetoric) can achieve a desired effect (the whole).

Finally, I’ll mention that I purposely tried to maintain that bumper stickers are neither good nor bad. In fact, they simply are. As I look over it now, I’m not sure if I properly do that; I wanted to suggest that is the responsibility of the viewer to perceive (and internalize) what he or she wants to when presented with (bumper sticker) rhetoric. And by that same vein, I wanted to further point out that the responsibility of a teacher is to present various modes (as tools) to his or her student so that they may be equipped to articulate a particular message—be it profound or even silly--as well as a way to understand the "global quality" of rhetoric. Let’s hope those “tools” are not restricted to the form of a 5 paragraph essay (production). Or a bumper sticker (consumption).

My Dog's Butt Stinks: To Do or Not to Do the Bumper Sticker

When I was in high school, I posted a bumper sticker to the back of my 96 Neon. It read: "My dog's butt stinks."

In my mind's eye, I see myself as a rather mature 17 year old. Never you mind the fact that I felt compelled to post a message onto my vehicle, suggesting that 1) you should consider the possibility of a dog’s ass, and 2) notice that it also smells. Additionally, I think there may have been a pile of poop. I also remember thinking that poop in any context was funny. Wait. Poop is funny and will always be.

As a self-proclaimed, "mature" 28 year old, I can look back upon this experience and ask myself: “why?” Why, at the height of the formation of my teenage identity, did I feel as though I should tell the world that my dog’s butt stinks? If I could tap into the general teenage psyche, I could speculate that I did this because, hey, it’s cool to have a sense of humor. I also believe that bumper stickers do, in fact, illustrate a part of identity; it is a way to “speak your mind” without direct consequence. Unless someone decides to rear end your vehicle. But that’s another story for another day.

I suppose that the “hear my voice” power of the bumper sticker is true for people of any age. Yet part of me wants to believe that the bumper sticker is not as powerful as it, perhaps, aspires to be. A silly bumper sticker was my teenage “meh.” Ten years later, I realize that the craze of bumper sticker politics has gone from innocuous illustrations of smelly dogs to out-right displays of racism, classism, sexism, and general bigotry sometimes in the form of a "JESUS LOVES YOU BUT NOT IF YOU’RE GAY” bumper sticker. When I decided to make a point of my dog’s smelly rear end, was I consciously making a statement about bumper stickers as propaganda? Probably not. Is a bumper sticker meant purely for entertainment or is it an unwarranted imposition? Yes and no. Are bumper stickers merely a part of our culture, our Constitutional right to "Free Speech?" Do you really "honk" if you're horny? Do you really care if "I'd rather be fishing?"

So many questions. So many answers (which I’ll get to), but in the meantime I have to ask myself: What is the point of the bumper sticker? What am I really doing when I tell you, as I drive away from the traffic light, that my dog’s butt stinks?

The point of the bumper sticker is obvious; it is a rhetorical device which serves as a personal advertisement: these are my beliefs. Read them. Consider them. Judge them. Come back later and throw eggs at my windshield. Or not. Keep driving. Whatever. A bumper sticker tells the drivers behind my BMW X3 that I have something to say and apparently I think my car is an appropriate medium (or vehicle if you prefer puns) to display this message. The bumper sticker is the ultimate form of “putting yourself out there,” drawing parallels to talent shows, open mic nights, and online dating. Except the bumper sticker, unlike a debate team rhetor, is considerably more passive than any of these given examples. In fact, the bumper sticker is removed from the individual driving the car and is, instead, attached to the message and not necessarily who is saying it. The person driving the car, then, is a secondary conduit of information—they are simply the operator, not necessarily its direct medium.

Bumper stickers literally and metaphorically let us “get away” with saying things we may not blurt out in class, at a meeting, in the check-out line at the grocery store. I guess some people may be compelled to publicly exclaim their belief that “Under God’s law the only ‘rights’ gays have is the right to die” according to some Biblical verse. But I’m going to venture to say that most people do not prefer to do so.

