At the risk of sounding like a banal teacher with an insubstantial comment, I really liked the Connors and Lunsford piece.
As someone who used to write dozens and dozens of methodological studies in my former life as an operations manager (i.e., "Exploring the Filler Error Rate in Two-Part Order Picking" [translated: how often an employee fills an order for a jar and forgets the lid], riveting, I know...), I have come to admire well-written essays in the "hypothesize, test, review, summarize, comment" format. Of course, often the best of these essays are on topics that are fresh and innovative even when the topic might seem dull and lofty. Such is the case here.
Connors and Lunsford attempt to capture the seeming uncapturable in teacher response and their excitement toward the topic is palpable. Together with their "champions of the proletariat" (450), the authors show us something new--albeit scary-- about the state of teacher response. The authors cite a 1981 study that concluded that "the news from the classroom is not good" (449). I am afraid the news in 1989, a likely today, isn't much better.
Now for the negative feedback.
I won't recite all the statistics that surprised me (and largely surprised Connors and Lunsford as well). But one number surprised me the most, and it surprised me in a different way than it surprised the authors. ONE teacher out of 3,000 typed up a response that was in excess of 250 words. ONE. UNO. .000333.
250 words is one-half page, single spaced. It takes no more than 15 -20 minutes to type up such a reponse if the content is clear in one's mind. Obviously Gerriets and Lowe (article from P in C about having a discussion about student papers in dialogic letter format) didn't send their papers to the panel for review. (Although the teachers that did were self-selected, so they probably didn't think their meager efforts laughable!)
Indeed, Connor and Lunsford explain how few teachers took time to write substantive global comments (only 5% had > 100 word responses). But they also seem surprised at the time Professor Overachiever took writing his 250 words. They write, "at the same time we admired this teacher's work and care, however, we also wondered, as one reader put it, 'When does this guy ever sleep?'" Is it that inconceivable that this time and energy would be put into 250 words? Perhaps this insomniac has a class of 100 students in a lecture hall and not the luxury of our 25 student utopia. But still? Once you've read a student's paper (assuming you've actually read it), doesn't it take mere minutes to write one's thoughts at the end? Doesn't not doing so sort of spit at the concept of the importance of writing? I hope that time has changed some of this behavior in the classroom. Maybe folks back then were too preoccupied with Milli Vanelli, or tight rolling their pants, or Game Boy to comment much.
I must have been really lucky to have the teachers I had. Some of the teacher responses in this
essay are as pointed as the made-up comments we shared with each other a couple of weeks ago. I am sure you thought so as well.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Errorville-- the way in and out.
Lees' article follows directly from Williams' article we read on Monday, and carries its assumptions further, in a more theoretical context. Williams had pointed out that errors should not be located as ensuing directly from the writer, but from the intersection of the reader, the text, the writer, the rules prescribed in the handbook. Lees argues that the intersection itself should be placed in a sociolinguistic context for a richer understanding of error. As she rightly indicates, citing Williams: "Most of the epithets Williams cites-terms such as vulgarity, oaf, idiot, and simple illiteracy-refer more directly to behavers than behaviors; they are assertions of social location, not statements pinpointing effects of actions." (223). Instead of judging whether this practice should be be done away with (the article historicizing the remedial student's failures as traditionally seen to be personal comes to mind), she gives a neater framewrok to this social context by proposing we see these errors as being made across 'interpretive communities', drawing from Stanley Fish. This idea, whereas it does enhance understanding of the error-making process, does little to tackle the problem head-on.
On the other hand, Brian Huot's short article forwards some practical advice on how to teach students to proofread their own work. Like Lindsay, I also liked his first idea of making the students writing it out. We all know that feeling of queasiness we face going back to school after a hiatus, however brief or prolonged. The first sentence on the page you write while taking notes during class after a long summer break always comes out a little hesitant; one almost has to coax it out. But once this initial episode of writer's cramp is out of the way, it becomes easier with each new sentence. To respond with correctness should also prove effective, because often, even if the student does not know what a dangling modifier might mean, s/he will identify the 'error' if consistently confronted with the correct alternative. This actually ties in with the next point Huot makes. I would like to believe that students not only have a highly developed notion of oral language, they also have a notion of written language as well, although it might not be as highly developed as the former (would it not be impossible to read at all otherwise?).
