DigitalPenny

When I first learned to cook, my father was always my tester. What I remember most about cooking for him was the anticipation of finding out whether he actually liked it; this took too long.

Once he had gotten hungry, he would walk into the kitchen and sit at the table. Then he'd say, "Baby, whacha cookin'?" I would answer, and then he'd say, "Let me try it." I'd fix (in AAVE, southern style, that means to prepare) a plate and sit it in front of him; then, he'd dig in.

One particular afternoon, I had prepared steak w/gravy and rice, along with some green beans. The rice was extremely mushy, and the steak had not cooked long enough. I had seen my mother smother (in AAVE, that means to cover with a lid) steak with onions and seasonings. Her steak would fall apart (in a good way) every time she fixed it. It would be so tender, you could sit your fork on it and with little or no effort on your part, the fork would slice the steak. Anyhow, that night, I had prepared dinner.

So, as my father began to fork the steak, he couldn't slice it. That was an indication of my first mistake. I hadn't let it cook long enough. He asked me for a steak knife after not being able to cut the meat. After some success, he popped it in his mouth, chewing very slowly, almost as if he were savouring the taste. But all the while, he had this strange look on his face. As naive as I was, I couldn't wait for him to tell me how much he enjoyed it. He only looked at me and smiled as he plowed through my dinner.

After he had cleaned his plate, leaving few food particles, he turned and said to me, "Baby, if you expect a man to marry you, you've gotta stay in the kitchen a lit' longer." And I replied, "So, did it taste good?" "The steak was kinda hard to get through," he replied, "but I'm still here."

Every time I think about this moment. I laugh out loud. Nowadays, I know that I'm not an elegant chef , but my family likes it whenever I cook, whatever I cook, and when friends drop by, I've been able to get an "mmmmm...good" every now and then. So, I'm doing something right.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 06:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last Tuesday, I sat in on a different WRT 205 course. Forgive me sinclaire, but it's been bothering me.

The class was held in the computer cluster 2nd floor, for those of you familiar with the layout.

When I arrived, about two minutes before class was to actually begin, the door was locked. As I walked amongst the students who had lined the walls, some sitting, a few standing, I guess they assumed that I had just come by to open the door. I didn't get the feeling that they were anticipating the sub to be a Black woman.

Of course, being my "timid", as I'm told, little self, I was at first a bit nervous. Nervous because this was not my group of students. Not because I couldn't handle the idea of telling them what to do for two minutes.

So, after opening the door, they thanked me, assuming that I would take my bags and leave. As I walked toward the front of the room, the background noise came to a halt. I placed my stuff on the table, and opened my folder to pull out my notes. Once I felt composed, I walked to the middle of the floor, introduced myself, turned and walked to the board and wrote my name. I walked back to the middle of the floor and said, "At the end of class you are supposed to turn in your writing." This was supposed to be a joke to remove some of the tension in the room, but it created more tension.

Anyhow, I explained the assignment as it had been written by the original instructor. The students said that they didn't understand what I was talking about. So, I wrote it on the board. Some of them still didn't understand. Those who understood started to talk to the students who didn't seem to have a clue. Eventually, they understood what to do. I assured them that I was there to help, if they needed anything; then I sat down. The assignment was a self-directed activity. I was okay with that.

A few of the students had questions, but managed to get their questions resolved at the tables where they sat. We hadn't been in class twenty minutes, and a few of the students packed their books and walked out. They never asked me whether they had any additional tasks to carry out. Soon after they left the room, a few more packed and walked out. Never saying anything. Eventually, there was one student left. Before he packed, he did ask whether class was over. I asked him whether he had any questions, his reply was no. So I told him to go ahead and leave.

I asked myself whether I had done anything wrong. Was I not direct enough? Had I explained the assignment incorrectly? Was I being devalued because I was a Black female? Was it because I was a female? Were the students just that inconsiderate because I was not making the final decision concerning their grade? Was their walking out their way of telling me I was one of the invisible entities in the room? Did this happen because I didn't walk around the room to find out whether they actually needed help? I don't know what the problem was, or if there was one at all.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 11:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I often read a bunch of different webs to try and catch up on the news.

Most reading concerning educational news is always of particular interest, especially when it involves K-12. It's important to me because I like to see how things have changed and are changing since I've moved beyond those grades. It's particularly important because of my children.

