"Standardized Testing"

They take a poem

and dehydrate it of meaning,

mutilate its stanzas,

until it is cold

and formulaic

and plain

and smells like rubbing alcohol--

until it has been sufficiently

sterilized of

color

beauty

and really, contemplation.

It is now ready for the dissection.

 The poem is cut,

sliced,

massacred

into multiple choice questions.

Let the thought-dissolving

anxiety-causing

assessments begin.

The future of education

at the mercy of standardization

DO NOT WRITE OUTSIDE THIS BOX.

-R.Jackson, 2 Cor.4:7

Can I Be Wrong in English Class?

Yes, you can be wrong in English class. I did not always think this way. I used to consider (and I think the opinion is still held) that English class is a place to talk about feelings and poetry and deep things. “Thank goodness English class is nothing like math,” I would always say. “Thank goodness there aren’t any equations to be solved.” I am still relieved English is different from math. My brain is not wired for calculus. The answers in English are more complex.

The coursework in the English degree is different from the coursework we see in the Engineering degree, or in the Biomedical Sciences degree. Academic disciplines differ from one another because they’re answering different questions. I had an English professor who helped me to see this. I was struggling to compose a Chaucer research paper; I felt uncertain of my ideas because I could not find evidence that would satisfy me. My professor explained that the information I had was sufficient evidence to support my reading of the text. He said, in pursing more information, I was stepping outside my obligation for research.

“English majors are not engineers,” he explained to me. “We’re answering questions of theory and interpretation. Engineers, however, have to be exact. They have to know things such as, ‘Will this bridge I designed hold up under tons of weight?’ But we are proving a possible reading of a text.” The student in English polishes a lens through which to examine a piece of writing.

Yet it remains I can be wrong in my interpretation--I can be incorrect in my reading of a text. This is where ideas about “close reading” surface. We have to answer, “What does it appear this author is trying to say?” Close reading is digging into a text, examining each sentence, each word, and holding on to the idea that the author had intention in selecting the words he selected.

Close reading is not happening in a classroom where a teacher explains, “This poem means whatever you want it to mean.” My feelings about a poem are often not in sync with the author’s intended meaning. That’s why I’ve got to examine the words on the page.

Can I be wrong in English class? You bet. For an example, see the disgraceful paper I wrote in eleventh grade about my feelings and guesses about what T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” could possibly mean.

Something to Share for a Writer’s Workshop with my Students

          A writer is drawn to an essay presenting a list of “don’ts” for the fellow pen holder. Ezra Pound’s “A Retrospect” speaks to renovations in poetry-writing. He provides a list of “cautions.” I have seen this type of essay before. In my second semester in college, I read a few George Orwell essays. I give Orwell’s “Politics and the English Language” (1946) immense credit for drastically revising my writing style. I include one portion of Orwell’s essay here:

“When you think of something abstract you are more inclined to use words from the start, and unless you make a conscious effort to prevent it, the existing dialect will come rushing in and do the job for you, at the expense of blurring or even changing your meaning. Probably it is better to put off using words as long as possible and get one's meaning as clear as one can through pictures and sensations. Afterward one can choose -- not simply accept -- the phrases that will best cover the meaning, and then switch round and decide what impressions one's words are likely to make on another person. This last effort of the mind cuts out all stale or mixed images, all prefabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and humbug and vagueness generally. But one can often be in doubt about the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on when instinct fails. I think the following rules will cover most cases:
(i) Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
(ii) Never us a long word where a short one will do.
(iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
(iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active.
(v) Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
(vi) Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.”

          Orwell exposed much of the vagueness in my own writing. I had to re-wire the “composing” part of my brain. I realized I must be intentional and active and resolved to be clear in speech.  I realized the goal of “clarity” is much sooner reached when a writer thinks in pictures first, and words second. How often does writing resort to over-used, vague, tired phrases! In my tutoring sessions at the University Writing Center, I often instruct students to eliminate vague, unhelpful expressions and to write in active voice. Often, students are afraid to cut words out, terrified to make sentences short—but this makes for crisp, clear, sharp writing.

