The Shape of Composition

I will never forget my freshman English Composition instructor, Jack Giles. I remember him for his unassuming swagger into a room, the distinctive gray of his newsboy cap, the melody of his voice as it rose and fell like a Baptist preacher in the climax of a Sunday sermon: "…the best way to see…is to help understand…what is preventing you from seeing… through your own eyes. Always—always! Be aware…of mystification." I'll remember him for those things, but I will never forget him for the first assignment he gave us on the first day of English Comp 101.

As our un-luck would have it, our class had been assigned to one of Pitt's prestigious "cultural rooms" within the Cathedral of Learning, which meant our seats all faced forward towards the center of the room, fixed to the floor, incapable of any kind of student-inspired manipulation. I didn't actually notice how poorly designed the room was for teaching English Composition until I heard Professor Giles make a few disparaging remarks about the individual who apparently neglected to alter his initial room request. The very physicality of the room, I would later learn, could not begin to facilitate what Jack Giles had in store for us, but it would work for the first day of class.

After introductions, the obligatory syllabus interpretation, and brief introductions, he proceeded to disburse a single-sided sheet of paper to which we were to make sure remained "faced-down." "Don't even think about picking turning it over until I tell you to!" he warned. Despite my current status as a college sophomore (that's right, I put-off Comp until sophomore year because I'd dreaded the sheer thought of taking this class), the mysterious nature of our next assignment was, in fact, making me nervous. What is this weird-O up to? I wondered. Finally, after a brief explanation, we were allowed to turn our papers over and begin. This is the part that I will never forget.

Our assignment was simple. We were to read the article and write a response to illustrate whether or not we agreed or disagreed with the author's statements regarding writing. Thanks to modern technology—I mean my stunning ability to type key phrases into a google.com search menu—I was able to recover the article we read that day: "Writing Is Easy!" by Steve Martin. I won't get into what Martin actually said (you can read for yourself in the link below), but I will tell you that the point of Martin's essay was not, in fact, to demonstrate the facility of the writing process. In truth it is quite the opposite.

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/1996/06/24/1996_06_24_156_TNY_CARDS_000374389

You could say that Professor Giles' assignment was an experiment of sorts—to see whether or not we'd be able to see through Martin's sarcasm or at least be able to dispute an authority figure in spite of his ability to publish for The New Yorker. We did not know this on the first day of class, but Professor Giles' entire mission of Comp 101 was to demonstrate how students have been programmed to regurgitate information, to by-pass the process of invention in order to replicate an argument in another voice. If you had to guess whether or not my class was successful in seeing through Martin's argument, you'd be wise to assume that the majority of us failed to do so. By chance (and probably due to my affinity for cynicism), I was one of two students who was able to distinguish Martin's true meaning of his essay. The other student who had "passed," Mark, was also a sophomore who had decided to keep freshman comp for his second year. See?! We were SO smart! Or so we thought.

While I was able to delineate Martin's efforts to point out that writing is not "easy," Professor Giles reminded the entire class that the way we perceived the art of writing—and thinking—had a long way to go.

It seems as though Maxine Hairston felt the same way about the field of teaching composition when she published "The Winds of Change: Thomas Kuhn and the Revolution in the Teaching of Writing" in 1982. Hairston points out the history of teaching writing and its inherent paradigmatic flaws. As an individual who works in a community college, I agree that teaching writing cannot be boiled down to a systematic process, especially when you mix traditional age and non-traditional age students with various skill levels and a range of cultural and educational backgrounds into the equation. You would think that it would be common sense to assume that teaching writing to a divergent group of unique individuals would require an equally diverse and flexible methodology. This is precisely, I think, what Hairston is trying to point out—that "the writing process is not linear…it is messy, recursive, convoluted and uneven" (Hairston 85). If, as Hairston suggests, writers "develop their topics intuitively, not methodically" (85), wouldn't it make sense for instructors to develop their teaching techniques in a similar fashion to fit the specific needs of the student—to support teaching as an intuitive process rather than an organized plan of action? It sounds so simple, right? While this suggestion may appear quite straight-forward, I would caution one from attributing writing (or teaching writing) as a "simple" craft. I think Hairston would agree that writing as an overall concept is far from easy or simple; it is multifaceted and complex.