If I had to attribute a personality/style to the bumper sticker’s delivery, I would say that it’s as passive-aggressive as the co-worker who leaves those special “To the person who is using my barbeque sauce: buy your OWN!” notes in the break room fridge. In other words, the vehicle allows a hostile message like “I’ll keep my freedom, my money and my guns and you can keep the ‘CHANGE’” to be articulated not in spoken word, face à face, but in written text—usually with a color scheme like red, white and blue to imply the statement’s authority in the guises of patriotism. Not only is the message about what you’re saying out-right, it is also a form of doublespeak—to say something that clearly represents the Constitutional value of free speech, yet outwardly undermines the ability of the head of state in colorful (hence, meaningful) patriotic text.

The bumper sticker virtually removes the individual from the message and lets it “hang” on the back of your car, almost as an afterthought, as it resides on the back of the car and not the front. (I am reminded of “kick me” signs in high school.) If you consider the physicality of the bumper sticker as a metaphor, it is a message that resides not in the vanguard of your mind, but somewhere in the posterior of your consciousness. The consequence of its physical presence, then, suggests that while you may have these beliefs and share them with the greater public, you would like to convey them in the most non-threatening way: on the back of your car. In other words, you take the principle of “say it to my face,” and turn it around: “Say what you’re thinking to my face, but while you say it, can you turn around so that your back faces me, too? ” The message just doesn’t have the same effect as if someone is speaking their mind directly to your face, looking you in the eye, demonstrating a respect for your thoughts as well. (But maybe this is a cultural preference, as some cultures do not prefer to show respect with face-to-face communication or eye-contact.) Even so, when you use the medium of your pick-up truck bumper to tell me that you’d rather keep your guns, I’ll only take you half-seriously.

While political and social commentary are common topics of the bumper sticker, I have to ask myself if I can condone a message that intentionally conveys the sentiment of sexism, racism, homophobia, or ethnocentrism? What purpose does it serve to perpetuate ignorance? On one hand, I have to think of the repercussions of the individual who wishes to tell me (via weather treated paper and adhesive) that they feel as though Gays have the right only to die—suggesting that the right to live is not only sinful, it is debatable. The only “good” their bumper sticker will do is encourage people like me to react in disgust, making my beliefs for gay-rights even more apparent in the forefront of my consciousness.

Yet if I am to remain true to my personal feelings about engaging controversial topics for the sake of intellectual cultivation, I will tell you that I am “for” bumper stickers despite those messages in which I personally take offense to (like the aforementioned statement pertaining to homosexuality). At the very least, the bumper sticker may act as a conduit for the “everyman” to voice his or her own opinion or to advocate for individual beliefs. If I don’t have a television show, a newspaper column, a blog, how do I tell you that I am strongly pro-choice? I may do this in casual conversation, but if this belief is so strongly tied to my identity, I may want to make sure you know this about me before you can say “hello.” I’ll put a “Pro-Choice” bumper sticker on my car and instantly associate this belief not only with who I am as an individual; you’ll also see that not only do I value this “right,” but that I also value my ability to voice this belief. And beyond the nod to “free speech” and promotion of individual beliefs, I must add that the bumper sticker at least presents the existence of contemporary ideology. In other words, the argument is there—both in the physical sense, but also in the rhetorical sense: there is a point to be made, argued, supported, or rejected. The sheer presence of the message upon the bumper sticker generates a dialogue about a particular subject of interest. If you never tell me that you would prefer that “if [I’m] going to act like a turd, [I should] go lay in the yard,” I will never be able to tell you that I do, in fact, lay in the yard on a regular basis. But mostly because I want to get a tan and not because I am making an effort to resemble a turd. I also will not be able to mention that even though I am a 28 year-old professional, I still find the word “turd” considerably amusing. All in all, while the bumper sticker allows for an argument to be presented, thus inspiring an exchange of ideas, it does not allow for an exchange between driver and bumper sticker viewer. Except in cases where my middle finger happens to appear in your rear view window. But that is a rare, if not scarce, occasion. I am usually to afraid to flick someone off for fear that I may upset the wrong person—perhaps an angry Scientologist with psychological issues who also happens to be a gun enthusiast. The possibilities are endless.