This semester I attempted to engage my WRT 205 students in the idea of cartooning. This was not an attempt to have them ponder and then write about how cartoons are created or generated, but to have them think critically about how cartoons have affected us, and to look at them from a universal stand point.

Recently I read drafts of some of their essays, and I found that they have analyzed these cartoons and discovered everything from discussions of race, sexuality, oppression, stereotypes, dysfunctions within the family, pornographic fetishes, and child abandonment to discussions about the mental attitude of the artist, especially after 9/11.

When we began this unit, the students were familiar with cartoons, especially political cartoons. They also understood that cartoons were "supposed" to be humorous. But after some sustained research, and their asking the right questions to complicate their initial ideas, they tell me that they will never look at cartoons from the same lens.

This takes me to the article that I read this morning. I'm really pleased that Nancy Grasmick, Maryland's superintendent of schools decided to institute a reading program where children in elementary and middle school read comics. Although the students in Maryland won't be reading as critically as my WRT 205 students, I'm sure that their reading will be fun.

With children living in what's now being termed a "visually stimulating environment", they often seem to have a difficult time learning to comprehend, even when they can read. I've often wondered if it's because the text is not interactive, meaning that the picture is either usually at the top or bottom of the page, and the text either falls above or below the picture.

I believe comics are more interactive than reading a regular text. Not only does the reader read words, which may be placed at the top or bottom of the graphic, but the words are colorful, in a variety of fonts, in bubbles, sometimes diagonal, splattered across the page; and they might be placed to the left or right of the graphic--it's non-linear reading! Aside from that, you have to be careful to follow the correct frame (and more than one might be on a page); otherwise, you might read the story out of order. More importantly, comics allow the reader to make connections in terms of the plot (what happens next), between characters, between the different storylines within the text itself. Similarly, the reader is able to mentally see him/herself within the story, either becoming one of the characters, or creating his/her own character. How wonderful!

I think this is a great way to get children reading. When my son began to read, it was always difficult to get him to read regular texts. But once I introduced him to comics, he's been an interested reader ever since. And, he now enjoys reading those linear texts too.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 02:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (3895)

When I was in sixth grade, I was member of the junior high marching band. Yep, sure was. Can't imagine myself doing something like that now. Well, after one of those great and wonderful events, we packed on the bus and left for home. On the way back, we stopped by McDonalds to grab a bite to eat. I was kinda excited because it was the first time that my mom had given me $20. Before she had always given me $5 or $10. Anyhow, I knew that I would have enough money to eat, and some to keep for later, when I would to go to the store and buy pickles, sour candy, and chips.

So the bus pulls into the school's driveway. I rush to get off because I wanted this boy to see me. On my way to the band room, I dropped a bag of trash into the large covered can just outside the door. Went in, put my horn up, called my mom, and rushed back out so that that boy would recognize me. He never knew I existed. By the time my mom had come to pick me up, I was dissappointed that he didn't even bother to say hello.

Got home, threw my change of clothes on my bed, and started to search my pockets for the money. Stupid me. I had forgotten that I had placed the money in the McDonald's bag for safe keeping. Yea, it was safe alright. In that big grey covered trash can right next to the band room.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 10:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Changing street names are okay, but as a society, we must first break down silos.

In my home town, years ago, the major road, which ran through my Black neighborhood was called Cooper Road. It had been named after a Negro renegade, “Boogaloo” Cooper, who prided himself on making changes for the good in my neighborhood. That major road held community and the Cooper name for as long as I can remember.

Then in the early 70s, the area was incorporated into the city limits. In the early 90s, someone decided to change the street name to Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive. Apparently, this change was supposed to transform how whites looked at the neighborhood. I guess changing the name must have been the "proper" and "upstanding" thing to do, especially since "the road" was now part of the city. But nothing changed.

The people remained the same; the neighborhood looked the same; all the streets were a rough drive, and had gaping potholes. What did change, however, was the main road. City workers pulled up and laid down a new concrete road, which meant higher taxes for some of the poorest people in the city.

And still today, some of the homes have been abandon, are decaying, and falling apart. Lived in homes look run down, and are not painted. Most front yards still have poor landscaping, or no landscaping at all, broken down cars sitting in them, and the sidewalks (places where there are sidewalks) are cracked, awaiting repair.

But you know what’s funny? When I meet people who’ve lived in that area, or are familiar with that area, they still reference the area as “The Cooper Road.” I wonder whether that will always remain.