          Pound writes before Orwell, yet both aspire to list “cautions” for the fellow writer. I note that both authors lament many of the same troubles in writing, though Orwell speaks to prose and Pound to poetry. Pound urges an “economy of words”: “Use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something.”  Orwell echoes: “If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.” I had a poetry professor spend a portion of class time discussing Pound’s warning: “Go in fear of abstractions.” Both authors call fellow writers to paint concrete images, and to avoid churning out abstract expressions that give readers no picture that sticks to the insides of their brains.  Yet this is more work, both authors admit. This is what makes a writer’s craft.

          One observation about Pound is that he does not aim to be accessible to all readers. He writes for the expert, for the educated, bilingual reader. He does not make any point to emphasize his goal in writing is clarity.  His purposes and cautions for writers differ, as he addressing the composition of verse. For me, verse is difficult. I feel very safe in prose. I have room to breathe, room to work, room to expand an idea. Prose and poetry rely on different tools, and I’m not sure my hands have grasped the tools of poetry-writing. A section of Pound’s essay uncovers what is often a problem in my poetry, and shows me there is much more about the art I have yet to discover. Pound writes:

 “Don’t make each line stop dead at the end, and then begin every next line with a heave. Let the beginning of the next line catch the rise of the rhythm wave…There is…in the best verse a sort of residue of sound which remains in the ear of the hearer and acts more or less as an organ base.”

In poetry, I know I’m guilty of stopping dead-end in lines and beginning again with a heave.

Pound calls attention to the sound quality of poetry—it is a component just as much as the words on the page! English majors know this, that the line breaks are a means to an end. They are what produce (or help to produce) the “rhythm wave.” I would like very much to achieve what Pound calls a “residue of sound which remains in the ear of the hearer.” How does one become conscious of this in writing? Achieving an “organ base” sounds much more artful and effective than rhyming.

To conclude on a short note, Pound (and Orwell) give advice that, when taken seriously, drastically revives the way a person is used to writing. But I must confess I don’t understand Pound’s poetry. I need an interpreter.        

Attention is a Battle in the Digital-Age Classroom, and, Thoughts on Deleting My Facebook Account

I would like to echo many current authors in saying that literacy is under a lot of strain. Or rather, the digital age dissolves literacy.

It is the age of Sparknotes, and nobody wants to turn any pages. Reading requires stamina, and technology interrupts this. Also, I am suspicious of technology, particularly as it pertains to new forms of cyber communication. I had a professor equate Facebook to Orwell’s “Big Brother”; except, he explained, “It’s not the government who’s watching us. We’re watching each other.”

We can have three crucial misconceptions about social networking. One, that it has no effect on the depth and health of our relationships; two, that it has no effect on our perspective of ourselves; and three, that no outside organization is observing us.

I had been turning the idea over in my mind to delete my Facebook account. I wonder what would happen if I deactivated my account. I’m sure I would become keenly aware of how much time I had wasted. I’m also sure I would feel more content—no longer comparing my life to someone else’s via profile surfing.

Social networks, though an extension of off-line interaction, separate us and invite us to portray idealized personas of ourselves. Deactivating my Facebook account would also make me call people, or better yet, speak to them in person.

I have noticed my participation in the Facebook network has correspondingly inflated my ego. If I deactivated my account, I am convinced an idol would be removed in my life, that idol being myself. Deactivating a tool in which I can gaze at myself and proclaim my excellent daily activities and portray all I think and desire and hope for can only help me overcome the tendency to bow down and worship myself. It would also cure my false depiction of reality. Pride and an inflated ego are forms of non-reality: I and no one else truly sees myself the way my pride does. Deactivating such a tool can only help in developing Christ-like humility.

It is the Age of Information, and correspondingly, it is the Age of Me. It is the Age of worshiping myself. It is the Age of portraying myself with all my technological savvyness: nothing is out of my reach or impossible for me.

(Does your skin not crawl at this? Does your stomach not churn? Yet we must admit this is the tone of all our current advertising.)

It is also incorrect to think no one is observing in the realm of social networks. If you care to know more, please read “You are the Ad.”

