Read me! I have a thing or two to say...

          Honesty has always been a powerful force in my life.  Now, I’m not trying to toot my own horn here and say, “Oh, lookie me—I’m such a good person!”  I’m a mean drunk, I throw things that never did anything to me (at least I don’t throw them at people, though…)—let’s just say I have enough character flaws to supply a playwright.  But I adore honesty.  I love trying to live it, and I seek ardently after it in my life.  I want to understand, I want to get to the bottom of things, and it’s because my relationship with honesty is a very magnetic craving.

            “Before the truth can set you free, you have to recognize which lie is holding you hostage"(anonymous).  Hot damn.  Isn’t that the truth?  It’s a favorite quote I’ve had tucked near and dear into me because it reverberates through every corner of my world.  Then rewind a bit—say, a few months back—to when I began my venture into the Writing Center microcosm.  Immediately, I was smitten by the energy in the space there; writing is a current that charges the air with a zest and a zing—a vigor for the love of words.  It’s absolutely awesome, and it compels me to marvel at seeing the truth of that quote operate from corner to corner of our glorious, little niche.

            How does this quote show itself in the Writing Center, you say? To explain, it first stands to reason that there ought to be some sort of relevance between writing and the truth, and indeed there is.  What is writing, if not conversation exchanged between reader and writer?  What is conversation, if not the humanity in us attempting to create meaning through connection?  What is creating meaning, if not the ultimate inquiry to understanding why we live and breathe, speak and write?  And there it is. More important than a letter “A” or a paper free of run-on sentences is the idea that we, as consultants, are contributing to the writer’s capacity to merge into whatever context he or she is approaching and strike meaningful conversation.  Most importantly, this negotiation between writer and reader is borne of out a sense of honest identity—an authentic writer’s voice, if you will—and we have to help students realize what that is.

            As if that reason alone isn’t enough to make every consultant beam like superheroes, there are oodles of other ways that our Writing Center interacts with truth.  You see, in the spaces of our modest cubicles, we grant students liberty: We help them develop and improve their writing voices.  We teach them how to articulate their way through academic discourse.  We compel them to push against the walls of what they think they know, and in doing this, they forge greater spaces of understanding for themselves.  We help them edge closer to their University degree—a currency from the college that will open more doors of hoping and dream-reaching for the rest of their lives.  We welcome them to exist in our area, free of judgments and free to enjoy the creature comforts of a cushy couch and yummy things to nibble on.  We disburden timid writers from the savagery of their apprehension.  Thus, for all of the various shapes and forms in which untruth manifests itself, we consultants of the Writing Center are the countermeasure.  We contend with much to help students realize and actualize the empowerment in being their own sovereignty.

            Fun fact: In the manifesto I just drafted (like, an hour ago), I quoted Bruffee’s genius description of knowledge as “the product of human beings in a state of continual negotiation or conversation” as students make their way into the Burkean parlor to join “the conversation of mankind’” (214-215).  Then I looked up one of my very first blogs and, as it turns out, I quoted that exact same quote four months ago!  This makes me think of the evolution I’ve undergone during my time of being crafted into a writing center consultant.  In the beginning, I signed up for this gig because I’ve always subscribed to the idea of serving the greater good, and for a words nerd like me, this invariably meant helping people with their words.  Then, enter in the opportunity for working in the Writing Center and ba-bam!  I’m golden, right?!  Nope.  So wrong.  I was blindsided by the jarring reality that I didn’t know what my idea looked like.

            As a consultant-in-training, I had a hard time more than I’d like to admit.  I constantly had to override my burning desire to clean up the papers placed before me; instead, I had to choose the student every time, and it took conscious, arduous effort to shift those gears.  Of course I’ve always cared about the person—that’s easy to do—but to send a paper away still teeming with grammar errors or a gaping hole-of-a-white-space where a conclusion paragraph should be because the student wanted to talk about just their third paragraph instead?  That hurt.

            In time, my weakness became less weak, and it’s becoming better every time I finish a shift and tuck my badge lovingly away into my cubby.  Even still, I’m not without my moments, but I can honestly say that I’m starting to get it, and interestingly, I marvel at how the meaning of Bruffee’s quote has metamorphosed between then and now.  The paper is but an extension of the voice that belongs to the person who is sitting in front of me, and it’s the person that I have set out to attend.  My work in the Writing Center, then, has evolved my capacity for honesty; it has challenged me to learn the truth about what helping writers should look like (despite my predispositions), and it has given me opportune moments to extend the presence of honesty in its many forms.  Yep.  It’s that fantastic.  And, to be honest, I could totally spend the rest of my life here.