Similarly, when we drive down the streets in major cities, amongst seeing names symbolizing people like Hugh Heffner, Ronald Regan, and Mark McGuire, we should also see names like W.E.B. Dubois, Denise McNair, and Thurgood Marshall, among other ethnic names. Today, when policy-makers use African American names as street labels, the names aren’t so much a guilt trip as they are a way of making the bold statement, “This person was important to you, but we don’t really recognize this. So just to save face, to keep the peace, and keep you off our backs, we’ll remind you of this person’s gallant efforts, by posting their name. Our only condition is that we post the sign in your neighborhood.” To me, this posting is two fold. First, when the street signs are posted in the poorest of areas, it’s like a public lynching. Second, it seems to serve as a reminder, especially for young Black children, that there is hope. As if these are the only symbols for hope in poor African American communities.

How many street signs, which are named after African Americans, have you found in yuppie white suburban middle-class neighborhoods? If you haven’t looked, go look. If you find one, let me know.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 08:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Terri Schiavo, a woman whose been diagnosed as brain dead, is living a dystopian life; no living person (her husband, her parents, doctors, lawyers, Floridia's lower court or supreme court judges, and now the U.S. House of Representative/Senate, or U.S. Supreme Court justices) can't even fathom what she is really going through, that is, if she can feel/imagine at all. Is she dead or alive? How much is this costing Floridians? How much is it costing U.S. tax payers?

BBC provides a time line of the case. Terri's Law, which allowed doctors to feed a person in a vegetative state was passed on 10/21/03 and ruled a violation of privacy on 9/23/04. They've taken her feeding tubes out and have reinserted them several times. Apparently, if she get's no food, she'll die peacefully, according to the experts. How do they know? They haven't experienced Terri's tribulation of terror.

This raises many questions about life, living, morals, values, beliefs, religious beliefs, privacy, incorporation of just laws, and more importantly, assisted suicide. Jack Kevorkian was sentenced to 10-25 years in prison. Yes, he assisted people who were in their right mind, presumably, and he used drugs to help ease their pain, which probably left them in a state of utopia.

What makes what Kevorkian did any different from what they want to do to Terri? As Dr. Fred Mirarchi, "assistant clinical professor of emergency medicine at Drexel University College of Medicine in Philadelphia" puts it, "The process of starving to death [or removing the feeding tubes] seems very barbaric but in actuality is very peaceful." So, assisting those who want to die by giving them drugs seems very barbaric, but in actuality, it is probably very peaceful for that person.

I say that if the U.S. Supreme Court rules that Terri's tubes be taken out, they should let Kevorkian out. I really don't see a difference; assisted suicide is assisted suicide no matter how you slice it.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 10:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

There's a feline that comes to my front door every night between 12:30-1:00 am. I have no idea what it looks like. I only know that it meows as if it's begging to come in. No matter how quiet I am when approaching the door, it's run off before I get a chance to look out the window. I'd hate to give it a name or even to feed it because I would feel somewhat responsible for it. I'm not at all as warm and giving as Schenectady Synecdoche.

So the other night, it left urine at the door. Is that a sign of hate?

What should I do? Any advice?

Posted by Digitalpenny at 10:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

So, this past weekend, I was telling my children about the book, Heaven turned movie, Flowers in the Attic, by V. C. Andrews. They cringed when I said that the children in the book referred to their grandmother as "The Grandmother".

I explained to them that the underlying theme was a child's love for his/her parent. This was exhibited by both the children and their mother. But it was a cruel and daunting tale that deserves a reread or a revisiting of the movie.

I told my children that they would have to read the book before seeing the movie. This will allow them to experience a real example of how books, which are transformed into movies never have the same look and feel. Woeful is the advid reader when beloved books are annihilated by those in search of a dollar.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 09:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When I think about it, I get angry. People look at me, and once they get past the color of my skin (which some can't get past), some of them, exhibit envy no matter how they size me.

I don't know whether it was the fact that my five year old told a person whom I recently employed to keep my kids that we don't like white people, or whether it was that look I received when I expressed that I really have conversations with my children--frank conversations, or whether it is the fact that I have a husband who loves and cherishes me. What made this person say to me, "I'm not going to keep your kids anymore; I'll get my mother to do it."? No honest reason, except the fact that "Your kids seem to perfer my mom." Maybe it was the timing, the social context, that person's ethos driving my misguided pathos--whatever the reason, the help that I thought I had is no longer valid. This is one of the problems that parents who have children under the age of 12 experience, in some cases constantly. My children are not "bad" nor do they misbehave unnecessarily. Yes, they argue amongst themselves, but that's what siblings do. Right?

