Writing Leftovers

Usually when I’m revising, there’s a stage at which I realize I have to cut some stuff, either because it’s kind of tangential to the focus of a paper or because the draft has gotten too long. The writing I have to cut might be just a sentence or a paragraph or two; occasionally it’s multiple pages of text. It can be painful to just delete writing that I spent hours working on, that I think explores some good ideas, or that I just really like how I said it. So about halfway through my Master’s program, I quit deleting stuff I liked from my drafts. Instead, I save it for later.

I am not sure exactly how I arrived at the “freezer” metaphor. Maybe it was because I had recently been reading Plato’s Gorgias, in which Socrates compares rhetoric to “cookery,” and maybe it’s because as a grad student who liked to cook, I always ended up with a lot of leftovers. In any case, I created a folder named “FREEZER” on my cloud drive. It’s got a bunch of files with leftover writing that I’ve cut from various projects over the years. I try to label the files well enough to remember more or less what’s inside them, but some are labeled better than others.

Partial screenshot of a file folder labeled "FREEZER"
in all caps, with several MS Word files inside

My "leftover writing freezer" comes in handy in two situations: first, if I am searching for a new project to get started, I can look through the freezer for inspiration. For example, two of the files in the screenshot above have text I cut from other work because it needed to be its own project; I just haven't had the chance to get back to them yet. Second, sometimes when I am working on a project, I realize I’ve already written something related. I open up my “freezer,” pull out some of the contents, warm them up through revision, and use them. Having "leftover writing" can help me avoid writer's block. 

On the other hand, some of the stuff in my “freezer” is probably too old and stale to be usable anymore. Every once in a while, I open up that folder, check the contents, and decide whether or not to throw anything out. Since file space is cheap these days, I rarely throw stuff out, but when I do it’s because I no longer feel bad about tossing it. Putting bits of my writing in the freezer instead of deleting them is an easy way to make my writing and revision process more effective and less painful.

Why All Grades Are Subjective

It's been quite a long time since I posted a blog entry. My life has been very busy with a full-time job, a dissertation to write, and a household to maintain. Today I'm going to share a reply I sent to a student email about why all grades are subjective.

Image Source: Alexander Russo. "This Week in Education: Cartoons: 'Climb That Tree.'" Scholastic. Accessed 24 April 2019. Note: The attribution of the above quote to Albert Einstein is almost certainly false. See its entry on Quote Investigator for more information on its probable origin.

For context, Monday was the first day of BYU-Idaho's Spring semester. As usual, we went over the syllabus, and as I explained my somewhat heterodox grading policy (which I implemented in part to address the challenges of subjectivity and grade disputes), I declared that grades have nothing at all to do with learning, and that all grades, not just English grades, are subjective. At this point, I paused. I told them that one of my grad school professors, James Paul Gee, often says that "Academics is an evidence game," which means that when we make claims, we provide reasons and evidence to support our claims, and in so doing, we subject our judgment to scrutiny. However, there was insufficient time at that juncture for me to provide evidence to support my claim that all grades are subjective. I said if any of them would like me to do so, they could email me, and I would be happy to oblige. One student did (the first to take me up on my offer in three years, hurrah!). Below, I copy my reply:

Dear Student,

I'm so glad you asked!  

All grades are subjective because teachers (or administrators, or state and national standards boards) have to make choices about what to measure, how to measure it, how to weight each thing they are measuring, and so on. Let’s take math as an example.

Most people consider math to be the least subjective of all academic disciplines, because, at least at the level of arithmetic and simple algebra, it is clear whether a student got the answer correct or not—whether their final calculation “adds up.” However, math teachers still have to decide whether to grade solely on whether students calculated the correct result, or whether to include the student’s process of calculating their result. In other words, they have to consider whether students should get partial credit depending on how well their calculations demonstrate that they are grasping the concepts, even if they make errors along the way and ultimately may not get the correct result. If teachers decide to grade on both process and result, they have to decide how to weigh process vs. result in determining a score.