Dance

(Internship hours to date: 33 hours, 45 minutes).

I had an awesome experience this week.  During one of my consultations, I had the opportunity to work with a bright, lovely multilingual student.  Her paper was a persuasive piece, and she was very concerned about her writing being understandable.  Grammar was paramount to her—so was the concern for being clear in what she was trying to say.

What was so awesome about the appointment was that it was one of those “ah-ha” moments when so much of our in-class training and theorizing converged into an event of happening:

            -She was nervous from the onset, so I chatted with her about her major and pointed out that my brother-in-law has the same type of career she is aspiring to have.  This sparked a first smile out of her. 

            -As we read through her essay, I saw her uncertainty chip away to reveal confidence whenever I praised something specific about her writing.

            -I taught her some tenets of comma usage that she was able to apply, out of her own train of thinking and revision, later on in the text.

            -During a point when we had just made multiple tweaks and revisions, I noticed another grammar rule to point out.  However, since she seemed to be getting overwhelmed, I caught myself and remembered the idea of not teaching too many things at once.  So, instead of introducing another rule, I took a moment to outwardly admire the ideas in her writing and how important and valid they are.  I saw what was a stirring of overload melt away and become another smile instead.

            -There were some moments in the text when I could tell she just couldn’t quite place how she wanted to say something.  Thanks to the encouragements of directive tutoring, I happily gave examples of how she could say what it was she was trying to say.  I saw the relief in her eyes, but more importantly, I saw how the sentence structure registered in her language bank.  Something about that “click” told me that she learned how to say something she’ll be able to emulate from then on.  Thus, her English skills can continue to grow.

            -At one point in the text, I went all nondirective on her and had her pause from focusing on the paper and tell me, in her own free-flowing words, what the point was that she was trying to make.  It took a moment of silence, but her nonverbal cues were showing me that it wasn’t awkward for her.  So I waited, and the words that finally came out of her were just right.

All of these wonderful things happened in that one session, and I loved it!  Afterwards, when I was walking her out towards the door and offering one last bit of candy from Kermit’s bowl, it took every last smidge of discipline for me to restrain from galloping around the coffee table like a giddy unicorn.  That’s how happy I was.

The process of accompanying someone’s writing process reminds me of a lyrical dance.  As the writer, she undoubtedly has a natural rhythm about her—a sway to the tune of what can become something grand.  However, talent and knack isn’t enough; composing is a central part of turning toe-tapping and hum-humming into designed movements.  This is where the consultant steps in.  I guide her.  I help her translate what she is hearing from herself into an expressive form of art that can communicate her expressions to everyone else.  I tuck her elbow in here, adjust her posture there, and teach her how.  Sometimes I show her a step; sometimes I make her show me.  Most of all, I help her reach beyond the mechanics of counting steps and pointing toes, and she reaches a place where thinking and mimicking and supposing become something else entirely.  On her own, she is dancing.

In the Mood for an Apple

          I’ve decided I like email consultations.  After learning a good deal about them and even getting to work with a couple of them in class this past week, I’m feeling pretty giddy about the prospect of doing a real one on my own.  I’m not saying I necessarily like them better than face-to-face appointments; let’s just call this a case of apples and oranges.

            So, one of the things I especially like about asynchronous online consultations is the chance it gives me to be alone with my thoughts.  With on-the-spot dialogue, I have an unfortunate tendency to put my foot in my mouth, come across not so eloquently, and in some other way manage to mess up.  Thankfully, email appointments allow me to keep all of that in check, and the result is a more polished, organized offering of feedback to the writer. 

            That being said, I realize that this type of consulting has its drawbacks, and for me, the most pressing one (even more than the inability to get immediate answers to questions) is the loss of non-verbal communication.  I don’t get to smile to the writer and gesture warmly towards a candy bowl.  I don’t get to make eye-to-eye contact that shows him or her that I’m genuinely happy to be of service; instead, my presence for the writer is nothing more than black type on a white background.  Because of this, I worry about what all I can do to make up for this discrepancy the best I can.