While a bumper sticker may, at the very least, present to the greater public a diverse selection of controversial talking points, I must elaborate further about my frustration with the bumper sticker as the bearer of popular (and not-so-popular) cultural ideology. The success of the bumper sticker resides in its potential to conjure a theoretical tempest, but it fails because of its inability to allow for proper response. The bumper sticker, instead of a proper platform for discourse to occur between two or more individuals, is but a philosophical dick tease. Allow me to elaborate:

Sure I can see that you believe that “life is all about ass: covering it, kicking it, kissing it, and trying to get it.” But if I were to agree or even disagree, I’m left to spatter my commentary to the inanimate attention of my dashboard. If I were to notice your “Save a Fetus, Stop Abortion” sticker on a random Sunday afternoon, I would resolve to eject my pro-choice opinion in the form of verbal masturbation—to myself, by myself, with myself in the solitary seating of my own vehicle. Where does this get me besides all hot and bothered an no where—or no one?—to relieve myself?

I resolve to believe that perhaps bumper stickers, while they may frustrate or amuse me, at least provide a non-threatening outlet of self-expression. And I could make a silly joke about ramming into the back of your mini van because I’m sick of seeing your honor roll student stickers or those stupid family of stick figures holding hands, and it’s beyond my threshold of tolerance. But I won’t. I am also too passive (and perhaps smart?) to risk the confrontation. Or higher insurance rates.

Clearly a bumper sticker does something. I guess the question remains: should it “do?” There are costs and benefits to the bumper sticker and what it does do. However, if a bumper sticker does do hatred or bigotry or perpetuate ignorance, I will not let it do anything more to me than grind my gears. In the meantime, I resolve to write blogs like this one where I reserve the right to make snide comments about the unnecessary presence of “Soccer Caravan” bumper stickers. My teenage perception of the bumper sticker, I think, was probably the best mindset to have in the first place: to not take a piece of waterproof adhesive too seriously. And as a 28 year old who now owns her own dog, I can tell you there is some truth in the generalization about dog’s butts; they really do stink.

Get the Job: A poem for writing anxiety and the color red

Get the Job: A Poem for writing anxiety and the color red

So cut into my words
syntax-slashing
style-slicing
red ink gets
the job done.
Meaning derived
from some swell of creativity:
it stretches the space
between end stop
and capital letter,
but can't quite get
the job done.

Today your assignment is:
What is this mess
of an essay--could it
be a poem confused
with prose--
be creative!
Be unconventional!
Be original!
And eventually
get the job done.
Or drench paper in red
for argument's sake.


I have yet to, I think, ever(?) post a poem I've written. (2011 is the year for taking risks!) I feel like I might be exaggerating, but I can't recall ever being so critical of myself over a blog post. So I must be telling the truth.

Having not yet tackled the readings for this week, yet considering the readings from previous weeks, I wanted to post this poem that I'd written in 2002 during my freshman year in college. I'm fairly certain that I wrote this poem with both the inspiration of high school English in mind, as well as my first year of writing courses at Pitt. I can't remember the precise course or assignment, but I can remember the moment of inspiration to write this poem. In my mind's eye, I can see the draft in my hand, covered in (what seemed like) violent red slashes. It didn't take much to consider the rough draft as a conceit to a B-rated horror flick. So much red. So much negativity. So much ink bleeding from the margins of the page. I think: what a terrible fate to befall an unassuming, innocent piece of white print paper!

So cut into my words: does red ink "really" get the job done? What "job" is being done? We're discussing multiple jobs, here: the assignment given, the assignment completed, the assignment evaluated. Interesting: the task at hand, while in my hands, then out of my hand(s), is executed by someone elses' hands. Think about it.