One problem with grading based only on getting the correct result is that any student with a calculator and an understanding of how to use it can get a correct result, even if they do not understand the underlying mathematical principles. If we only care about whether students can use calculators correctly, then why teach math at all? The reason is because we need people who understand mathematical principles in order to conceptualize and solve difficult quantitative problems that machines cannot do all by themselves—we need mathematicians who can think holistically and creatively. That requires that we measure process—but standardized tests, which measure outcome, do not measure process. In fact, if you ask a professional mathematician whether process matters less than, as much as, or more than outcome, I guarantee they will say that process matters as much as or more than outcome. Some ways of formulating a calculation are better, “more elegant” than others, even when they both get the same result. Thus process matters, and expert judgment, which is to some degree always subjective, is required to evaluate students’ answers to set problems. But as any builder or engineer can tell you, getting the right answer to a mathematical calculation matters a great deal! So we can't grade solely on process, either.

In creating exams, teachers have to decide not only what sorts of problems to set, and in what form (i.e. written out, multiple choice, etc.), but also how to weight different kinds of questions. They have to decide how to prioritize the importance of different mathematical concepts in determining how well students are demonstrating learning the core objectives of the class. They have to decide what those objectives are. They have to decide whether to “curve” their grades or not. Furthermore, even when a test and its scores are “standardized,” the teaching itself may not be. Different teachers will naturally emphasize different aspects of a standardized curriculum, and will be better at teaching some concepts than others. That will likely affect student outcomes on standardized tests—so then, how much are the tests measuring student outcomes vs. teacher performance? This is one (misguided) reason why some national school standards programs have tried to penalize teachers when their students underperform on standardized tests. But that, too, is problematic, because teachers control very, very little of what our students come into our classes with and take away from our classes.

So let’s consider some aspects of the student half of the equation. Going back to the question of results vs. process, some students start out “ahead” of others. The students at the top may make very few gains over the course of a semester—in other words, they did not learn much. In contrast, students closer to the bottom may make lots of progress. Yet if grades are based on outcome, the students who started out ahead and learned little would get an A, while the students who started near the bottom and learned much might still only manage a C. On the other hand, if we measure process, then the student who learned the most but still has a poorer grasp of the subject would get an A, and the student who learned little but has a better grasp of the subject would get a C. That also seems unfair, doesn’t it? Would it be fair to measure both process and outcome, and give both students a B? I don’t know—that’s why it’s subjective.

But wait, there’s more! Evidence demonstrates that students who get a good night’s sleep and eat a good breakfast before an exam will score much better than those who don’t. And students who experience greater stress in their environments tend to struggle more in school—it’s hard to stay focused on math when you’re worried about whether your older brother is going to get killed by someone just because they think he “looks suspicious,” or whether your unemployed dad will be drunk when you get home, or whether you mom will have managed to save enough money from being spent on alcohol to buy you and your siblings some fast food for dinner (because your electricity has been turned off and you have no way to cook meals at home). It’s hard to get enough sleep when you get woken up by the sounds of gunfire. It’s hard to stay focused when your stomach is gnawed with hunger because your parents can barely afford to provide one meal per day, and the hard classes you have to take are all scheduled before you get to eat your school lunch. And so on.

Thus, if a student who lives in a secure neighborhood, in a secure home, with parents who are financially secure enough to provide regular meals and other kinds of support gets an A on the exam, and a student who lives in a dangerous neighborhood, who has had to move three times already this year (changing schools along the way), who sleeps on a mat on the floor in an apartment with thin walls through which she can hear the neighbors fighting until well after midnight, and whose mom is working three jobs just to make ends meet and cannot afford to provide breakfast gets a C on that same standardized exam—does that really reflect the academic merit of each student? If a teacher takes such obstacles into account, though, then those grades are obviously subjective. They are tailored by the expert judgment of a particular teacher about the needs, circumstances, strengths, and growth of a particular student. If the teacher does not take any of these environmental factors into account (perhaps even relying on a blind grading mechanism to ensure they don’t know which exam was marked by which student), then the grade appears more objective, but as I said: it measures outcome, not learning; and that is itself a subjective judgment call about what matters.