            In answer to my wonderings, I see the need to focus on developing the type of voice I have in the feedback I’ll be giving.  I suppose this involves some attention in the field of rhetoric (Oh wow—I can almost hear all the rhet-comp majors woop-wooping and saying, “Rhet-comp all the way!").  In other words, given the target audience (only the writer) and the message I want to convey (that I’m a professional who they can have confidence in but also enjoy on a peer-to-peer level), what rhetorical ideas should I be working with?  What does this look like in an email consultation?        Here’s what pops into the ole noodle:

            -I need to look and sound confident and knowledgeable, which includes a very cleanly written response.

            -I need to keep the academia-speak in check; I’m not writing to a professor, but rather a peer who needs to feel like I’m relatable.

            -My emails should include the voice that is quirky, optimistic, and excited to read what the writer has.

            -I need to be mindful that writer’s anxiety is still very real.  The medium of this type of consulting doesn’t allow me the visibility to notice a writer’s nervousness or anxieties, even if those feelings were most definitely present for him or her.  Because of this, I should take extra care into weaving encouragement throughout the feedback.

            -I need to make sure I don’t bite off more than the writer can chew.  The feedback I give should never overwhelm—this is something I have to watch myself closely over because I have the tendency to ramble.  I just see so many dang connective fibers between this thing here and that thing over there, and before I know it, I’ve talked about too many different ideas.

            Okay.  Now I feel like I’m prepared to give my first email consultation a whirl.  I’m ready to learn from the many times I’ll be falling flat on my face!

When They Become Turtles

My heart is in this.  I love the Writing Center and want to be a part of this quirky, marvelous, and important work.  I want to contribute to it—both as a consultant and as being a part of the conversation of moving Writing Centers onward and upward in the world.  This much I do know.  Unfortunately, this is about all I’m sure of.  Alas, when it comes to the how of my contribution, I feel at a loss for having something of value to offer or impart.

As we approach the upcoming chain of events involving Writing Center articles and analyses, I’m very much struggling to find my footing.  There is much I’m passionate about, to be sure, but I don’t know what to address that hasn’t already been addressed.   For instance, I have an empathic interest in helping writers overcome writing anxiety.  In the past, I have worked with a number of loved ones (family and friends) in their various writing assignments.  Every one of these people have been smart, capable, and great conversationalists, and yet they all did the same thing when I sat down with each one to help with an essay, cover letter, or written portion of an application of some sort: they would excuse the poorness of their writing, flail the disclaimer that they’re not good writers (because writing is not their “thing”), and any confidence they had for themselves suddenly traded places with an awkward, squeaky-voiced, timid turtle.

It’s funny how so many people can be so quick to say that writing is not their “thing.”  I recently helped a friend with her capstone paper for BSU’s senior nursing students; whether or not she would get an A in her class hinged on the graded outcome of this paper.  When she told me that she wasn’t a writer, the conversation went something like this:

“Thanks for helping me with this paper, Gretch.  (micro beads of sweat start pooling at the hairline).  I really need this to be good, but I’m not a strong writer.”

“No prob, Bob.  But, um, you’re a mom with two little kids and going to school full-time.  And you work.  You know strong.”

“Thanks, but I’m just not a good writer.  I don’t really know how to write.”

“Well, do you know how to say what you have to say?  Do you know how to have a conversation with someone about something you care about, so you converse in a way that you’re trying to convince?

“Well, yea…”

“Then you know how to write.  You have a good, strong voice.  And your writing voice is no different.”

Even though my friend received this idea in earnest, she still struggled with overcoming the nervous affect that writing had on her.  While reading through her paper, there were even some moments when I had to stop after a certain sentence and say, “Wait.  This doesn’t even sound like you.  You don’t talk like this.  Why the overload of so many fancy shmancy words?”  Her reply was, “I thought that’s how I’m supposed to sound.  You know, for these types of papers?”

So, in my observations at that time, along with times I’ve worked with others, I have noticed this overwhelming presence of writer’s anxiety.  I have seen it torment graceful conversationalists and twist them into second-guessing, semi-paralyzed writers.  It makes me sad because I know their awesome voices would go wonderfully on the pages of an engaging essay, and yet something happens to them when they transfer words onto paper, and I think at the core of this is an anxiety that damages the writing process. 

This is where I get stuck.  When I think, “Well, dang!  I want to write about how to help student writers overcome their anxieties when they come to the Writing Center”, I think of all the articles we’ve already covered that address this.  We’ve learned about the pre-textual minutes before an appointment begins, nonverbal communication, creating a friendly environment, building a writer’s confidence during a session, showing that we care…this is why I’m stuck in my attempt to find a topic to focus on for the rest of this semester.  I can’t think of anything to say on this matter that hasn’t already been said by someone, published, and taught to me in class.