On the other hand, Brian Huot's short article forwards some practical advice on how to teach students to proofread their own work. Like Lindsay, I also liked his first idea of making the students writing it out. We all know that feeling of queasiness we face going back to school after a hiatus, however brief or prolonged. The first sentence on the page you write while taking notes during class after a long summer break always comes out a little hesitant; one almost has to coax it out. But once this initial episode of writer's cramp is out of the way, it becomes easier with each new sentence. To respond with correctness should also prove effective, because often, even if the student does not know what a dangling modifier might mean, s/he will identify the 'error' if consistently confronted with the correct alternative. This actually ties in with the next point Huot makes. I would like to believe that students not only have a highly developed notion of oral language, they also have a notion of written language as well, although it might not be as highly developed as the former (would it not be impossible to read at all otherwise?).
Underground grammarians, beware
In her response to Williams’ piece, Lees writes, “If we are to claim that error resides ‘in writers’ at all, then, we’ll have to claim it’s there in a special way, as something other than error, as a thing that achieves its identity as ‘error’ by being read - interpreted - by someone else” (p. 219). Lees notes that Williams places error “at an intersection of text, reader, handbook, and writer”; it seems that interpretation of a text (and thus, interpretation of error) is reliant on all four of those things (p. 218). Interpretation, as the result of the ‘intersection’ of text, reader, handbook, and writer, is, as Lees argues, is an action “carried out within a cultural group” (p. 220). Knowing this, as well as understanding the social nature of writing, it is clear that Lee is right when she argues, “in the social economy of error, the error-maker is the injured party” (p. 223).
The important point being that we, as writing teachers, need to be aware of the effects our proofreading and revision practices have on our students. As Huot notes, “no other aspect of learning to write is as stressful and debilitating for students and teachers” than proofreading and editing (p. 221). In order to positive ways of proofreading and editing, Huot argues that we need to “recall the pervasiveness of errors in published texts to understand what a complex task it is to ask students to produce several errorless papers in a single semester” (p. 221). It’s ridiculous to ask my students to do something in one semester that I haven’t been able to do yet (i.e. produce a piece of writing that is “error-free”).
One of Huot’s suggestions, having students write regularly, is probably something I’ll do next semester. I keep finding great ideas in the readings we’ve done in this class, but I realize that I need to include activities that I’ll be able to achieve in my first semester as a teacher. I don’t want to overwhelm myself and my students with activities that I’m uncomfortable with, and that might create more hassle than learning. I’ll include those activities a little bit at a time over my teaching career, and then try to see what works best.
Anyway, by having students write regularly, they will be engaging in writing practice for practice. Practice makes perfect, apparently, and while I’m not looking for perfection, there is definitely merit in repetitive practice. And, as Huot notes, any writing problems students have at the onset of the semester will work themselves out eventually through practice.
Lees writes, “Errors, then, are departures from textual convention that have the power to embarrass authors by calling into question their social identities” (p. 226). This is why I’m always nervous when I turn in an assignment or final draft; I always assume there’s something wrong that I haven’t noticed, and thus will result in a low grade. The domino effect of this on my future is part of my anxiety in this situation, and therefore I can only imagine what first-year students feel when they turn in a piece of writing. Any problems with student writing that I actually point out will BE IN CONTEXT with the larger meaning involved in the piece. I’m going to be aware of my assumptions and expectations, and try to accommodate for those when I read student work.
The important point being that we, as writing teachers, need to be aware of the effects our proofreading and revision practices have on our students. As Huot notes, “no other aspect of learning to write is as stressful and debilitating for students and teachers” than proofreading and editing (p. 221). In order to positive ways of proofreading and editing, Huot argues that we need to “recall the pervasiveness of errors in published texts to understand what a complex task it is to ask students to produce several errorless papers in a single semester” (p. 221). It’s ridiculous to ask my students to do something in one semester that I haven’t been able to do yet (i.e. produce a piece of writing that is “error-free”).