All of these factors influence the subjectivity of grades. Nevertheless, we must have a way to measure students’ learning and their grasp of core concepts. We must have a way to give them feedback about their progress. Administrators and school officials like grades because, as numbers, they seem objective. Furthermore, they’re easy to add up and track over time (which is advantageous to teachers as well as administrators and school boards). They’re scalable in a way that more specific written feedback is not. These administrators and school officials rarely stop to ask what those letters and numbers mean—what they are actually measuring. Learning is far more complex than can be measured by any set of numbers, let alone a cumulative course grade or GPA.

And speaking of GPA, let’s talk about the way it’s calculated. Here’s a standard* grading scale:

Percent Grade	Letter Grade	4.0 Scale
97-100	A+	4.0
93-96	A	4.0
90-92	A-	3.7
87-89	B+	3.3
83-86	B	3.0
80-82	B-	2.7
77-79	C+	2.3
73-76	C	2.0
70-72	C-	1.7
67-69	D+	1.3
65-66	D	1.0
Below 65	E/F	0.0

Scores for all graded assignments are totaled up (using weighted algorithms that vary from one class to another) into a final percentage, which is then converted into a letter grade. This reduces the complexity of the data, because it’s the letter grade that gets converted into a GPA. Note that in some cases, a difference of only 1% on a final grade (a score of 89% vs. 90%) results in a loss of .4 points in the calculated GPA—the same as a difference of 5% (an 87% vs. a 92%). The final grade and its attendant GPA tell us nothing about the relative difficulty of the class, what specifically the student actually learned and can implement outside the context of a regimented classroom, or how much progress they made from the beginning of the class to the end. It’s just a letter. It’s just a number.

Anyway, that’s why all grades are subjective.

Sincerely,

Sister Robinson

*Note that I said a standard grading scale, not the standard grading scales. There are variations from one school, academic department, and even one course to another. 

This is my new Betta, Irving Braxiatel. He earns an A+ in Being A Fish. This is the only grade that is completely objective.

A Vocabulary (and History) Lesson

I teach college English--writing, mostly. Because it's college English, I almost never spend any direct instruction time on vocabulary. My students do develop their vocabulary in my classes, but mostly by doing a lot of reading and writing.

I do have one vocabulary lesson, however, which I will give if they ask and aren't satisfied with "read a lot; write a lot." It is this: learn affixes. Affixes are the bits we stick at the beginnings and ends of words to modify their meaning--in other words, prefixes and suffixes. If you learn affixes, your vocabulary increases logarithmically.

The word I most often use to illustrate affixes is "antidisestablismentarianism." Not only does it use a lot of affixes, it's also recognizable and generally regarded as a bit silly, which makes the lesson more memorable.

So I write the word on the board and ask my students to help me break it down. First, we identify the root ("establish") and note that it is a verb. Then we work our way outwards, identifying the affixes and their meanings, until they can successfully decode the word. I'll give you a moment now to try it yourself; the answer is after the break.

Image: A stack of LEGO blocks with the parts of the word
"antidisestablishmentarianism" written on them. CC0 Public Domain.

The World Doesn't End This Week

Yesterday, we spent some time in each of my classes talking about voting rights in Idaho. My students were surprised and happy to learn that they can register to vote at the polls on the day of the election in Idaho.

Today, one of my students mentioned that she wanted to vote, but was nervous to go to the polls alone because she's never voted before. In fact for most of my students, this is the first time they have been eligible to vote--what an initiation! Although I voted early, weeks ago, I offered to go to the polls at 5 PM with this student, if she wanted moral support; she said she might. Then I extended the offer to any of my students. I offered to give them a ride, or to meet them there tonight.