Now when I was young and naive, my parents always said to me that I was no better than the next person, even if that person lived in a cardboard box. I've always lived with that thought. But just like you, I have standards. I'm not bowing down to anyone. And if I feel that my children aren't receiving an adequate education (an education better than I had), hell yes, if I can afford it, I'll put them in a school system that's going to prepare them to deal with the world that they will soon join.

I put my children before myself, in just about everything I do...clothes, shoes, food, becoming more educated. You know, I'm talking about the necessities in life. And yes, I am prejudice against certain things; like I said, I have standards. But no matter the color or nationality of a person, I disregard the visual until I've taken the time to get to know them.

Bad personality = ugly person.
Nice personality = beautiful person.

And I've come across some profusely U-G-L-Y people in my short existence. That's all I have to say on the matter.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 08:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

What do you do when you tell students to bring a draft of their essay to the next class meeting? They all say, "Okay." And you believe them because they are honest and good.

Well, this very thing happend in my class. When we met on Monday, I asked them to bring their essays to Wednesday's class so that they could provide each other feedback. They all said that they would, and I believed them.

There must have been a break in the lines of communication. I did say that there would be times when I would change the calendar. This was one of those times. It's like sometimes, I'm talking to walls. Is my voice so light that no one can hear me amongst the chairs that make loud noises when you move them? Did they not understand what I had articulated? This wasn't a difficult assignment. So what if the draft isn't due until Friday! You've been working on developing this essay for several weeks now, you should have something on paper.

I have learned an invaluable lesson. For the next assignment, I will have my students do some in-class writing. Afterall, this is a writing class. They should write in class. Yes, you veteran teachers, I've heard you say this, but it never registered until today. I'll do it! Okay. Happy?

So if students don't come to class prepared to work through whatever you have assigned, what do you do? Today, the students who were not prepared, I asked whether they needed me to help them get started on thier essays. I knew that they hadn't written anything. I spoke with a few of them one-to-one, and that was cool. I didn't tell them to leave class. They just sat there, heads down, looking around, silent.

I should have made them write a memo listing reasons why they didn't have a draft. But I didn't think of that. What's a writing teacher to do?

Posted by Digitalpenny at 08:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

See, my childhood and teenage years are loaded with moments that I wouldn't wish on anyone else. But despite that, I think that those expereinces are all lessons learned, even if some of them were learned the hard way. One of those moments that I'll never forget was when I was an intern at IBM in San Jose, 1991.

First off, I had never been so far away from home. My parents insisted that I didn't go, but I wanted the job experience, and I believed that it would be a great opportunity to see whether I would be able to survive on my own (without my parents, sisters, and brothers). College life had taught me patience and budgeting, but I hadn't really "learned" how to actually handle being kidnapped or the to handle idea of being kidnapped.

Well, after being there for a few weeks, one Saturday morning, I decided to be proactive by going in and doing some extra work that I had been assigned. As I walked along the concrete configuration of highway and sound barriers (which separated the neighbourhood from the ongoing traffic), I was reminded of blocks that separated the neighbourhoods in TX. Anyhow, as I walked, two joggers (male and female) passed me on the left, another male jogger approached from my rear, and a few cars passed by. But I kept walking.

A 1989, brown Chevy Impala passed me also. But as it passed, I heard the tires of a car making a hard turn or stop behind me. Suddenly, that brown Impala had pulled up against the curb and stopped. The door flung open, and a coarse voice said, "Get in!" I looked around for the joggers, and they were nowhere to be found. I looked for other traffic, and the one time that I wished a car would pass, there were none. It was as if, at very that moment, we were the only two people alive. I didn't stop walking. Apparently, that was upsetting to the man driving the car. He honked, and all I could think about was becoming one of the female statistics that I had been reading about in the newspapers.

I quickened my step, and then ran across the street, jumped a fence, and ended up in a vacant lot, where surely, if he had wanted to "get" me, he could. I thought to use my badge to open a door of the nearest building, but when I ran my badge through the scan device, the button didn't LED green. RED LED; no entry. Consciously, I was praying, and hoping that I would see my parents one last time. Visually, I could see the car turn down the street in an effort to get to the building where I had stopped.