I'll also mention that I posted this in mind of the creative submissions in the "Teaching English for the Two-Year College" journal, as it (to my pleasant surprise!) also publishes creative pieces.

My Macrorie Experiment

I think I'd be doing Ken Macrorie a disservice if I didn't feel compelled to write creatively after reading a selection from Telling Writing. So I did. And here is what I came up with after 30 minutes of fingers-to-computer-key writing:


It’s Saturday, and I’m cleaning my grandparents’ house so they can sell it. My grandfather has moved out, and I don’t know where he is living. In fact, when I ask about him, my uncles and aunts don’t tell me. Maybe they don’t know, but I figure someone has to.
I help my Mimi sort out some boxes in the living room. She stands next to me: “Jessie, take anything from this box that you might want.” She puts aside Boy Scout pins and Lions Club medals, which means they must be important. We throw away the bits of trash in the box—old receipts and small calendars with scribbling of meetings and dates of car shows and auctions. I try not to cry. I find a pewter letter opener with a dragon head and put it in my pocket. It looks special—like something my Pop would’ve picked up at the Williams Grove flea market on a Saturday morning. Mimi tells me she is trying not to cry, but I don’t reassure her and say “me too” or “it’s ok.” Instead I just stand there and consider taking a Dillsburg tire store pencil holder. It’s old, but I know it doesn’t have any value. I just know it’s something my Pop would carry in his pocket everywhere. I want it as a momento. (But aren't momentos for people who are dead? He's not dead!) I wonder where the hell he is that he’s not taking his pocket pencil with him. I look at my Mimi, her head down and focused, rattling on about who might want what. And I try not to cry.
My mom interrupts us and tells me that Jon needs help cleaning out the shed, so I leave Mimi to her box. I think it takes her all day to sort through it. Outside my stepdad and brother are carrying random pieces of wood and throwing it into a trailer heaped with junk. I wonder where the trailer is going or who is taking it, but all people keep telling me is that it all belongs to my grandpa. Underneath the wood I see some chairs, a mattress, a lamp. I’m confused because if the trailer is for Pop, why are they throwing junk on top of the “nice” things? It hits me: we don’t care. Well, I care. So why haven’t I called my grandpa since Christmas? I go out to carry in a load from the shed and it’s fucking freezing.
Since I forgot to bring gloves, my shed duty is short-lived. I tell my husband that I’m going back inside to do “women’s work” and I smile as I walk away because I know I’ve just made a joke between the two of us.
Inside the house, my aunts are wiping down the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge. My aunt asks me if I want a jar of olives and makes a funny face. She’s being sarcastic, but hell yeah I want the olives. I personally believe that olives never go bad and I’m very into drinking martinis. I choose a couple other things and make a pile on the counter to take home with me, alongside a picture of me and my Pop when I was a baby.
When my family is involved in any task, we usually do things at high speed. It’s like a tornado runs through town, and instead of a trail of complete chaos, your house is clean or your garage door is fixed or your carpet is installed or the hole for your new fish pond is dug up and ready to be filled. We say: “It’s the Shaffer in us.”
My mom asks me to steam clean the floors, but before I can grab the mop, Mimi stops me and asks, “Now. Have you ever used one of these things before?”
“Yes, Mimi.”
But she helps me anyway. To be honest, I’ve never filled a steam mop up, so I really did need her help.
Mimi helps me funnel water into the chamber and asks again if I’ve used one of these things before.
“I’ll be fine.”
I slide the mop over the hallway floors, and I have to admit that it’s relieving to clean up dirt even when it’s not “your” dirt to clean up. The mop pad even catches the edge of a spider web and I watch as its dusty wisps split from the wall. It’s a satisfying feeling.
Each bedroom has been emptied of furniture. I realize I haven’t been in these rooms since my grandma left my grandpa two years ago. Since then, I’ve only seen my grandpa on his porch or once when I came in he was in the sun porch living room asleep with his head slung back and snoring. I remember being a kid and always trying to tickle Pop’s nose or put hats on his head while he slept in his chair with re-runs of Hee-Haw playing in the background. He’d swing his hand around, call me a “little shit,” and I’d run upstairs to laugh.
I am almost finished with the floors. I hear my mom tell my uncle, “Jessica is busy steam cleaning,” which means I don’t have to carry something heavy or go outside again without gloves. I take my time with this job, making sure to clean every floor board with precision like I’m going to get bonus points for doing such a good job. I guess I just want to make my uncle happy—he sells houses, so clean floors make this house easier to sell.
In the living room, I have few spots to soak up since we still have a few pieces of furniture to move. I slide the mop around the edge of the room, making sure to hit the corners with extra cleaning zeal. My aunt calls out to ask if I want to join everyone for dinner—she says it’s a “thank you “ for helping on a Saturday morning. I tell her “Sure,” as I smush a frantic spider hurrying across the floor.