When I arrived as the sun was going down and the temperature was dropping, I saw a line stretching out of city hall, down the sidewalk, and around the corner. It was growing by the minute as more young people arrived, having finished with classes and work for the day, eager to participate, many for the first time, in this great experiment called democracy.

My nervous student wasn't there; I hope she found another friend to go with her. I did see a few of my other students, and we waved at each other and chatted cheerfully for a few minutes as they waited patiently in line. One of my students told me she wasn't too nervous about the election, but mostly excited. She was happy to be exercising her civil rights and responsibilities. As we chatted, I overheard another student, not one of mine, say to his friends that even though he knows his vote won't make a difference here because Idaho's electoral votes are going to go to Trump anyway, there was no way he was going to miss the chance to participate in this election. He believes his vote matters, even if it doesn't ultimately change the outcome. Everywhere I looked, I saw the same passionate hope, and I felt so proud.

I see approximately eleventy-dozen headlines a year for articles about how Millennials are disengaged, ignorant, lazy, entitled, selfish, irresponsible, losers. It's infuriating, because as a college professor I work with Millennials every day. I have taught nearly a thousand students at four universities, in four different states. The young people I saw waiting in line to vote tonight are not exceptional, except to the degree that their entire generation is. They are enthusiastic. They are engaged. They are resilient. They are compassionate. They work hard, many working 20 or more hours per week while maintaining full-time enrollment and still having to take on debt to pay for their education. Some of them have been military veterans; others are preparing to serve in the armed forces. They are, on the whole, pragmatic yet still hopeful, even in the face of obstacles that would crush some previous generations.

That is why I am confident that regardless of the outcome of this election, this week is not the beginning of the end of the world or this country. We can keep on screwing up America for the next four years, even the next eight, and as long as we don't actually manage to burn it to the ground, America will eventually be OK. The future is, ultimately, in the hands of these Millennials, and that's a great thing.

UPDATE, written at about 2am. Shared on Facebook, want to share it here too.

I managed to tear myself away from poll-watching for a few hours, but had to check one more time before trying again to sleep. All evening I have been praying for grace. Grace in my heart, to not give in to anger and to have compassion for my political adversaries, some of whom I love as family. Grace for this nation, that we may survive the outcome of this election and recommit ourselves to liberty and justice for all. Grace for a world engulfed in uncertainty, violence, and oppression, but searching for light and mercy, that God's light and mercy will shine brighter than the darkness through each of us.

America, I'm not breaking up with you, but I'm really terribly disappointed, not just in your choices tonight but in the past 16 months. We have to do better.

To all my friends who feel unsafe and alienated tonight because of the policies Trump has proposed, I love you. You are not alone and all is not lost. I will stand up for you, for liberty, and for justice.

To all my friends who voted 3rd party: this election was insanely close, and a lot of people are going to blame you for the outcome, and maybe you will second-guess yourselves, but I don't. You faced a difficult choice and followed your conscience. I wish the race had gone differently. I wish McMullin had won Utah. I wish your wish for real change had worked. Keep fighting for what you believe. We need idealists as well as pragmatists.

To all my friends who voted for Trump: I'm upset, but I'm not going to blame you. I am going to call on you now to be better than your candidate. You say you voted not for racism, misogyny, fearmongering, ableism, and authoritarianism, but rather for SCOTUS judges who will uphold the constitution, to protect religious freedom, to increase economic security, and to protect us from extremism. Now you must prove that you really believe it by pressing congress to prevent your guy from carrying out his worst campaign promises.

To the rest of the free world, on behalf of my country, I'm sorry. We let you down. I hope there are enough of us sickened by this election that we will do better next time. I believe there will be a next time.

Now the words of St. Francis' prayer comes to mind: Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is injury, pardon. Where there is darkness, light. Where there is sadness, joy! Oh divine Master, grant that I may not seek to be consoled but to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, and it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

National Day on Writing

My photo of an ASU student. CC-BY 2.0

The National Council of Teachers of English created the National Day on Writing, "on the premise that writing is critical to literacy but needs greater attention and celebration." NDOW is celebrated yearly, on October 20th, and while I was serving as an assistant director of ASU Writing Programs, I had the privilege of organizing last year's celebration on the Tempe campus. Along with several colleagues, we planned to have members of our campus community share their responses to #WhyIWrite both on social media and on colorful origami squares. Over 200 people created squares for our quilts on October 20, 2015.