My building (the one where I worked) was just across the way. If only I could make it there—-my badge would work. So, with books in hand, I ran. I was nervous, scared, alone, and shaking. When I got to my desk, I called my mom. Miles away, what could she do for me? It wasn't like she could stop by the building and pick me up. But I talked to her, and told her my story. After she had calmed me, I called security to let them know I was in the building.

I sat there for about three or four hours, terrified, wondering whether that car was in the parking lot. I was too nerved up to do any work, so I just sat there. Once I was able to breath, I called security to let them know I was about to leave the building. I hesitantly walked out the door and across the street to the bus stop. There was a woman sitting there; she was alone. I was glad to see her, even if I didn't know her. She smiled and nodded her head. I smiled back.

Once I had reached the house where I was renting a room, I explained everything to Evelyn, my Filipina landlord and friend. Fortunately, she worked at the company, and we worked the same hours. She never let me walk or take the bus again (anywhere). After that incident, she made my stay extremely pleasant--not that she hadn't before.

I don't know what happened to that guy or his car, but I'm blessed that I didn't end up a statistic.

Yes, this is a true story.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 07:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I haven't written about my 205 class in several days. They are a good group of students. And most of them show up only when there's an assignment due.

As I sit here this morning looking at (not reading) Piaget, I'm thinking about them. I had promised Ho Cheuk, Ho Chi, and Ashley feedback on their proposals yesterday, but I just didn't get around to them. I've had too many other things on my plate.

On somedays I think that I'm starting to lose focus. And somedays I feel like I'm not teaching at all; I'm just showing up.

On Friday, I talked with a few of my students after class. I'm really concerned that they don't clearly understand the assignment, and I'm concerned that they aren't picking up any writing skills. I just wish that they would ask for help instead of waiting until I've read the essay, and graded it. Why become disgruntled about the grade after the fact?

Students, a word of advice: When you have an instructor, who is as nice and flexible as I am, you should try and get your money's worth. That's why I'm here. Don't be afraid to approach me. Don't be afraid to ask questions in class. I used to be like that, and now I sometimes regret that I didn't ask. The saying that goes something like, "No question is a dumb question" is partially true. You know when the question you want to ask is inappropriate, irrelevant, or should be taken offline with the instructor. Right? And you also know that sometimes, you might have the same question that another student might be thinking. Right? Well just ask it! And I'll do my best to answer it, as I'm sure any teacher would. If that freaks you out, send me an email, and then ask your question.

Guess I'll go get a cup of coffee, and get back to doing my thang.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 10:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

So, I just left academom's blog, where she was complaining about cleaning. I need a maid, but can't afford one. Cleaning is not so bad when you get started. Right? But there are two things we should keep in mind: 1) we clean because we never know who's going to show up at our door, and 2) we clean because it's good for the soul.

When I first got married, my in-laws would show up at the drop of a dime. I was always cleaning something. Even when I was exhausted from working and cleaning up behind my son and my husband, I cleaned to impress my in-laws. This way, I thought, they'd know I was the best thing that had happened to their son since, he'd never met a woman of my calibre (brains and beauty). So one week, I didn’t feel like cleaning, and stuff sat around. The dishes weren’t clean; tuna cans were sitting on the cabinet; my son's reflux of sour milk had been cleaned with several towels that had been tossed in a corner; trash, toys, and clothes were piled on the floor. I had just refused to keep up the appearance. When my in-laws knocked on the door, you should have seen their faces. They walked into the apartment and were hesitant about sitting down. But they found a spot on the couch, which had a few laundered, unfolded clothes. As I watched them, they kinda looked at each other. But they sat there because they wanted time to visit their only grandchild. And once they had gotten a whiff of the empty tuna cans that were sitting on the kitchen cabinet, I could see the displeasure in their faces. To this day, neither of them will eat anything I cook. And I believe that I’m a great cook. I can’t cook everything, but I've learned from the best.

So, what does cleaning have to do with in-laws and cooking? I don’t know. Guess I just wrote what was on my mind.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I know that I'm supposed to be who I am...

but dat don't mean i have to be the calm cool one all the time. i'm so freaking tired. all i want to do is go to the bed, crawl in, and sleep...

I was supposed to write this yesterday, but i just couldn't finish. i had had too much beer (one bottle), and not enough sleep. my body was beginning to slow down.

i still have to read those student essays, piaget, and a bunch of other items that are on my list of things to do.

but today, i feel better and there's something new on the horizon. i can feel it. spring is just around the corner. as i looked through the window of the dentist office this afternoon, i could see the buds starting to appear on the trees. i also saw a huge cascading icicle to the left of my spectacular view of the outside. it was wonderful to sit for a moment and realize nature. i haven't done that in a long time. i used to sit for hours, in Louisiana, next to the creek that ran along a street near my parents home, staying quiet, listening to the birds chirp, and watching the birds and bugs frolic in their perpetual world.

ah, the thought of spring.

