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.”