Photo by Bruce Matsunaga for ASU Department of English. CC-BY 2.0

The day's activities were cut short by rain, and we had to wait for the paper to dry out before our project's next phase. On October 31st, as Professors Shirley Rose and Maureen Daly Goggin chaired the annual Feminisms and Rhetorics conference on our campus, we began assembling these origami squares into "paper quilts," which we put on display near our Writing Programs offices.

My photo. CC-BY 2.0

As I sorted through these squares, selecting which ones to place in each quilt, I was profoundly moved again and again by the variety, thoughtfulness, and intimacy of responses. Many students wrote about using writing to learn, or to satisfy teacher expectations. But many more participants wrote about writing for self-expression, keeping in touch with loved ones, and preserving stories and traditions.

When I invited one university employee to share a reason why he writes, he regretfully told me that he doesn't really write--he is an accountant and only writes expense reports for his job. Well, that is writing! I told him. That kind of writing, which often doesn't get recognized as writing, is just as important as the kinds of writing we more readily recognize. I was grateful that he chose to make a square for our quilt.

Photo by Bruce Matsunaga for ASU Department of English. CC-BY 2.0

I was surprised by how many participants shared that writing helps them maintain their mental health. Sometimes, students wrote about how they use writing to create a better future for themselves and for others. A student who wrote "I write because 62 million girls don't have that chance" provided a sobering reminder that writing is a gift and a privilege not shared by everyone. That is why I am so proud to participate in the National Day on Writing. Through this celebration, we bring visibility to the importance of literacy and writing for everyone, regardless of their background, current circumstances, or plans for the future.

This cause is close to my heart. I invite you to celebrate National Day on Writing with me by sharing your responses to the theme of #WhyIWrite in the comments below and all over social media today.

Photo by Bruce Matsunaga for ASU Department of English. CC-BY 2.0 

My photo of Susan. Do not share without permission.

On Memes: A Linguistic Complaint

Yes, I'm aware of the irony. I EAT IRONY FOR BREAKFAST (it helps with my mild anemia).

I'm a linguistic descriptivist and not a prescriptivist, which means that I'm more interested in studying and describing how language is used by various groups and how it changes over time than I am in enforcing language "rules." However, there is one linguistic development that especially saddens me, and it is the narrowing of the usage of the word "meme" to almost exclusively mean "image macro." It's as if people had started using "technology" to only mean "smartphone" (please nobody point out to me that some people already do that).

According to those who coined the word and further developed the concept, a meme is, very simply put, an idea that acts like a virus, getting stuck in your head and spreading from person to person. Some ideas are more contagious than others.

Religions are memes. So are fashion trends, manners, jokes, selfies, mass shootings, genres, and linguistic innovations. An image macro is a picture with text superimposed on it. As a genre, the image macro is an extremely effective meme. It has nearly taken over Tumblr, for instance, and every six months Mormons on social media are subjected to a massive outbreak of the image macro meme, largely via the #LDSconf hashtag (hashtags are also a meme, btw).

Why does it matter that people call "image macros" simply "memes," when they are really a kind of meme? Because the concept of memes, properly understood, is so useful, and it's useful to have a word we can use to discuss it. If, when I say "meme," all you think of is a picture of a grumpy cat with the word "NO" on it in impact font, it makes it harder to have a conversation about why some ideas are stickier than others.

Alas, the idea of ideas as viruses is apparently less sticky than the idea of pictures with pithy phrases on them. I have little hope that the original meaning of "meme" can be reclaimed.