To end, there is one lingering thought:  What happened to these people, anyway?  Granted, I’m sure writing can evoke a sense of nervousness across the board; we are, after all, putting a piece of ourselves out there whenever we offer up something to be read that has come from within.  I’m talking about something more, though—those of whom have such a nervousness over their writing that it becomes anxiousness, and it becomes jumbled with a lost confidence and fabricating the voice of a foreign autobot in the writing.  What happened?  Did the traditional ways of school-taught writing traumatize them?  What did their previous teachers do to them?  Have they endured painful judgments for a past heart and voice they offered up on paper and haven’t been the same since?  Anyways, this is just something my curiosity is chewing on.

As it Turns Out, My World was Just an Island

          I have followed the little bunny down its rabbit hole and found a world I’m upside down in.  What world is this, you say?  It is the world of contrastive rhetoric—a reality, new to me, that jars my own.  See, I’ve been an adoring groupie of the English language for as long as I can remember.  From the time I was a little girl, I nabbed every chance I could get to draw nearer to words, whether it was a writing contest, an after school book club, or even a spelling bee.  Then, all grown up, I picked English literature as my major.  Who does that, except for those who have some sort of an allegiant love for the English language? 

            So, imagine my surprise and momentarily blurred vision when I discovered that the world of writing that I’ve come to dearly love and know is hardly a world at all, but rather a single island, wedged somewhere between other islands in a cluster of multitudes of islands.  This is how I felt when I came away from last Thursday’s class having learned about the many different ways rhetoric is structured in different cultures.  Granted, it’s not that I never expected writing styles to vary from culture to culture.  Clothes, foods, manners…all societies have certain trademarks to their ways, and I realize that this is what makes cultures diverse.  What I failed to realize, however, is just how vastly differentiated “good writing” is because of this diversity.  The whole structure of rhetoric is not an iron-clad, universal approach to appeal that magnificently works its magic on the hearts of humanity.  Everything I’ve ever learned about good writing, as a whole, is not infinite and limitless—it ends at our borders and takes on different forms for different countries, almost becoming something else entirely, and I don’t have a close relationship with it when it takes on other forms, which makes my confidence tremble.  And it makes me feel smaller.

            Nevertheless—and a big nevertheless, at that—it’s not the end of the world.  Actually, my world just got bigger.  There are many, many forms of rhetoric in writing that I know next to nothing about, so there are oodles of new things to learn that I get to look forward to.  In this regard, I see my future consultations with multilingual writers as much as a learning experience for me as it is a teaching one.  If he or she structured their papers to be a powerhouse in the rhetoric of their own native country, I want to understand just what it is that made it that way.  I want him or her to know that I want to know about it, and I appreciate it, and I hope this same willingness can be extended towards me and the love of my first language: English.  Essentially, I want to help multilingual writers gain the rhetorical strength to make their voices heard well.  One thing that truly is universal is the longing to be heard and understood, and if I can help them achieve this, then I have done something worthwhile.  Perhaps I can help them to feel not so small.

           

My Abiding Affection

          What a day!  Today is the day my new crush became a lifelong love affair.  Translation: My initial feelings of puppy love for our Writing Center and the new consultant gig have evolved into something more.  I completed my first consultation, and I’ve realized that I am enamored by a deeply abiding affection and love for the job.  I wrapped up two back-to-back appointments with a double-dose of the “high” we mentioned in class today, and I am officially invested.  As much as the future of my grownup life is still largely a mystery to me, I do know that the Writing Center and I are in it for the long haul. 

            What about my consultation stirred up this itch for a long-term commitment, you say?  Well, let me tell you.  Let’s take a walk through the experience.  There I was, manning the front desk and cutting out our new nametags, when a frazzled lady entered, desperate to squeeze in an appointment before bringing her essay to a class that started in thirty minutes.  I offered to help her and led her to a cubicle.  There, she laid out a ten-page essay on art history (which is SO not my major!) while informing me that she had to leave for her class in no more than twenty-five minutes.  Say what?!  Well, what’s supercool is witnessing how all of my training kicked in, and this is what my brain did:

1)    I de-escalated her tension from being rushed by giving her a warm smile, asking how she’s doing, and assuring her that we’ll put our best efforts forward with the time we had.

