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A teacher once told our class that “meaning lies in the relationship between and among things.” He was delineating an interpretive literary technique—putting various pieces of text in conversation with one another as a method of textual inquiry—but as I consider what matters to me about writing and about teaching, the ideas of “relationships” and “relatedness” surface again and again. The field of early childhood education seems to understand a lesson that college writing instructors could benefit from: that learning happens through relationships. While these lessons (as articulated in theories of early childhood education) are tightly related to child development in the first few years of life, whereby the forming brain continually makes and prunes back circuits of connection, and a phase in which nurturance is a vital component of children’s survival, perhaps a focus on relationships could help infuse the college writing classroom with some of the joy of discovery we find in in babies and young children. Though the first-year writing classroom may have bigger kids, teaching with an eye towards human development can help those both in and out of the field understand its importance. The possibilities of the kinds of individual- and community-development that can happen in a literature and composition course, and in the acts of reading and writing in general, are the sparks that make the classroom an exciting, generative, and nurturing place for me to return to again and again.

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Central to my teaching philosophy, then, is a focus on relationships, and the teacher’s role as facilitator of various relationships: between language and meaning; between a community of writer-students; between one draft and the next; between instructor and students; between students and the cultural objects (especially the texts) they encounter; and, most complicated of all, the relationship between a student and her own imagination, that is, her own concept of the abilities and possibilities of her mind-in-motion. By using relationships as a framing device, I hope to illustrate my approach to the teaching of writing.

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In describing how one of his writing teachers urged him, in her written comments on his paper, to consider his own voice alongside the voice of the writers and texts he was exploring, James Slevin articulates that what happens on the margins matters. How teachers respond to student writing, and to students themselves, are in fact not simply marginal matters, but represent vital moves which determine the possibilities students can envision for themselves, in the classroom and beyond. Ann Berthoff posits that writing, and the writing classroom, should be spaces of possibility and hopefulness, and I take this charge seriously.

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Before examining the practices that create this type of classroom, though, it is necessary to elucidate the purpose of writing in general, and first-year writing in particular. Berthoff explains that composing (her word for writing)  is a process by which students learn to use language as a way to find and make meaning. In the first-year writing classroom, students should be given tools to interpret, compare, synthesize, contextualize, and defamiliarize the texts that they read, and to ultimately come to see that they must make interpretive choices as they consider the various texts. Writing demands, then, that students make choices, and the writing classroom ought to be a forum in which this choice-making is made visible. Slevin says that first-year writing courses should give students the tools to interact critically with the cultural objects they encounter; in other words, learning to closely read a text helps students cultivate the skills to closely read anything.

 

But though the goal is that the skills that students develop will translate to whatever context they encounter after (academic or otherwise), the readings that students engage with in their first-year college writing course matter. Selecting course readings, presenting those readings in a syllabus, facilitating discussion on the readings, and assigning student writing, must be done intentionally; these actions are all choices, after all, which implicitly model the very process of composition, of using language to make meaning. (This modeling can be made explicit, too, and as a teacher, I hope to make my own process visible to students when it can be useful and generative to the discussion at hand.) In choosing readings, I strive to generate enthusiasm among students. Usually, this means choosing course readings which in some way resonate with the students themselves (are relevant to their ethnic, racial, cultural, or gender identity; their developmental stage; or their own articulated questions, concerns, and interests). In addition to offering readings which are familiar, an affective or inquisitive response can also be generated through readings which are strange, which offer entirely new possibilities or defamiliarize previously-understood concepts. All of this can only happen if the teacher has a genuine interest in his students, and does the work to get to know them.  

 

The purpose of course readings, and the ways the class discussion engages these readings, is ultimately to offer students windows—windows which help them reach inwards to realize, explore, and interrogate their own interiority, and out into the great wide world of possibilities. And if reading points students in these two directions, writing is the process by which the window-frame falls away, and students realize that they themselves are part of the world “out there,” and that they have abilities, power, and responsibility to not only engage with, but to shape and create that world. Michael Carter helpfully articulates that creativity is “the mindfulness of being on the threshold of the known and unknown, the familiar and unfamiliar,” and through facilitating reading, writing, and class discussions, the teacher must enable students to constantly cross back and forth over this threshold (210).