Writing. And mind bullets.

I'm taking a bit of a different approach to this week's blog, and I hope it is...well...okay. After assessing the various philosophies, considerations, opinions, and educated commentary regarding writing pedagogy, I have determined that to belong to any one school of thought is not for me. Although I had a hard time getting through Lester Faigley's "Competing Theories of Process: A Critique and a Proposal" I will admit that I found value in his overall argument. Well, I guess you could say that found value in the theme of his argument.

What Faigley suggests is that while Expressive, Cognitive & Social views all have their "selling points," to put only one of these theories in practice in every teaching situation is probably not the best solution. I like that he recommends that "if the process movement is to continue to influence the teaching of writing and to supply alternatives to current-traditional pedagogy, it must take a broader conception of writing, one that understands writing processes are are historically dynamic" (Faigley 662). To be clear, Faigley's essay was my least favorite thing to read (sorry Julie!), but I could at least respect what he was trying to say. In fact, I enjoyed this week's readings not because I agreed with what the various authors/theorists/experts said about writing; I enjoyed the readings because I could begin to fight with the text. In my mind. With MIND BULLETS! (Tenacious D. anyone?)

I liked the fight this week. I liked that I found myself resisting the text, asking questions like:
Can expressive writing be both individually focused and socially engaging?
Can we liken to process of writing to an intellectual economy whereas writing is a means of production--we produce ideas, ideas become a commodity, we consume others' ideas to produce more ideas and if we can participate in this economy, we not only become self-actualized but also advocates for our individualism?

Let me turn around now and take-on a different persona as I respond Ken Macrorie's chapter from Telling Writing. I thoroughly enjoyed working my way through this reading--so much so, that I decided to try one of his exercises myself. Obviously, I am at a particular advantage because 1) I understand what I'm doing with a writing exercise more than the average first year college student; 2) I'm making an attempt to keep my writing "boiled down," if you will, and 3) I had an experience in mind that I wanted to write about. Despite my apparent advantages, I still have a husband who enjoys interrupting me frequently as I try to finish my homework. In other words, attempting to "write without stopping" is almost impossible in my household. Obviously what I've written in a condensed period of time is not anything earth-shattering, but I wanted to see if I Macrorie's tactics could, in fact, lead to something--anything! I wanted to see how I, as a student, responded to the exercise. What I found was that it was difficult for me to "let go" and write what I was thinking. What happens when you are trying to write AND remember at the same time? On one hand, I know I did my best at completing Macrorie's exercise, but I feel like I could do better. Why do I say this? I think that writing non-stop is something that I need to work on feeling more comfortable with. I struggled to consider my audience (and their expectations of my writing), so I know that my voice was somewhat mediated. This makes me wonder...when are we really writing for ourselves? In the classroom...are students ever really writing for themselves if (despite the subject matter, the theme, etc.) the very physicality of the room is, in fact, already chosen for them?