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!

We Are Scaffolding

          Motivational scaffolding.  It’s a term that intimidated me when I first saw it, and it’s because I had a hard time getting rid of picturing workers balancing on rickety, terrifying platforms to scrub windows or paint the walls of a skyscraper.  Moreover, when I wondered if there’s maybe another association with the term, I looked up the definition of scaffold, and, no joke, found this: “A raised wooden platform used formerly for the public execution of criminals.”  What the what?!  Finally, I remembered to place the –ing suffix to scaffold and found something entirely different in the online dictionary, which describes scaffolding as “a temporary structure on the outside of a building…used by workers while building, repairing, or cleaning the building.”  Aha!  This is beautiful, and this imagery helps my mind to comprehend just what it is we’re doing as consultants in the writing center.  The pieces of this definition connect the dots to create the bigger picture of what our job encompasses.  

            Oh, and on a side note: There was a profound difference between typing in the word “scaffold” versus the word “scaffolding”.  What’s the lesson to be learned here?  Grammar, grammar, grammar!  Grammar is phenomenally important.

            Now, back to each of the individual pieces of our yummy pull-apart bread.  Let’s start with the part of the scaffolding that is used by workers to build the building.  As consultants, we are tasked in assisting the writer with generating new ideas.  The ebb and flow of our transaction must evoke a sense of creativity—of compelling the writer to think critically and inventively.  Also, the writer is trying to build an entire infrastructure of the intellectual slice that he or she is serving to the universe.  He or she is building a stance that needs many fundamental parts secured in place in order for it to stand tall and proud and complete, especially in a world of flurries and criticisms that’d tear weak structures down in a matter of short moments.  As we help the writer learn how to pour a nice, concrete foundation that we like to call a thesis, and then as we continue on in assuring the solidity of what the writer has built (or is building), we are taking part in motivational scaffolding.

            As the definition points out, scaffolding includes repairing and cleaning.  This is an important charge we have placed on our shoulders because a good building needs improvement and polishing.  If we’ve helped the builder create a stunning exterior but failed to make sure the necessary support beams are in working order and free of defect, the whole thing—lollipop windows, laffy taffy shingles, and all—are doomed to collapse.  The hopeful essay will be destroyed by the gusting criticisms of academia.  Then, along these lines, if our deliciously tantalizing building, complete with a formidable support structure, is dirty, this poses another problem.  Who wants to admire and approach and peer through your lollipop windows if they’re covered in pocket lint?  Gag.  Yes, we consultants need to help writers with giving what has been built a good, clean sweep, too.  This is part of the scaffolding.

            Okay, so now that the writer’s work is built, weak areas are repaired, and it’s all cleaned up, scaffolding has just happened.  Then, factoring in the motivational part to this scaffolding means something extra—this is an interactive process that requires helping the writer realize the desire to want to complete it.  Through the different politeness strategies discussed in our readings from Mackiewicz and Thompson, we can encourage the writer to find the will for wanting.

            Lastly, I just want to point out one more thing.  The definition of scaffolding leads with the words, “A temporary structure.”  This detail is a very big deal because it means that, for all of our assisting and supporting and instructing, our role is temporary.  However it is we’ve taught what we’ve taught, it has to have been done in such a way that it leaves room for us to step out without the building crumbling.  We are ultimately meant to have prepared builders to be able to build entire, lasting structures on their own.  We were never central to their work, for we are only scaffolding.

            If you’ll excuse me, I now feel motivated to build a gingerbread house.

The Dichotomy in Bread

We’ve had some great in-class discussions this week, and my nerdy brain has been mulling over one question in particular:

How do we, as tutors and writing center advocates, balance student writers’ needs of both comfort and conflict?

           

            It seems that, amidst the list of do’s and don’ts of a good writing center tutor, there exists a dichotomy between two ideas.  For one, tutors should promote a welcoming comfort that warms writers up to the task of sharing their writing, pulling free from the sticky mud of self-doubt, and believing in themselves as conveyors of valid thought.  Then, on the other hand, we’re also obliged to create a collaborative learning-thinking-writing climate for the sake of empowering the writer, as Sloan points out while also commenting that “such a venture cannot be made without conflict” (71).  So, when a student writer comes in for a session, I’m supposed to be like, “Hey, let me butter you up, and then I’m gonna cut your crusts off!”  (Yes, I often think in food—especially bread.  I love bread).

            In my meager attempts to understand this mini-war, it has helped a lot to hear the dialogue we’ve had in class.  Yes, we must need to be positive confidence-builders.  At the same time, we must be willing to push writers to consider various perspectives, stretch, and see the cracks in their own ideas.  That being said, I think tact is paramount in the success of these dueling transactions.  I can be encouraging AND point out weak places in their views.  My pointing isn’t an irritated jab into the chest—it’s a gently respectful tap on the shoulder.  My pushing to expand ideas (and even overturn some) isn’t a confrontational shove driven by my own emotional disagreement; in fact, if my conduct is being propelled by my negative reaction to the writing, then I’ve already taken a wrong turn.  (It’s like the difference between spanking your kid to get a teaching moment internalized versus spanking your kid because you’re pissed off—one is a disciplinary tactic and the other is child abuse).  Instead, the push I give writers is an affectionate pressure placed evenly on the shoulders to direct them down a path they don’t necessarily know they want to explore but totally would if they knew how much it’d strengthen their writing.  So, what I’m ultimately getting at here is a key element to successfully navigating through the precarious tides of comfort and conflict and their tendency to collide, and that key element is…wait for it…drum rolls…emotion!  Ta-dah!