Posted by Digitalpenny at 06:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Connors, Robert J. Composition-Rhetoric: Backgrounds, Theory, and Pedagogy. U Pittsburgh P, 1997.

The “underclass” of women and part-timers still prevail, even today, and “most tenure-line faculty members…will continue to…avoid teaching writing” as much as possible (208-9). Moreover, social ranking results in “increasingly marginalized, overworked, and ill-paid” instructors (171-2).

By adopting the German model (the in order to be promoted and gain tenure, you must publish books and scholarly papers to peer reviewed journals, present at seminars, and research unique scholarly findings mindset), American institutions reorganized, but created a “complex hierarchy” (177). German schools operated much like American higher education institutes operate today. Study was meticulous, and research depended on observation and experience; however, unlike American institutes, German scholars believed “Philosophiae Doctor” meant no pedagogy (174-6). American PhDs were positioned to teach, yet composition scholars were literally raped, into the profession (177).

Americans earning German PhDs returned home with a hodgepodge of disciplines from “applied sciences” to “philological studies” (178). However, rhetoric was incognito; the Germans didn’t offer it; rhetoric was not a superior method of study. Yet, it was necessary for teaching basic writing and speech (179-80). After 1870, a few curious men (who held no PhDs) gathered and produced writing textbooks, but still no department of rhetoric existed. John Genung, “a serious rhetorical thinker” and Fred Newton Scott, who “broke rhetoric out from English…” attempted to establish rhetoric as a discipline. Scott produced PhD’s, but after leaving Michigan, they abandoned composition; and Genung grew tired of the work (180-4). Around 1880, English departments formed at universities; rhetoric was upheld, but only subordinate to English.

The “College Literary Crisis” at Harvard created a need for teaching freshmen how to write theme-based essays, which resulted in “English A”, a required writing course for college freshmen (184-5). Tenured faculty felt teaching writing was painstaking and time-consuming. However, by 1890, composition was required at most universities (186-7). Writing became an exercise in “self expression” and a “primary transaction…between…student and…teacher” (188). Nevertheless, courses were large, and workload remained steady (189-92). In 1923, the Hopkins Report highlighted conditions associated with teaching composition, but nothing changed, and at influential or private institutions, classes were split amongst the instructor and assistants (193-5). In the 1890s, graduate students became TAs, and many believed that PhDs should perform research and not instruct writing (195-8). Students weren’t involved in rhetoric because of the salary (199-200).

Although women dominated composition, few earned PhDs, and others stayed on as instructors because working conditions gave them freedom to raise families; thus, the “underclass” of comp-rhet teachers primarily consisted of women and “part-timers” (200-202). However, comp-rhet was revitalized after the “postwar ‘communications’ movement, by the onset of “New Criticism”, and after WWII when the “GI Bill” materialized (203-4). CCCCs became a locality for linking “composition with grammar, logic, language, speaking, research, teacher training,” and more importantly, a zone for debate amongst scholars (204-5). Rhetoric was reintroduced in 1963, at 4Cs; and ways of interpreting composition changed. By the 1970s, the job market for those “with a specialization in rhetoric”, was good (206-7).

Connors Chapter 4 Discussion Questions

1. On page 179, Connors alludes to rhetoric as being an emotional discipline because people are easily influenced. In addition to this, on page 201 he believes that women remained part-time in the discipline because they were nurturers, and it was easy to raise a family. Do you believe that rhetoric is an emotional discipline and only those who pursue it do so because they are able to “nurture” others? Do you run your classroom as a nurturing environment? Do you think of your class as a laboratory?

2. Connors, to some degree, mentions promotions and tenure. Do you believe that the system that’s in place today is the most reasonable way to govern tenure and promotions? Is it fair, why or why not? How would you modify it?

3. Since history shows us that the “underclass” bears the brunt of the work when it comes to teaching composition-rhetoric courses, it seems that these people are treated unfairly. How is this not discriminatory practice in an environment that claims to embrace difference (diversity)? And what does this say about the “privilege” that possessing a PhD carries?

Posted by Digitalpenny at 03:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)