One of Huot’s suggestions, having students write regularly, is probably something I’ll do next semester. I keep finding great ideas in the readings we’ve done in this class, but I realize that I need to include activities that I’ll be able to achieve in my first semester as a teacher. I don’t want to overwhelm myself and my students with activities that I’m uncomfortable with, and that might create more hassle than learning. I’ll include those activities a little bit at a time over my teaching career, and then try to see what works best.
Anyway, by having students write regularly, they will be engaging in writing practice for practice. Practice makes perfect, apparently, and while I’m not looking for perfection, there is definitely merit in repetitive practice. And, as Huot notes, any writing problems students have at the onset of the semester will work themselves out eventually through practice.
Lees writes, “Errors, then, are departures from textual convention that have the power to embarrass authors by calling into question their social identities” (p. 226). This is why I’m always nervous when I turn in an assignment or final draft; I always assume there’s something wrong that I haven’t noticed, and thus will result in a low grade. The domino effect of this on my future is part of my anxiety in this situation, and therefore I can only imagine what first-year students feel when they turn in a piece of writing. Any problems with student writing that I actually point out will BE IN CONTEXT with the larger meaning involved in the piece. I’m going to be aware of my assumptions and expectations, and try to accommodate for those when I read student work.
Monday, November 10, 2008
grammar grammar grammar
After all of our grammar lessons for the week, and our discussion on Wednesday, I do feel that grammar seems to be something people latch on to and really judge your writing on. Joseph M. Williams seems to touch on this in his article. He talks about the different ways of reading a paper, one for content and one for typographical errors. As he points out you have two different frames of mind when you are looking for two very different things in a paper. I want to look for content in my students’ papers. I want my comments to be about the good or not so good directions they take their papers, not about the dangling modifiers they messed up on.
It’s funny, as Williams points out, that there seems to be one grammar rule we latch onto and drill people for. Mine is commas and coordinating conjunctions. The minute I see a FANBOY in a paper I read the sentence again to see if a comma is needed or not. As Williams points out, however, we each have our own little grammar nitch we use so you may have three people read a paper and find all different grammar mistakes they feel are the most important or take away from the paper itself. This grammar leach we all seem to choose comes along with Williams point that the errors begin on the page but are the error of a person who learned a grammar rule from a grammar handbook which was written by another human and was thus taught to the student by yet another person. With human involvement comes human error as Williams points out. No grammar handbook is going to be free of its own grammar errors, so why do we expect our students to be so in tune with grammar usage?
There are set grammar rules, yet they all seem to have modifications as Adam and I pointed out in class about the wonderful world that was “modified” Chicago style we used a few weeks ago when editing the Chaucer Review. Or the fact that, as my friend Matt was notorious for saying when I edited his papers “That’s a stylistic choice.” If we can modify grammar rules then isn’t everything really a stylistic choice? Why can some rules be modified and others can’t? I just used a contraction. Would Sohomjit’s teacher be crying right now? Let’s just say I’ve thoroughly contradicted and confused myself with grammar at the moment, so to even think I could address any of this to my students is comical to me.
It’s funny, as Williams points out, that there seems to be one grammar rule we latch onto and drill people for. Mine is commas and coordinating conjunctions. The minute I see a FANBOY in a paper I read the sentence again to see if a comma is needed or not. As Williams points out, however, we each have our own little grammar nitch we use so you may have three people read a paper and find all different grammar mistakes they feel are the most important or take away from the paper itself. This grammar leach we all seem to choose comes along with Williams point that the errors begin on the page but are the error of a person who learned a grammar rule from a grammar handbook which was written by another human and was thus taught to the student by yet another person. With human involvement comes human error as Williams points out. No grammar handbook is going to be free of its own grammar errors, so why do we expect our students to be so in tune with grammar usage?
There are set grammar rules, yet they all seem to have modifications as Adam and I pointed out in class about the wonderful world that was “modified” Chicago style we used a few weeks ago when editing the Chaucer Review. Or the fact that, as my friend Matt was notorious for saying when I edited his papers “That’s a stylistic choice.” If we can modify grammar rules then isn’t everything really a stylistic choice? Why can some rules be modified and others can’t? I just used a contraction. Would Sohomjit’s teacher be crying right now? Let’s just say I’ve thoroughly contradicted and confused myself with grammar at the moment, so to even think I could address any of this to my students is comical to me.
