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.
