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.