I find it interesting that Hairston's essay was published exactly 20 years prior to my college English Composition experience. Indeed it seems that Hairston's plea to the world of higher education to raise the bar for teaching composition was heard by my Comp professor. I cannot speak for all 1,205 sections of English Comp at the University of Pittsburgh, (to be sure, it seemed like the pages for Eng Comp 101 in the Registrar's Bulletin went on for days), but I know that my experience resembled that of Hairston's ideal. We tackled difficult essays, mostly those written with an anti-establishment flavor, and fuddled through our own interpretation s of Freire, Berger and Bartholome. I remember using class time as "workshop" time, using each others' papers as a forum for discussion and idea-making. Now, as a proper cynic, I will never maintain that our classroom was also filled with rainbows and daisies and everything was perfect and happy. In reality, this was one of the most difficult classes I ever took in college—and let us not forget that this was freshman English Comp! Professor Giles pushed us beyond our perception of our own limitations; his goal was to assure that when we finally stepped out of his—I mean our—classroom for the final meeting time, we felt confident to approach knowledge as active participants rather than "mystified" subordinates. Indeed Professor Giles taught us not only how to shape our educational experience, but that we had the authority (and responsibility) to do so.

When it comes to composition and rhetoric, I think that North, Lynn and Hairston would agree that this process can be seen as dynamic and polymorphous, as it takes various shapes over time. North describes the study of composition as "an ever-shifting, ever-moving terrain, whose shape…is a function of where you happen to be standing" (North 6). I would ascribe this vision as the act of viewing a cube from various positions. From an aerial perspective, you might only see a cube with four sides which may represent "modes of the field," according to North. Yet, if we look at the same cube at eye-level, we can see that the same shape appears to have 6 sides with 12 edges, all which may represent "modes" of understanding the field of composition.

Within the introductory pages of Steven Lynn's Rhetoric and Composition: An Introduction, it becomes clear—or should I say "blurry"—that defining either the term "rhetoric" or "composition" is a daunting task. However, Lynn is able to show us that linking both the practice of rhetoric with the skill of writing helps to understand how the individual demonstrates the acquisition of knowledge. Now while I say "knowledge," I do not mean that a person is not able to learn because he or she cannot write a fully-developed essay. I imagine that Lynn is attempting to illustrate that composing a written work of any form is a way in which the individual may engage, interpret, value and in his or her own culture. Indeed composition may give the individual a kind of "power." As we discuss the potential and purpose of composition, Lynn helps us identify the point where rhetoric meets composition in "the trivium": rhetoric, logic, and grammar (Lynn 15).

I recognize that I am not an expert on composition, but I took Lynn's example of the trivium in a direction which helps me understand its multifaceted nature (and shape). The obvious shape of the trivium is a triangle. You can refer to my amazing drawing skills to see figures 1-4 of what the trivium represents as a whole triangle and what it appears to be when a full side is missing from it. I'll explain each of my interpretations.

 

R is Rhetoric

G is Grammar

L is Logic

 

Figure 1) This shape represents the trivium when all aspects are included: rhetoric, grammar, and logic. I attributed each side a letter with a particular purpose and intention. The ascending left side, "R," represents rhetoric and its ability to take all aspects of forming a proper argument in order to rise upward towards a higher level of comprehension. To take from Andrea Lundsford's definition of rhetoric within Lynn's text, she writes that "rhetoric is interested in building and testing theories of persuasion primarily through the symbol system of language" (see Lynn 29). In a sense, the left side ascending can be viewed as a scaffold pointing upward, suggesting that the nature of the solid line has been "built-up" to, as Lynn puts it, "[shape] language toward some goal" (13). The right side descending marked "G" is grammar. Typically one considers grammar as proper spelling, sentence structure, and punctuation. While being able to demonstrate grammar is an important aspect of writing, I would say its importance lies in the ability to use language to effectively express individual thought and feeling. If I were to spell the word house as "howse," you may be able to comprehend my thoughts if the sentence were to read: "I live in a brick howse." However, imagine that I were to change the entire sentence to read: "Ey liv in uh brik howse," you might be able to understand what I'm trying to say, but it is increasingly difficult to do so. Grammar unites us, if you will, by using a particular language structure and unified pattern of organization. If I want my thoughts to be understood by others, having a grasp upon sentence structure and spelling can only be helpful in building a composition. Grammar also helps us represent ourselves within a particular culture, either uniting or separating ourselves from a specific population. Finally, the "L" in the trivium triangle represents "logic," at it is the base of the "discourse arts." Logic is, perhaps, the base of discourse which operates as it connects both the principles of rhetoric and grammar. You may apples are better than oranges. You may have the ability to speak and write fluently in the language of your cultural upbringing to describe why you think apples are superior. However, if your passions and your ability to articulate these thoughts cannot follow a logical pattern of expression, your words and thoughts are like building a house without a stable foundation; they hold less weight and eventually the structure crumbles.