Grammar...I Love it Every Day
Our discussions of grammar and correctness last week and this week have given me much to think about. In truth, I was yet unsure of how I come down on the idea of grammar. In keeping with my own "theory of writing," I have to agree with most of the authors we've read, that no, grammar should not be the ultimate focus, or maybe even a focus of any kind, of a writing course. Now I'm sure that I feel that way. Yes, I can certainly sympthize with those of us who argue for the importance of grammar, and I do not think that it would be acceptable for a student paper to read (and I have heard this in a paper in a junior or senior level undergraduate literature course) "Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 didn't make no sense to me." Yes, this raises my grammatical hackles a bit, I must admit, but at the same time I don't see a lot of reason for going into "grammar tunnel vision" and failing the paper before even finishing reading it. As Lindsay says in her post on Williams: "There is awareness and then there is obsession." I couldn't possibly agree with her more.
One of the most striking things that I noticed in Williams was the discussion of grammatical errors that occur in grammatical handbooks (the "Word" of the grammarians that dictates our every utterance written or spoken) I think in light of this, and in not losing sight of the fact that language usage and the language system itself is not a particularly stable and timeless system (we can't forget Derrida's response to Saussure's discussion of the system of signs that we utilize in which the "center is not the center"). My "A Ha" moment occured as I read:
"Now again, it is not the error as such that I am concerned with here, but rather the fact that after Barzun stated the rule, and almost immediately violated it, no one noticed--not Barzun himself who must certainly have read the manuscript several times, not a colleague to whom he probably gave the manuscript before he sent it to the publisher, not the copy editor who worked over the manuscript, not the proof reader who read the galleys, not Barzun who probably read the galleys after them, apparently not even anyone in the reading public, since that which hasn't been corrected in any of the subsequent printings." (157)
If the writer of a grammar handbook and all of those listed above cannot recognize a certain grammatical rule and its violation, I do not see how anyone would want to hold a basic writer accountable for something of this caliber. I certainly wouldn't. To me, it almost seems that many of these grammar "rules" that can't be argued to not exist per se, can be argued to be basically defunct. If we do not speak or write, in an academic setting or otherwise, something like "Goeth the king forth this morning," I do not see any reason to preserve and reinforce a rule that says that the verb comes before the subject in good writing. Ok, so it did for Shakespeare, but I think we need to be realistic. I do not think this would fly at the bank, in personal correspondence, in academic writing, or anywhere else, but I can probably almost guarantee you can dig up a rule somewhere that says you should do this to be effective. I think basically Williams alerts us to the fact that there are countless grammar rules, some which impact our ability to communicate and some of which do not. We could certainly dig up grammar handbooks from the 18th or 19th century, but my question is "what does that have to do with the teaching of writing now?"
Again, let me emphasize, that I heartily recognize that errors exist that are probably not acceptable in freshman writing courses, and I do not advocate totally ignoring them. I do not, however, think that it's necessary to nit-pick every single error we discover just because it was written in a book somewhere sometime that it's wrong. I think it is important to consider the audience to which the writing is geared, the time period in which the writing is situated and the function you wish your writing to perform. Yes, there's a time and a place for an academic voice, as well as one for txt msg lingo, and that this is what is important to teach our students. I think above all else thus far that I've learned in this course and the beliefs that I've held toward writing prior to it point to the incredible importance of a writer being able to consider their audience and their purpose, not being able to diagram a sentence, recognize danging participles, split infinitives etc. I've studied all this stuff in the past, and I write (as we all know) on a pretty prolific scale by necessity, and I do not know if I could recognize every (barely any anymore) grammar atrocity I was once taught to recognize. I still manage to write my papers, do well on them and get my point across. I guess we all probably need to ask ourselves how important the more nit-picky grammar rules that still exist are to us, or if teaching our students to communicate clearly and think critically is more important. I think we will all face challenges in how class time will be utilized, and it will depend upon the students in the class and their needs, but I personally will not be wasting time teaching them about dangling constructions and the appropriate uses of cases that essentially do not even exist in this language anymore. I want to work with ideas. If I see something come up again and again for a student grammatically that detracts from what I am working to teach them or obstructs their purpose, we will talk about it and I will offer options and answer questions, but I will not force the entire class to read a grammar handbook.