Writing Metaphors

One of my favorite teaching activities for the first day of class is to have students write a metaphor or simile for their writing, or for themselves as writers. Lately I've also had students add an image that represents their metaphor. The activity is a way to introduce some concepts and practice some technical skills right off the bat, but more importantly, it's a quick way for me to get some insight into how my students think about writing.

Here is the example that I made tonight:

Old-School Revision

Experienced writers know that the hardest part of writing isn't putting words on the page: it's revision. It's massaging and coaxing and wrestling and chiseling texts into the proper shape, the proper texture. I've been working on this article for a really, really long time. It's now in its 9th major revision, and it's 30 pages long, and last week, I realized that the bottom half of it needed some serious reorganizing. So I fell back on an old-school revision activity: the literal cut and paste.

It works like this. You take a printed copy of your paper (or in my case, thankfully, only half of it), and some scissors and glue, and you cut it into paragraphs. The glue is for pasting together the parts of paragraphs that span multiple pages. After your paper has been chopped into its component paragraphs, you mix them up and you find a large surface and you lay them out in your new order (this activity can be an interesting peer response technique too, if you let someone else rearrange them for you. Among other things, when somebody else tries to put your paper back together in the right order, you really start to get a sense of how important transitions are). Here's what my reassembled text-puzzle looked like:

Each column is a different subheading (though actually that first column contains two subheadings (one is transitional), and the remaining four are all sub-subheadings). The paragraphs with larger space between them are primarily transitional or meta-textual. The paragraphs on their sides didn't fit conceptually very well; that's my way of visually representing that they need to be heavily reworked or deleted (one of them was deleted, along with a bunch of bits of other paragraphs; the other three were reworked).

Using this method, I was able to get a birds-eye view or map of how my paper needed to be organized, which made my digital cutting & pasting much easier to manage. Of course I didn't exactly follow the map in the end. Reorganizing so many paragraphs required a lot of line-level revising too, and that in turn created alternate (and better, I think) organizational possibilities for the several paragraphs. It also gave me a better visual sense of how my sections were balanced than merely scrolling through a .doc could. And it offered me a fresh perspective on the text overall. After 9 revisions I was really having trouble seeing the trees for the forest; physically handling each paragraph individually was eye-opening.

I'm a proud tech nerd, but I have to admit that sometimes, low-tech solutions work better.

Now if only I could think of a better title, and a better conclusion for that beast.

Observe, Think, Write, Reflect, Repeat. Not Necessarily in That Order.

I finished my first round of conferences with my ENG 215 students this week. Their first project is what we might call a "demi discourse analysis" of a scholarly and a popular source on the same topic. It's time-consuming but I like giving feedback in conferences a lot more than I like just collecting drafts, writing feedback all over them, and handing them back. It was an especially fascinating, exciting, and exhausting three days for me, as it's the first time I've taught this project and I was both nervous and eager to see, in my students' drafts, what they'd learned in the past few weeks about discourse analysis and, though their analyses, about the discourses of the fields they're majoring in. As usual, when I talk with my students about what they're writing and why, I learn a lot not only about my own teaching, but about their prior writing experiences.

Here's one thing I noticed:

A lot of my students focused at least in part on "credibility markers" as a significant discourse feature. Most of them reduced "credibility markers" to "citations" and many proceeded to not only describe the type and frequency of citations, but to make evaluative claims about the trustworthiness of the sources based solely on that. What I inferred from this: we tout peer reviewed sources as the "gold standard" for academic writing in FYC, and our students have bought into it heavily, and mostly uncritically. This is a problem.

I am pleased to say, however, that some of my students did hesitantly, haltingly, apologetically push back against their own parroting of this narrow FYC-induced view of credibility, which opened up a neat learning space for us to think and talk about how we construct credibility in a more nuanced way. In the future when I assign some version of this project, I'll be sure to spend class time exploring this before drafts are due.

