Grandma, Grammar, and Goofy Freshman

So it looks like I’m one of the last to post, but if you think reading all of yours has made it any easier, think again. Like Jackie, I have these little fears prickling the back of my neck, worries that needle and burrow inside my insecurities. After all, I AM a mere high school teacher of Freshman English. What right do I have to think profoundly about complex, idealistic theories of writing? Who am I to question the likes of Peter Elbow, Donald Murray, and Nancie Atwell? What makes me think that I could possibly have a viable opinion about process pedagogy?

Oh, wait…maybe…just a thought here…but is it possible…that precisely because I teach those goofy freshman how to put their ideas on paper that I might, that I could, and that I definitely should have something to say about these over-thought and often verbose writing theories?

So here goes…

First of all, let me say that I was impressed with Maxine Hairston’s explanation of a paradigm shift (Hairston 178). That phrase has always eluded me and much like my students, I usually skip over it in hopes that I will figure it out along the way (never happened until now). I liked the idea that a writing theory could have some basis in scientific theory. Take that science department!

But I digress…

Hairston goes on to explain how the “traditional paradigm did not grow out of research or experimentation” (Hairston 180). Instead it was born from the gods of classic rhetoric and literature scholarship. Great Zeus! Accordingly, this idea of composition features “…emphasis on the composed product rather than the composing process; the analysis of discourse into description, narration, exposition, and argument; the strong concern with usage…and with style; the preoccupation with the informal essay and research paper; and so on…” (Hairston 179) OMG! They could have take this straight out of the pages of my prescribed curriculum!

Now I know why the English office smells so moldy…

Without the fresh air of process pedagogy or some other “ogy” that I have yet to read about, that environment has gone stale and sour. The idea that students could actually have an original thought, could put it in writing without fear of rejection, could have an opportunity to talk about it, revise it, rewrite it, even fold it precisely and sail it out the window (provided I HAD a window) is certainly profound (and uncommom in my part of the world)

Let me tell you a little story: Once upon a time there was a beautiful, young teacher (this is my story, I can tell it the way I want) who desperately wanted to help her students become proficient writers, but try as she might with grammar worksheets and usage reminders and research projects, she failed. Many of the students were hopelessly stuck in the mire of boring topics, five-paragraph essays, and timed writing. Neither could they escape the quick sand of the teacher’s red pen. It was a disastrous road leading to failing grades and low ISTEP scores—and the principal wasn’t too happy either.

So on the advice of a friend, this beautiful, young teacher (work with me here) attended the Summer Institute for the Indiana Teachers of Writing Writing Project (ITWWP). Here she found the ideas she craved, the support she longed for, and the strength to stand in the gap for her student writers. Here she learned about the writing process, the freedom of ideas, the accountability of the peer group, and the art of revision.

She was revitalized. She had so many ideas that she had trouble sorting them out.
She was encouraged to research and investigate the works of experts in the field. She reshaped her own thoughts about teaching writing, grammar, poetry, vocab, and literature. Her lesson plans reflected this new found fire. And even though she based her ideas on the Indiana Standards, steeped her lessons in the best practices of research, she was (is) forced to let this fire simmer on the back burner of “what’s-always-been-done”.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I can’t tell you if process pedagogy is the best way to teach writing. I often find that anything in its purist form is usually so extreme that it dooms itself—but take this idea and temper it with what we, as a teachers of writing, already know works, and we just might have something. My grandma had a saying “Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.” It certainly applies here. If we throw out everything we know about teaching writing or anything else for that matter, for something brand spanking new, we often will lose what is best about the whole thing. Even Tobin agrees: “I devote most class time to workshops, group work, writing activities, and discussions of inventions and revision strategies. But I am no longer as rigid or as pure about teaching by not teaching. I have gone back to my earliest days reinserting some of my old minilessons…” (Tobin 16). So in other words, I agree with Laura, we shouldn’t get rid of the classics, we must get our kids prepared to write quickly and without revision, they must be able to respond to a given prompt, and we have to teach them how to write that 5-paragraph essay in order to facilitate success on those damned high stakes tests, but can’t we do both?

Can’t we expose kids to all kinds of text? Can’t we let them have some choice over topics so they feel some ownership? Can’t we show them that there other ways to synthesize research beyond the clip and stitch of expository papers? Can’t we teach them that there are alternatives to that five-paragraph essay? Tobin says we can and so do multitudes of incredibly intelligent teacher consultants of the National Writing Project.

“I am likely to ask my students to read a Nike ad alongside an essay by Orwell or Woolf…but no matter how much I draw on current –traditional rhetoric or postprocess theory, I still strive to keep my students’ evolving drafts and their sense of themselves as evolving writers a the very center of the course” (Tobin 16).

p.s. I never thought my grandma’s idiom would be useful in a graduate class, but I am continually impressed by what I don’t know.