            Let me explain. Brand’s essay packs a powerful one-two punch on the importance of emotion in writing.  To this I say, since emotion is such a heavyweight in the processes of creating meaningful writing, then there must be something to its potential in having a profound impact in the process of teaching writing.  Everything in our mannerisms—the smile we give, the inviting gestures in our body language, the interest and attentive respect in our eyes—is powerful.  This should not be overlooked or underestimated.  While we’re saying what we’re saying during a session, the display of our emotions happens simultaneously through our behavior and the ways we choose how to say what we’re saying.  It’s like a tune is being carried on a different frequency and sent across while words are travelling in the air, and the writer can discern both because emotion-speak and spoken language can harmonize. While we are piloting the writer through the cliffs and mountains of thinking critically about what he or she is trying to write, everything in our emotional language is reassuringly saying, “Wow.  You are awesome.  I like listening to you, and I desire to help you figure out how to best make your point because people should hear you.” 

Today I got to be Wallpaper

            “Hi Sierra.  Would it be okay with you if I tagged along during your consult?”  “Absolutely!  You’re most welcome to.  Pull up a chair,” she responded.  Nervous and eager, I followed Sierra and her patron into the cubicle.  I wriggled my chair back into a corner, thinking myself to be still as a fly on the wall—a little observer making way for big things to happen between writer and peer tutor. 

            In the several minutes that followed, wonders unfolded.  Yes, the consultant was velvety smooth in her transitions between complimenting, offering empathy, and constructively pointing out spots for improvement on the pages.  She navigated through his thesis and supporting thoughts gracefully.  She helped him thread his overarching meaning more seamlessly and evenly throughout his writing.  She listened.  Oh, how she listened!  There was no passiveness to the way she sat and let his dialogue take the stage; she listened to him in a way that made him feel like she’s is doing more than just hearing him; she is understanding what he is expressing.

            Throughout their exchange, my own insides turned many colors.  First, I was timid and nervous.  Then I was captivated.  My mind began swirling with ideas and as it darted between her and him and them and the pages they were carefully bent over.  I became almost reverent, considering the ideas of my own approaches to another’s writing process someday.  It was, in a way, a courtship—the giving and receiving of parts of one’s self, in the mutually agreed context of honesty, and reaching for a better relationship between the writer’s words and his heart.

            Comfortable as a plain strip of wallpaper, I sat back and enjoyed the different passings of this experience.  Then I focused my attention on Mr. Student Writer.  There he was, anxiously reaching out for Sierra’s expertise.  He was uncertain about this and that.  He struggled to put his point in the rights words during the conclusion paragraphs.  He was proud of the personal experience he was brave enough to share on page four.  And, through each moment, he was given a guiding response that provided clarity, often even in such a way that he found himself doing his own clarifying. 

            There I was, meticulously observing the writer (furtively, of course—I didn’t want him to think I was a creeper!), amused by the movement of the consulting process, when I suddenly realized something amazing.  This young man stepped into the writing center with an insecure countenance and sweaty palms that he tried to wipe inconspicuously on his jeans.  When he was led into the cubicle, he nervously rambled about how this piece of writing was his eleventh draft, and he just can’t seem to get it right.  Then he sat down.  Then the consultant took his writing and, with much optimism and resolve, assisted him through the process of revision.  What was especially remarkable, too, was that she not only helped to revise his writing—she taught him how to think like he was his own reviser.  Towards the end of the session, he was reading aloud certain parts of his own draft and correcting them; he switched this phrase for that, scratched out something redundant, and saw where he needed to elaborate.

            Then it hit me so blatantly that I had to control my palm from smacking my forehead and exclaiming “Duh!”  The satisfying click in my mind had unhinged a flooding moment of insight.  THIS is what is meant by the idea that tutoring is less about the writing and more about the writer.  The progress that the student writer made that day is what’s paramount; he improved his thinking process as a writer in such a way that he was able to revise his own writing, and this is a valuable skill because he can generate an internal dialogue of revision from within.  Fulwiler’s words happened this day: “Teaching writing is teach re-writing.”

Knowledge Has a Heartbeat

           My first week as an intern in the writing center was a lot of things.  For one, it helped to dispel my fears of the unknown.  Those who work there are lovely people!  The atmosphere is warm and accepting.  I appreciate the kindness that abounds, and I love the passion everyone there has for English in all its beautiful ways, shapes, and forms.  Also, I was amused to notice how dorkishly giddy I was when a few students came in for a consultation.  I’m excited for it to be my turn to welcome someone into a cubicle and delve into the writing process.