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This threshold is in fact the buzzing center of a productive composition classroom. The teacher must create a classroom community in which students respect and take seriously themselves and their peers. Somewhat paradoxically, this very serious business is created with a spirit of fun, camaraderie, and discovery. As a teacher, I utilize different classroom formations: full group discussions, small group work, individual writing, student presentations, and other activities. My aim is to address different learning needs and styles, and offer several ways to approach the material. In successful writing classrooms I have observed as student and teacher, I see how developing a common classroom “language”—a series of references to texts, theoretical concepts, and memories of class discussions—enables a feeling of belonging which is integral to bolstering student confidence. In a classroom in which students feel that they belong, they have more courage to take risks, and more confidence in their abilities to tackle challenging material.

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Wayne Booth suggests some helpful practices which I incorporate into my teaching of writing: students write frequently, in both low- and high-stakes ways; assignments are productively and appropriately challenging; students engage with each other and with the teacher regarding their writing in different types of writing workshops; students try out several different voices, considering audience and purpose; students notice, then practice, the rhetorical moves exhibited by various texts; and each piece of formal writing is accompanied by reflective/meta writing so that students’ interpretive processes become increasingly visible. Berthoff writes that “skills are learned—really learned—only when there is a reason to use them” (28). Teachers, then, must help students discover, explore, nourish, and reimagine their needs; in other words, write about what matters to them, and come to see writing as a tool through which to think through their own questions and challenges.

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On the topic of teacher-student interaction, Nancy Sommer helpfully articulates common practices in written feedback to student writing, demonstrating how those practices could encourage improvement and growth. Too often, marginal comments offer rules instead of strategies, or are too vague and not specific to the particular text at hand. Comments should dramatize the presence of a reader, and ask questions to help clarify the student’s own purpose and meaning, inviting her back into the chaos of revision and asking questions that lead towards discovery and specificity. It’s important that the teacher not collapse the processes of revision and editing. Therefore, comments on early drafts should not take up grammar or usage errors, but instead, “point to breaks in logic, disruptions in meaning, or missing information,” and “engage students with the issues they are considering and help them clarify their purposes” (155). In both written comments and engagement with students (in and out of the classroom), teachers should model a spirit of curiosity, openness, and a constant reaching towards specificity. “The key to successful commenting is to have what is said in the comments and what is done in the classroom mutually reinforce and enrich each other” (155). Inspired by Carter’s “threshold” concept, effective comments on student writing should destabilize and deconstruct student writing, and help them work towards the possibility of stability.

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In other words, students should be taught to read their own and others’ writing as writing; that is, with an eye towards its craft, towards its constructedness. Reading as a writer means asking: What does this piece of writing do, and how does it do that, and why does it matter? By doing this initially with readings that are pleasurable or provocative, students will be able to use similar interpretive strategies with texts which may have previously seemed outside the scope of their interest or abilities. They will also learn to use the same critical and generative lens on their own writing. Close reading, then, is vital to developing the skills necessary for revision.

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On the topic of “re-vision,” Slevin argues university teachers and staff must consider college not as something entirely separate and novel to students (“higher education” that is more important and apart from what lies below), but as “tertiary education,” a part of the educational continuum. Students must be invited to bring themselves fully into the classroom, building on (which means describing, elucidating, and critically examining) the work that happened in and out of the classroom during their pre, primary, and secondary schooling. (Child development theorist Luis Moll coined the term “funds of knowledge” in the 1990s to key teachers into the rich resources of experience and knowledge that students bring with them to the class, urging teachers to move from a deficit-based attitude to a strengths-based one.) Furthermore, the college teacher must also understand that the designation of “remedial,” and general feedback and grading students have received thus far, effect their confidence in their abilities. (Mike Rose reminds us of this, helpfully invoking Mina Shaunessy’s charge that teachers should work to understand “the intelligence of the student’s mistake” (Rose 172).) There is a danger of discrimination and marginalization that “remedial” students face, which teachers (and all staff who interact with students) must be attuned to. It is imperative that teachers treat students with respect, and help restore their dignity and confidence in themselves by taking seriously their writing, thinking, and concerns.

