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.