Another (related) thing I noticed:

It's genuinely hard for my students to describe discourse features without also passing judgment on them--regardless of how often I've pushed back against the idea that any particular discourse feature or convention is objectively, universally better or worse than another. I'm not sure if this is because of prior academic writing instruction (I suspect so, at least in part, but I think it might also be a cognitive development thing; as Andrea Lunsford said at an IHR seminar I attended last week, composition studies needs to pay more attention to neuroscience) but it seems to me that in teaching "critical thinking" we might be putting a little too much emphasis on the "critical" and not enough on the "thinking"--and definitely not enough on observing--an essential part of the process that is totally elided by the term itself. I'm reminded of Samuel Scudder's classic essay, "Learning to See." Are we so concerned with teaching our students how to write arguments (that is, to make claims and support them with reasons and data) that we're neglecting to teach them to really, really look at the data, and to think about it deeply, before deciding what to say about it?

These problems are, of course, partly the result of the absurd impossibility of having to teach "college-level writing" to a couple of dozen students in sixteen weeks or less. No curriculum is going to be able to do it all, and even if we could strike a perfect balance in a given semester, we can't necessarily control what skills and concepts and notions about writing our students carry with them once they leave us behind.

OK, two more things, really quick:

Thesis statements often have to be revised, sometimes significantly, after a draft is written. This surprises and troubles my students, until I tell them it always works that way for me, too. We don't just write to report what we think. We write to learn what we think.

Writing a conclusion is hard. Really, really hard. And no formula or procedure I've ever heard or ever given has ever actually worked at all consistently. There are as many ways to write a conclusion as there are papers. Possibly more. If you think I'm wrong--if you have a foolproof method for writing conclusions, please, please share it. I will thank you and so will my students. And so will our readers.

Image Source: ASU Writing Programs. Tag, you're it!

Episteme, Techne, Phronesis (AcWriMo Update)

Having a schedule of specific times for writing every day is helping, though I missed Tuesday entirely, had to bump my writing time to later in the day on Monday because of a doctor's appointment, and seriously overslept on Friday. It is challenging to change from a habit of fitting my writing time around everything else in my life, to fitting everything else around my writing time. Still, other than Tuesday I did spend at least 2 hours writing, or doing writing-related reading every day this week, and as a result I have written 1300 more words for my first portfolio paper--not even remotely close to my goal, but progress nonetheless. I have also written about 3700 words of annotations for the books and articles I read this week. The balance of writing should really have been be the other way around, but at least my extensive annotations will help me when it comes time to study for my comprehensive exams.

One of the things I'm trying to do with my revision is to construct a new theoretical framework from which to make sense of my data, and in fact to make new sense of the entire project. When I say "make new sense," I mean that it already makes a kind of sense. I know what happened, and even a good deal about the chain of cause and effect that led to the point I'm at now--the point of having a mess of data that I need to write something meaningful about. I'm not exaggerating when I say mess, by the way. It's such a mess that I've spent the better part of the past five months in a cyclical pattern of anger, anxiety, and avoidance over what to do with it. This, my colleagues and advisor assure me, is not uncommon and does not mean I am a total failure as a researcher. So they say.

To make new sense of my research means to go from merely knowing what happened, to constructing particular meaning from it, meaning that will be recognized as meaningful by the community of scholars I'm trying to join. To do that, I needed a theory, grounded in the discipline, which would not only help me interpret the data but also the ultimately quite haphazard method by which it was obtained. To find it, I went all the way back to Aristotle, mainly by way of Janet Atwill and Joseph Dunne.

The ancient Greeks loved knowledge, and they loved to classify and systematize absolutely everything--including knowledge itself. They recognized, and had words for, many kinds of knowledge: nous meant first principles, which must be apprehended since they cannot be derived from observation or logic; episteme, or theoretical knowledge, is logically demonstrable truth; sophia is the power of both apprehending first principles and demonstrating theoretical knowledge; phronesis is practical knowledge, or the virtue of wise action; and techne is productive knowledge--that is, the power of rational creation, or of knowing how to intervene in specific cases in order to bring about a desired end. Whereas episteme is universal, techne and phronesis are particular, and whereas phronesis constitutes a mode of being, techne is about accomplishing specific ends. Though there is some ambiguity about the boundaries (and even the legitimacy) of some of these definitions of knowledge, the ancient Greeks as well as modern theorists generally agree that rhetoric is a type of techne. Atwill, however, gives an account of rhetoric that seems closer to phronesis. Even Dunne admits that the distinction between the two is ambiguous; his whole book is a project of teasing out the difference.