Another really interesting thing about Williams' article is how he points out: "...if we read any text the way we read freshman essays, we will find many of the same kind of errors we routinely expect to find and therefore do find. But if we would read those student essays unreflexively, if we could make the ordinary kidn of contract with those texts that we make with other kinds of texts, then we could find many fewer errors" (159). Basically, if we set out on a mission to find every little thing in student papers, that is precisely what we will find. I do not see where this is particularly productive. Considering Barzun, his editors, etc etc. did not find his errors in his grammar handbook, I do not see why basic writers should be held to a grammatical standard that no one seems to recognize (or care) is being violated and that a grammarian himself cannot catch in his own work. I think this is asking too much for too little payoff. I do not see how it is helpful to expect perfection, especially when it comes to grammar. I think sometimes some teachers (those kinds of English teachers) get a little too caught up in error-hunting. I think this is Williams' point and I agree with it.
I hope I will not be accused of bringing on the destruction of Western civilization as we know it and the murder of the mother-tongue, because I do not think every possible error should be overlooked, and some things probably need to be addressed, but I don't think a dangling modifier should be treated with the gravity of a threat of nuclear holocaust and the end of human existence as we know it. I think we all know that if a grammarian can't notice certain grammar errors, that people like ourselves reading a scholarly journal such as CCC can pick out only a handful of one hundred consciously committed errors on a first read (all of these people who have studied the language on an advanced level), then I do not think our students will be in danger of a CEO of a company who went to school for Business, or even that Senior Vice President of a bank (who makes frequent appearances in our course) who went to school for Finance is likely to pick out these kinds of errors. I can't see where bothering with the kinds of errors that one would have to go on a texual expedition with the aid of three grammar handbooks just to locate would be a productive use of class time or a benefit to our students, now or in the future.
Well I guess this was a bit of a rant, but I do feel better having gotten it out of my system. Ain't nuttin' like gettin' that monkey offa yr back, are their? :)
One of the most striking things that I noticed in Williams was the discussion of grammatical errors that occur in grammatical handbooks (the "Word" of the grammarians that dictates our every utterance written or spoken
"Now again, it is not the error as such that I am concerned with here, but rather the fact that after Barzun stated the rule, and almost immediately violated it, no one noticed--not Barzun himself who must certainly have read the manuscript several times, not a colleague to whom he probably gave the manuscript before he sent it to the publisher, not the copy editor who worked over the manuscript, not the proof reader who read the galleys, not Barzun who probably read the galleys after them, apparently not even anyone in the reading public, since that which hasn't been corrected in any of the subsequent printings." (157)
If the writer of a grammar handbook and all of those listed above cannot recognize a certain grammatical rule and its violation, I do not see how anyone would want to hold a basic writer accountable for something of this caliber. I certainly wouldn't. To me, it almost seems that many of these grammar "rules" that can't be argued to not exist per se, can be argued to be basically defunct. If we do not speak or write, in an academic setting or otherwise, something like "Goeth the king forth this morning," I do not see any reason to preserve and reinforce a rule that says that the verb comes before the subject in good writing. Ok, so it did for Shakespeare, but I think we need to be realistic. I do not think this would fly at the bank, in personal correspondence, in academic writing, or anywhere else, but I can probably almost guarantee you can dig up a rule somewhere that says you should do this to be effective. I think basically Williams alerts us to the fact that there are countless grammar rules, some which impact our ability to communicate and some of which do not. We could certainly dig up grammar handbooks from the 18th or 19th century, but my question is "what does that have to do with the teaching of writing now?"