            In the classroom, I learned much from discussions over the reading materials, and one of my favorite ideas was the concept of knowledge Bruffee discusses in his writing.  I’m intrigued by his description of knowledge and how “knowledge is the product of human beings in a state of continual negotiation or conversation” (214).  He therefore describes education as, rather than something to be obtained, to be “a process of learning to ‘take a hand in what is going on’ by joining ‘the conversation of mankind’” (214-15).  Amen, Mister Bruffee!  His description of knowledge and education compels me to rethink how I think about the things I know.  Instead of viewing knowledge as a finite substance, it seems to now take on a three-dimensional, kinetic energy that inhales and exhales as a life of its own, shifting and evolving as it’s fueled by social contributions.

            Both Bruffee and Wingate point out how this active temperament of knowledge rubs the current conventions of our education system the wrong way.  As a whole, mainstream students are instructed under a fundamental tenet of viewing knowledge as cold, hard, facts that are inanimate and unforgiving, and that calculate the breadth of someone’s intelligence by seeing how many facts were practiced correctly.  It’s a sad reality but also a common one, so it helps me to prepare myself for the mindset of many (if not most) of the students I will someday be peer tutoring.  This all makes me wonder, “How can Bruffee’s description of knowledge influence my methods as a tutor?  How can I help students reach beyond the confines of the old ways of thinking about knowledge and realize their capacities and responsibilities in being a part of the conversation of mankind?”

            In one of our class discussions, it was pointed out that many, many students enter the writing center with an almost obliterated sense of confidence in their writing.  More than anything, this self-imposed handicap came from negative remarks they’ve received about their work—remarks that were often dished out from instructors who subscribe to the rigidities of right and wrong, grammar mistakes equal poor writing, and so forth.  The way I see it, the only shortcoming of these students is their lack of experience in having the great types of conversations that translate into strong writing.  And, of course, this isn’t their fault!  Therefore, as a hopeful tutor-to-be, I want to target that outdated thinking and blast away!—kindly, of course.  I want to immerse them in the evolved, collaborative art of knowledge by engaging in meaningful conversation with them about their writing.  If I can generate in them a momentum towards thinking like useful contributors to the dialogue, then I think this can help wriggle their confidence out of the mud and into the place where they work, respectably, as creators of knowing. 

My New Crush

          Holy cannoli!  This first week of class has been somewhat dizzying, but in a good way—like when you’re giddy and disoriented from stepping off of an awesome amusement park ride.  What has my mind reeling is the discovery of a world I hardly knew existed until a few months ago.  Ah, the writing center!  The tucked away gem of the college campus!  Admittedly, for as little as I feel like I know about this wonderful land, what I’ve learned about writing centers so far is that this place is my new crush.

          As a romantic, I adore the idea of serving a greater good through helping people along in the writing craft.  I’ve long since been the “go-to” girl among family and friends when it comes to anything English.  That’s not to say, though, that I’m some sort of veteran in the arts of peer tutoring; in fact, this class has shown me how very, very little I know about the ebb and flow in and around the chair of a good writing consultant.  I’m excited to be taught how to be good at the good I want to be engaged in.  I want to, as in the more affectionate parts of Stephen North’s sentiments describe (wedged between all his yelling, of course), be a person who contributes to the beautiful process of helping a writer edify what makes him or her a writer.

            Speaking of North, his essays, along with the other readings from this week, have introduced me to what seems to be a growing complexity of a writing center, its dynamics, and how it’s ultimately defined.  Apparently, much is misunderstood about the intents and purposes of a writing center, and North has lit a fire and marches heatedly to demand change in the way such places are viewed.  Even though part of me understands his passion for accurate definitions, I still raise an eyebrow here and there when I read his essays, and his outcry for a four-year writing curriculum makes me scratch my confused head and think.  So, let me get this straight.  In the interest of creating good writers to put in chairs next to good writing consultants, North wants to create a place of instruction, only open to anyone and everyone until seat capacities meet their max.  For him, the ideal writing center is created when you “tie the Center directly to our Writing Sequence through the English major: to make it the center of consciousness, the physical locus—not for the entire, lumbering university—but for the approximate 10 faculty members, the 20 graduate students, and the 250 or so undergraduates that we can actually, sanely, responsibly bring together” (Revisiting, 89). 
            I point out this particular quote because it moved me.  It affected me.  My reaction to his words was a red siren twirling in my head, thinking, “Whoah!  Say what?!  Is this what the writing center is supposed to be about?  Sure, we choose to work here, care to be here, but does our love for the work justify the idea of a writing center being exclusive to a bitty amount of students being slow-churned out of a four-year writing course that primes them to work well with us so we can have more fun together in our little cubicles?  Isn’t that selfish of us?”  Then, in the friction of my response against North’s quote, I realized some things.  1) I’m faced with the challenge of considering what it means for a writing center to be a writing center, and 2) that I very much care about finding an answer to this consideration! 

            So, here I am, at the close of week one and hooked.  I am grateful for the room that has been made for me to join this—our—writing center.  I want to soak up what I learn.  I want to become a part of the defining force that makes our writing center a place worth telling everyone on campus to come to.