Anyway, the problem I had with my portfolio paper is that I wanted my research project to yield episteme. I wanted to be able to construct a rational account connecting my data to universal principles as unambiguously as possible. It couldn't possibly have worked--not only because I am such an amateur when it comes to designing and conducting such a study, but because the subject itself is one of particulars and not of universals. What I need--and what I ought to be seeking, is not theoretical but practical or productive knowledge, a rational but highly flexible way to deal with inherently messy and largely uncontrollable situations, ideally in order to increase the likelihood of bringing about specific ends. In order to be a techne, that way has to be teachable: it can't just work once, or only for me. As Charles Bazerman explains, "We consider theories successful when we do better with their guidance than without, when we accomplish more of what we wish when following their accounts than when following any or no other account. When considered this way, theories can be seen as heuristics for action" (103). Really though, I'm not sure that what I have--an application of Kenneth Burke's "comic frame"--amounts to a techne, or is more a type of phronesis. In any case such a heuristic would not only help me make sense of the data at hand but also make sense of the larger process of doing this research and writing project--and, I hope, future projects.

If you've actually read this far, congratulations! You're a giant nerd. Here's a cookie. 

...What's that? Aristotle ate your cookie! What a jerk. No, no, it totally wasn't me. It was Aristotle. Check out that guilty look on his face! Well, you know what they say about gifs bearing Greeks.

Source of images: Wikimedia commons.

Jock the TA Octopus

My friends and I have been grading a lot lately. It's that time of the semester. Reading students' papers can be very interesting and rewarding, but it also (as I think most teachers would agree) frequently tends to be a frustrating experience, when it's not simply mind-numbing. Often, we fantasize about ways to make grading easier. Tonight, an exchange about grading between fellow Comp instructors on Facebook somehow led us to imagine sea slugs writing papers, and thence (naturally) to the idea of an octopus TA. 

It's actually not that far-fetched. I recently read some articles about octopus intelligence. They use tools, play, solve puzzles, are amazing escape artists, can crawl around on land, and have awesome camouflage skills. Then Abby shared this little article about Jock, an octopus in Scotland who has taken to cleaning his own tank. Feeling that an intelligent cephalopod like Jock might be interested in switching from janitorial to clerical work, in a moment of stress-relieving silliness, I invented Jock the Octopus TA. Below, I share some of Jock's recent assessments of student writing. Also, apparently octopuses refer to themselves in the third person. They are solitary creatures who evolved at the bottom of the ocean; their brains are not like our brains. Don't question it.

"Jock says your source is invalid. Try JSTOR next time. Jock loves peer-reviewed articles almost as much as he loves rearranging his tank furniture to be more feng shui." 

"Jock wishes to use this paragraph to scrub the scum off the side of his tank." 

"Jock is not interested in how comprehensive sex education is the solution to the failure of our entire educational infrastructure. He thinks you should write a paper about cephalopods' right to privacy." 

"QUOTING ACTUAL SCHOLARS! Jock approves."

"Jock finds your mastery of academic style over substance simultaneously impressive and depressing." 

"Jock is intrigued by your thesis statement, but finds your argument's credibility hampered by poor paragraph organization and weak source attribution."

 image source: dailyvisits.co.uk

 When Jock is not grading papers or cleaning his tank, he practices playing his bagpipes. He and Paul II, a German octopus guitarist, are hoping to start an international Octopus band. Paul II's predecessor was allegedly psychic, but Paul II is an empiricist and doesn't believe in such pseudoscientific nonsense. Inspired by his high-achieving bandmate, Paul II thinks he may have a future in academia as well--perhaps as a research assistant.