Again, let me emphasize, that I heartily recognize that errors exist that are probably not acceptable in freshman writing courses, and I do not advocate totally ignoring them. I do not, however, think that it's necessary to nit-pick every single error we discover just because it was written in a book somewhere sometime that it's wrong. I think it is important to consider the audience to which the writing is geared, the time period in which the writing is situated and the function you wish your writing to perform. Yes, there's a time and a place for an academic voice, as well as one for txt msg lingo, and that this is what is important to teach our students. I think above all else thus far that I've learned in this course and the beliefs that I've held toward writing prior to it point to the incredible importance of a writer being able to consider their audience and their purpose, not being able to diagram a sentence, recognize danging participles, split infinitives etc. I've studied all this stuff in the past, and I write (as we all know) on a pretty prolific scale by necessity, and I do not know if I could recognize every (barely any anymore) grammar atrocity I was once taught to recognize. I still manage to write my papers, do well on them and get my point across. I guess we all probably need to ask ourselves how important the more nit-picky grammar rules that still exist are to us, or if teaching our students to communicate clearly and think critically is more important. I think we will all face challenges in how class time will be utilized, and it will depend upon the students in the class and their needs, but I personally will not be wasting time teaching them about dangling constructions and the appropriate uses of cases that essentially do not even exist in this language anymore. I want to work with ideas. If I see something come up again and again for a student grammatically that detracts from what I am working to teach them or obstructs their purpose, we will talk about it and I will offer options and answer questions, but I will not force the entire class to read a grammar handbook.
Another really interesting thing about Williams' article is how he points out: "...if we read any text the way we read freshman essays, we will find many of the same kind of errors we routinely expect to find and therefore do find. But if we would read those student essays unreflexively, if we could make the ordinary kidn of contract with those texts that we make with other kinds of texts, then we could find many fewer errors" (159). Basically, if we set out on a mission to find every little thing in student papers, that is precisely what we will find. I do not see where this is particularly productive. Considering Barzun, his editors, etc etc. did not find his errors in his grammar handbook, I do not see why basic writers should be held to a grammatical standard that no one seems to recognize (or care) is being violated and that a grammarian himself cannot catch in his own work. I think this is asking too much for too little payoff. I do not see how it is helpful to expect perfection, especially when it comes to grammar. I think sometimes some teachers (those kinds of English teachers) get a little too caught up in error-hunting. I think this is Williams' point and I agree with it.
I hope I will not be accused of bringing on the destruction of Western civilization as we know it and the murder of the mother-tongue, because I do not think every possible error should be overlooked, and some things probably need to be addressed, but I don't think a dangling modifier should be treated with the gravity of a threat of nuclear holocaust and the end of human existence as we know it. I think we all know that if a grammarian can't notice certain grammar errors, that people like ourselves reading a scholarly journal such as CCC can pick out only a handful of one hundred consciously committed errors on a first read (all of these people who have studied the language on an advanced level), then I do not think our students will be in danger of a CEO of a company who went to school for Business, or even that Senior Vice President of a bank (who makes frequent appearances in our course) who went to school for Finance is likely to pick out these kinds of errors. I can't see where bothering with the kinds of errors that one would have to go on a texual expedition with the aid of three grammar handbooks just to locate would be a productive use of class time or a benefit to our students, now or in the future.
Well I guess this was a bit of a rant, but I do feel better having gotten it out of my system. Ain't nuttin' like gettin' that monkey offa yr back, are their? :)
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Musings on "the premature expiration of a pig"
Williams offered much wisdom in his text, but I think one of the most, dare I say it, profound examples is the following:
“In short, if we read any text the way we read freshman essays, we will find many of the same kind of errors we routinely expect to find and therefore do find. But if we could read those student essays unreflexively, if we could make the ordinary kind of contract with those texts that we make with other kinds of texts, then we could find many fewer errors” (p. 159).
There’s almost an inherent assumption when one does a peer response or other “revision” activity: I’m looking for errors and that is the importance of this activity. What Williams is arguing, is more akin to the following: We should read student essays with as much curiosity, enthusiasm, and openness as we do a published work. I found one “error” in Williams’ text: This sentence on p. 160: “The most obviousest set of rules be those whose violation we instantly notes, but whose observation we entirely ignore.” When he began to discuss the deliberate errors in the text, (“There are, incidentally, about 100 errors”), I was somewhat surprised and rather amused (p. 165).