2)    I remembered the importance of setting the agenda and aligning our expectations, so I asked her what area she was interested in focusing on.  She wanted to cover grammar, the thesis, and how well her whole papered addressed the requirements on her instructor’s rubric.  To this I replied, “Given the time we have to work on this, we realistically won’t be able to cover all of that right now, but I’d be happy to focus on the area of greatest concern to you.  More than anything, which topic would you like to make certain we go over before you leave today?”  She proceeded to emphasize that grammar was her greatest priority, so that’s what we honed in on.

3)    I went through as much of the paper as I could with her, pointing out patterns in grammatical errors and explaining the process of identifying and fixing those errors.  This is pretty much all we had time to do, and even still, there was no way to make it to the end of her paper.  I saved a couple of minutes at the end of the session to gently emphasize how leaving time for revisions is one of the most important parts of the writing process for all of us.  She was very receptive to this understanding, and she decided she would speak to her instructor about an extension so she could have time to revise her work.  Then she rescheduled an appointment with us for later in the day to continue working on her writing.

4)    While working together, there were moments when she needed reassurance, moments that called for another dose of calmness in light of the time constraint, and even times when she needed prodding.  These moments shifted throughout the appointment, and paying close attention to her communication (both verbal and nonverbal) is what cued me to what she needed.  What’s especially awesome is how, for the different needs that arose, my training generated handy-dandy responses that were in my arsenal from all the training and discussions we’ve had in class.  Seeing all the working parts come together was epic.

           

            Alas, as much as I could have gone on and on with her about her writing, our time ran out.  We parted ways, and I was happy to find out later that she was back in the Writing Center for more, her paper eagerly in hand and an extension granted her by her teacher.  Now, I do recognize that not all consultations will be euphoric—I expect that some will totally suck—but isn’t THAT even the true tale of a love story?  So, knowing some days will be better than others, I still become giddy at the idea that I’m here to stay.  That’s what I want, at least.  Oh, pretty please keep me!  

Awaiting my First Cinnamon Roll

          Okay, so word on the street is that we newbies are getting put on the schedule next week.  What the what?!  Seriously, though—super exciting.  I’m giddy like you just put a fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon roll in front of me.  I’m also scared because it feels like the moment of truth; after the past six weeks of a consultant boot camp of sorts, the push has come to shove, and I’m being tossed in the water to see if I’ll sink or swim.  I realize this sounds pretty theatrical, but my emotions really kind of roll this way.  It’s part of why I’m so passionate about things like, um, being a writing consultant. 

            Anyways, as I anticipate my first consultation, I feel like I’m seeing a whole plethora of learning material converge.  What will my personal protocol for welcoming the writer be?  What if I get a student who barely speaks English?  What if I get a writer with a crazy Chemistry paper?  What if I get an asshole?! 

            What’s interesting is that, as I get past my initial panic and buckle down on how I envision next week to be, I see a lot of pieces start falling into place.  I’m cognizant of how intentional everything is—from the words I use to greet a writer, to the nonverbal communication I convey, and even the way I contribute to cultivating the overall climate that our writing center is supposed to have.  I’m grateful for this special space on campus, and I hope I can serve it well.

            As smitten as I am about the upcoming opportunities for diving into students’ writing, I’ve been thinking about the asshole discussions.  I’m not losing sleep over the idea of having to deal with one, but all of the in-class conversation we’ve had on the matter has gotten me to thinking of the myriad levels of willingness and commitment from other students.  There’s the downright terd-bucket that you just want to handle with a Chuck-Norris-throat-punch, the stubborn writer who says much and listens little, the indifferent student who was forced to visit the WC…the different shapes and sizes of every writer’s workability is intimidating to consider as I try to picture them.  Ultimately, what this mental meandering boils down to for me is this: how do I get writers engaged in the process?  I know this answer varies from one situation to another because of what each person brings to the table, but I want to be prepared with certain strategies in my arsenal.  What will my approach, in detail, look like?

            One thing I’m sure of is that I want to convince each writer that his or her voice is one worth listening to.  It saddens me to see someone believe he or she is not a good writer.  It’s almost like a self-inflicted, damning sentence.  Also, I believe it often has less to do with the writer’s potential and more to do with not having had a good teacher.  The power of words is so magnificent to me, and I want every student to realize he or she has the capacity to wield it.

            Ready or not, here I come!