Text messages and status updates bombard the air frequencies of our students’ minds, even in the classroom. Attention is a battle. Deactivating my Facebook account is almost a protest: a quiet, peaceful protest to constant and overwhelming stimulation.

Hallelujah to a life of simplicity.

**"You Are The Ad"
http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=aph&AN=61481061&site=ehost-live

A Brief Autobiography of a Writer

 

            Where do I write? Certainly not at a desk, or at a stiff table. I write sitting on a couch, usually in my pajamas. There’s always room for improvement. Where am I in my growth as a writer? How many inches have I progressed?  Well, at this point, I am just fine if you tear apart my paper and call it garbage. I am now able to realize and admit in public if it is garbage. Writing is no longer my identity nor my security; it is merely something I enjoy. I want to grow as a writer. I want to better appreciate other writers—especially other writers who are also classmates. I would not use the word “afraid”—no, I am more so “apprehensive” about the idea of grading student writing. I need to learn how to perceive someone else’s writing level, and begin revision tutoring there. Some students feel nauseous about the idea of an essay assignment. I need to meet these students where they are, instead of leaping onto their papers and re-wording everything so that it sounds like something I would write. A fear specifically about writing I have is that I will not always say what I mean. Embellishment may seem necessary, but I prize genuineness more. I do not want to become so desperate for a sharply turned phrase that I make something up.

            Without question other authors have shaped my writing. I have noticed something: I begin to write like who I read. I always enjoyed books, but I did not begin to absorb them until I was a teenager. The first author I remember enjoying was Garrison Keillor. He wrote short stories about growing up in Minnesota, and I adored his combination of humor and deep reflection. He thought in poetic terms, but wrote in prose. I picked up his technique of using fragments to make an idea sharp and funny. My writing also drastically changed when I began to read George Orwell as a freshman in college. Orwell’s essay, “Politics and the English Language,” addresses the basics of what makes writing excellent. Orwell’s advice exposed vague, dull, overused expressions and imagery in my work, and encouraged me to start with fresh ingredients. He implores writers to visualize their thoughts and then choose the words that best match that picture. He also instructs writers to use as few words as possible. More recently my writing mimics the work of C.S Lewis. His writing is philosophical yet practical; he even manages an English accent on page. I can practically quote his book Mere Christianity. Donald Miller is another writer who has shaped my writing: I look to his writing and Lewis’ writing and I am encouraged to be vocal in my writing about my relationship with God.  

             

            

Why the Components of Discourse in the Academic Setting are Ineffective in Producing Cognitive Stimulation (or, "Why Academic Writing is no Good")

As I have tried to show, modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug. The attraction of this way of writing is that it is easy.

--George Orwell, "Politics and the English Language," 1946

It’s funny that vague, large, multi-syllabic academic terms are prized as sophisticated. It’s funny that these terms are elevated above the ordinary, vivid, concrete terms of plain speech. When you really think about it, it’s harder to write in plain, concrete terms. It requires more effort of the writer to capture the images in his mind on paper—and will we not admit that writing one can see is more clear? Such writing is easier to understand.

And yet concrete language is looked down upon in academic composition. However, I am convinced a writer ceases to be conscious if he churns out some of the mechanical sentences I’ve seen in textbooks and academic writing.

Now this is really something to take into consideration. What counts as good writing? Is it not writing that is clear? Writing that is sharp? Vivid? Of course writing must adjust to do a certain job, such as prove a thesis or explain a new software. But in all contexts, wouldn’t you say that good writing actually makes sense?  And yet we do not draw this conclusion if academic writing or textbook writing is our sample.

In the case of academic writing, it appears that prized writing does not really say anything at all. It does not spark the brain cells, but rather lulls them to sleep. It rather seeps into the mind and eventually begins to rule readers’ vocabulary so that they no longer know what they are saying either.

These are for fellow English teachers

Thus begins my blog posts about teaching high school English, and about writing in general.

I am being a typical English person and creating a theme for my postings. The theme of choice is the infuence of George Orwell's work on my own writing and reading.