His evil plan worked on me: I definitely did not notice many “errors” besides those in the above sentence. It goes to show, that when I read a piece of scholarly writing, I’m reading for content, for context, for meaning, and definitely not to find all surface errors possible. That’s not my reading style. I want to learn something, not find surface errors in a text’s structure. Likewise, that’s probably Williams’ reading style as well: “It is the difference between reading for typographical errors and reading for content. When we read for typos, letters constitute the field of attention; content becomes virtually inaccessible. When we read for content, semantic structures constitute the field of attention; letters - for the most part - recede from our consciousness” (p. 154).
The way in which we read student texts and the ways we read published texts (or other pieces of writing deemed “good”) seem to be drastically different. Perhaps this is because our role as the teacher leaves us feeling required to edit rather than actually imparting useful knowledge. Maybe we simply assume our students’ texts will be wrought with errors that must be corrected. Or, as Williams notes, “For all of us, obviously enough, error is in the essay, on the page, because that is where it physically exists. But of course, to be in the essay, it first has to be in the student. But before that, it has to be listed in a book somewhere” (p. 155). And his list goes on.
Last week, when we discussed issues of structure, grammar, style, etc., it was made clear that above all, we must be able to teach the importance of the context of language. One style of writing, of grammar, of language, is appropriate in one rhetorical situation, but not in another. Knowledge of how to navigate a myriad of rhetorical situations is key to writing and other forms of meaning-making.
What I’m saying, in a rather convoluted way, is that grammar, style, etc. are important things to consider because they give information about our language practices.
But...
They are not the most important aspect of a piece of writing. If they were, we’d be reading Strunk and White along with each scholarly essay required for class. I don’t want my students to sweat so much over grammar, style, and structure that they can’t even begin to construct a text that important to them as writers.
Williams’ text in a nutshell? There is awareness and then there is obsession. The following sentence encompasses the latter:
“Some who have read this far are undoubtedly ready to call up the underground grammarians to do one more battle against those who would rip out the Mother Tongue and tear down Civilized Western Values” (p. 164).
“In short, if we read any text the way we read freshman essays, we will find many of the same kind of errors we routinely expect to find and therefore do find. But if we could read those student essays unreflexively, if we could make the ordinary kind of contract with those texts that we make with other kinds of texts, then we could find many fewer errors” (p. 159).
There’s almost an inherent assumption when one does a peer response or other “revision” activity: I’m looking for errors and that is the importance of this activity. What Williams is arguing, is more akin to the following: We should read student essays with as much curiosity, enthusiasm, and openness as we do a published work. I found one “error” in Williams’ text: This sentence on p. 160: “The most obviousest set of rules be those whose violation we instantly notes, but whose observation we entirely ignore.” When he began to discuss the deliberate errors in the text, (“There are, incidentally, about 100 errors”), I was somewhat surprised and rather amused (p. 165).
His evil plan worked on me: I definitely did not notice many “errors” besides those in the above sentence. It goes to show, that when I read a piece of scholarly writing, I’m reading for content, for context, for meaning, and definitely not to find all surface errors possible. That’s not my reading style. I want to learn something, not find surface errors in a text’s structure. Likewise, that’s probably Williams’ reading style as well: “It is the difference between reading for typographical errors and reading for content. When we read for typos, letters constitute the field of attention; content becomes virtually inaccessible. When we read for content, semantic structures constitute the field of attention; letters - for the most part - recede from our consciousness” (p. 154).
The way in which we read student texts and the ways we read published texts (or other pieces of writing deemed “good”) seem to be drastically different. Perhaps this is because our role as the teacher leaves us feeling required to edit rather than actually imparting useful knowledge. Maybe we simply assume our students’ texts will be wrought with errors that must be corrected. Or, as Williams notes, “For all of us, obviously enough, error is in the essay, on the page, because that is where it physically exists. But of course, to be in the essay, it first has to be in the student. But before that, it has to be listed in a book somewhere” (p. 155). And his list goes on.
Last week, when we discussed issues of structure, grammar, style, etc., it was made clear that above all, we must be able to teach the importance of the context of language. One style of writing, of grammar, of language, is appropriate in one rhetorical situation, but not in another. Knowledge of how to navigate a myriad of rhetorical situations is key to writing and other forms of meaning-making.
What I’m saying, in a rather convoluted way, is that grammar, style, etc. are important things to consider because they give information about our language practices.