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In fact, Slevin argues that all teaching of first-year college courses should be seen as remedial; after all, students must learn new sets of vocabulary, forms of inquiry and composition, and academic expectations. They will likely be asked to do this again and again throughout their lives, and if the first year writing course can dramatize this process and offer students tools to navigate murky and unknown territories, then it can fulfill its ethical duty. I teach because classroom work offers the possibility to form engaged participants in meaning-formation, and by helping students explore how they might utilize power, I can help form the kind of world I hope to live in.

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Click here to see a complete works cited. 

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A note on this particular context

 

While I strive to implement the above teaching philosophy any time I am in a teaching role, each particular classroom is its own "rhetorical situation"—its own unique context with specific features which shape the learning. Because of this, I work to take into account each context as I craft my approach to the class. The particular context in which I taught this course was at a nearby jail (as part of a university-jail partnership to support the academic growth of incarcerated students).  

  

How did this shape my teaching approach? Students had been accepted into this college-level program, and so they had all completed high school or a GED program. Many had not been to school in a long time, and most had not taken any college courses before, so I strove to make visible and explicit the process of approaching texts, assignments, and class discussions. I shared the daily objectives and larger arc of the course with students. I highlighted key concepts, and returned to them. I offered different writing situations (low-stakes in-class writing, low-stakes out of class writing, higher-stakes assignments) and we practiced strategies for approaching this. We spoke about the difference between “raw” and “cooked” writing (by which I mean more free-flowing, brainstorm-like writing and more carefully crafted writing pieces) and the necessity for both.

 

The students were all adults (ranging from age 18 to mid-60s) and came to class with many different kinds of life experiences. Most read avidly, some wrote frequently. They had applied and been accepted to this selective jail-college partnership, and so they had a pretty high level of buy-in to the process. As per best practices in adult education, I offered ample opportunities for students to draw on their own life experiences and expertise. I selected some of the readings to reflect general trends in the class—most students had grown up in cities, so I tried to offer authors from D.C. and texts that related to urban life. When I could find texts written by incarcerated writers, or that dealt with incarceration, that could help achieve the pedagogical objectives, I included them in course readings. In general, I gave students several different texts for each reading assignment and usually allowed them to choose which text to write about so that they could work with texts which felt appropriately interesting and challenging to them. With the range of readings, I tried to offer what I consider to be important, well-known foundational texts along with lesser-read, but equally relevant, texts. I wanted them to feel they could participate in academic discourse and be familiar with oft-referenced texts, and also to recognize that much worthy and important writing does not get mainstream attention.

 

I also took into account that many had experienced trauma, and were currently living in harsh and traumatic realities. When giving texts that dealt with difficult and potentially triggering themes, I let students know beforehand, tried to make clear why I chose particular pieces, and facilitated conversations on why it might be useful to read hard texts. I made out of class assignments quite detailed, and sometimes offered extensions, so that those who may not be able to be present (physically or mentally) in any given class could approach the material on their own when they could. 

 

Because carceral facilities have rigid logistical rules and complex administrative practices, many students came late, were picked up early, or did not come at all for several classes. Because of this, I gave copies of lesson plans and detailed assignments to students each class to share with those who were absent so that they could see what we had done and catch up. I also gave thorough, detailed feedback to each assignment they handed in so that I could respond to each student's individual needs and progress. It was often difficult to build directly from one class to another due to absences, so I tried to make each lesson as self-contained as possible, such that with just a bit of scaffolding, students who missed previous classes could still participate in the majority of class activities. In the lesson plans on this site, you will notice that we frequently read poetry in class. Because poems can be read in their entirety in a short period of time, they offer rich opportunities to explore text and encounter concepts that they could then apply to other texts, and can be somewhat self-contained.