Figure 2) This figure depicts the absence of grammar, which suggests that while you may wish to convincingly express your reasons why apples are better than oranges, the inability to use organize language in a fashion which allows others to understand what you want to say leaves your argument disconnected in incomplete. In other words, a weak "side" to the trivium will not allow you to uphold your individual ability to have an opinion or engage in discourse with other individuals within your society.

 

Figure 3) This figure represents what it would look like if logic were absent from the equation. Assuming that logic has something to do with an understanding of culture and society, then perhaps this figure can show what it would look like if someone wished not only to voice their opinion about apples and oranges, had the ability to do so (in speech and in writing), yet disregarded the sociocultural norms of their audience. If I wanted to convince you that apples are superior because they are red, yet the audience I was speaking to highly values the color red, then my argument would simply be just that: an argument…of nonsense? I would have to appeal to some sense of logic in order for my other skills to properly convey (and convince) my audience that what I'm saying makes sense.

 

Figure 4) This figure represents what it looks like when you leave rhetoric out of the equation. If, as Lynn suggests, rhetoric is "shaping language toward some goal," then you could expect that language with some kind of logic is simply just that without a particular goal. I could say: "Apples are good." Grammar: check. Logic: Sure apples are good—check. And it may be your intention to simply say something. But I think that what we have to think about is using composition to its fullest potential—to explain why you think apples are good, perhaps? I guess what I'm trying to point out here is that while you may have the tools to say something and the ability to say anything, I would ask: why are you just saying anything? What does it mean? Can you back it up? To be honest, it's really difficult for me to criticize this particular figure because I can argue that composition does not have to have an intention—that you can simply write for your own pleasure and have no concern with an audience and the effect your words may have on a particular audience. However, if you think of this figure as a teacher looking upon a structure of learning, would you feel comfortable sending your students into the world of academia with the ability to say whatever it is they think without having reason to explain why it is they think the way they do? Perhaps we can see this example mostly in terms of current practices in English—where it is essential to test whether or not a student can put together words and phrases and topic sentences and then we call the end product an essay and applaud a students' achievements (yes, this was an intentional run-on). Without the process of "invention," what power do those students have as individuals? The answer is this: we train students to write, to regurgitate for the skill, not for the ability to shape their own ideas.

 

I know I'm getting into the nature of rhetoric here, also. I'm not sure that I'm doing a good enough job of keeping things separate, but I'm trying to show that Lynn is right by suggesting that all of these elements are essential when it comes to teaching composition. To "compose" is also to "create" something—whether it be music or visual art. If a student is to be able to reach his or her fullest potential, the teacher should be able to help a student construct a sturdy framework. Professor Giles knew this when he introduced his students to Paolo Freire and challenged us to see ourselves as an oppressed population within the educational system.

The key idea that I'm getting at is that the framework of composition does not just teach a student how to read and write and speak in a coherent and convincing fashion. Indeed, an understanding of composition may show us not only how to practice these skills, but most importantly, it serves as a process of thinking and sharing knowledge. Lynn nods to Donald Murray to offer some insight to the importance of writing as a way to reveal "the truth…so that he [or she] may tell it to others" (see Lynn 48). While part of me wants to believe that writing reveals the truth, I can't help but to liken that notion to a classroom full of rainbows and daisies where everything is perfect and happy. I don't know if I can believe in truth in writing (well, perhaps I can—even "truth" wears many faces), but I can believe that writing is not just a shape of language, it is also the shape of knowledge.