But...
They are not the most important aspect of a piece of writing. If they were, we’d be reading Strunk and White along with each scholarly essay required for class. I don’t want my students to sweat so much over grammar, style, and structure that they can’t even begin to construct a text that important to them as writers.
Williams’ text in a nutshell? There is awareness and then there is obsession. The following sentence encompasses the latter:
“Some who have read this far are undoubtedly ready to call up the underground grammarians to do one more battle against those who would rip out the Mother Tongue and tear down Civilized Western Values” (p. 164).
Notes from the the tone-deaf
When I was a freshman in college, I took "Intro to Music and Music Theory" with Professor Waples. A girl on my freshman hall, an accomplished violinist I later discovered, told me the class was basic but informative and I would learn some basics of music theory. So I took the class. I got a C-, my lowest grade by far and one that would keep me from graduating magna cum laude years later. I'm still a little bitter about it.
Looking back, although I didn't retain squat about music or music theory, I learned a lot about what it means to have "an ear" for something-- or not to have an ear, as it were.
Initially, the weekly tests in music theory consisted of the professor playing a basic scale and we had to name the notes. I read the text book and listened to the practice tapes, but outside that context, I could not name the difference between a C sharp or a B flat-- I could hear that it was a different sound, but I could not define it to save my life. I would freeze up and laboriously guess while my fellow students would jot down the answer and wait for the next note. Later in the semester, we were given 10 CDs of classical music-- Brahms, Bach, Chopin, etc.-- and during tests the professor played excerpts of their pieces, from both major and minor works. We had to "name the tune," the composer, and the year. I remember knowing Beethoven's 5th with some confidence. The rest sounded the same to me under the pressure of the test, even though I must have listened to those damn CDs 200 times. "This class is easy! Why can't you just listen to the music, Katie?" my classmates would say. But for the most part, they were music people and they had grown up listening to classical music and composing their own riffs for fun. I had no practice, no context, no interest, and no ear for it.
I can't draw a perfect parallel here, but when I think of students who struggle with grammar, I think of my C- in music theory. I have an ear for language. You have an ear for language. Williams has an ear for language. So when we, language lovers and knowers, distort the rules of the language or break the rules intentionally or unintentionally, who really cares? It's one thing to know language and mistakenly or jokingly botch a sentence, but it is another thing to have no ear for language, and I am not sure we, as language buffs, can completely understand what this is like. Seems like most of our errors are V+R-. When the great Orwell breaks a rule (and I think his errors in Williams' piece were very intentionally broken), is it even worth pointing out? I think Williams and I agree that we can't compare the Orwellian passive voice to the repetitive, unrelenting boring passive voice of Fred the Freshman. V+R+ man, V+R+. If I have a budding little Orwell in class, he can use the passive voice to his liking.
There are a 100 differences between the errors Williams inserts in this journal article and many of the errors we will see next year. Most notably, Williams knows he's breaking the rules. If my students want to split an infinitive for emphasis or style (oh, "to boldly go..."), they should go for it. BUT, I think I would rather have them know the rule and break it than never know the rule at all. Williams mentions the converse theory at the end of his article, "It simply feels more authentic when we condemn error and enforce a rule. And after all, what good is learning a rule if all we can do is obey it?" Seems to me that we have more flexibility with language if we know the rules and bend them than if we aren't aware of them at all. Many linguistic constructs like pun, metaphor, and poetry, rely on knowing language by sight and sound and ear.
But this is where I struggle. I think my grammar understanding is mostly by ear. I don't always know why a specific construct is wrong, but like Potter Stewart, I know it when I see it. I know from the torture of music theory that it is difficult to develop "an ear" at the age of 18+. Maybe even impossible. For the V+R+ students, we can hand out grammar books and ask them to memorize rote rules, but these devices will not replace an ear for language.
Williams' little game at the end of his piece is similar to what I remember of Beethoven's Fifth. The maestro inserts some sour chords, but clearly he has an ear for composition so we don't care about the rules he breaks. Then there is me, pounding out error-filled Chopsticks on a poorly tuned piano, hoping for a C-.
I pity the tone-deaf grammarians, and I hope I can help them or at least understand them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)