"The student has to learn to speak our language, to speak as we do, to try the peculiar ways of knowing, selecting, evaluating, reporting, concluding, and arguing that define the discourse of our community."
~David Bartholomae
"Inventing the University"
On first glance, DB's essay is an elitist piece of academic snobbery at its finest, and the anti-authoritarian in me rejects him. "Don't listen to him," my heart screams, "listen to Zarathustra instead! Write in blood; blood is the spirit. Remember Peter Elbow: 'If I want power, I've got to use my voice' (Berlin 675)." But then I think that if, as a freshman, I'd been drilled in the academic language like Bartholomae argues for, I wouldn't be propped up in bed here at 2:30 AM, trying to find meanings between unrelated essays (Coleridge would be proud), struggling to write in big, unnecessary words like a true-blue scholar but failing, and regurgitating these complex ideas to people who don't care what I have to say anyway. Ah, the world of academia!
But Bartholomae is right. In order to be successful in college and in the scholarly community, students need to learn how to speak the language, walk the walk, quack like a duck, etc. "In composing," Berthoff states, "we make meanings" (648). Well, duh. But what she fails to tell us is that academics make meanings in entirely different ways than students. They regard texts with a hypercritical eye that notices the vaguest subtleties in a work. Bartholomae is a perfect example of this; in "Inventing the University" he analyzes students' entrance exam essays and infers meaning not by what they say but what they don't say. As I read over his intricate and oftentimes brilliant thought processes, I wondered if I would ever be that good. That kind of an eagle-eye is not inborn, it is learned. Even he states as much and argues for rigorous training:
"The most substantial academic tasks for students....are matters of many courses, much reading and writing, and several years of education. Our students, however, must have a place to begin. They cannot sit through lectures and read textbooks and, as a consequence, write as a sociologist or write literary criticism. There must be steps along the way. Some of these steps will be marked by drafts and revisions. Some will be marked by courses, and in an ideal curriculum the preliminary courses would be writing courses, whether housed in an English department or not. For some students, students we call "basic writers," these courses will be in a sense the most basic introduction to the language and methods of academic writing" (623).
In other words, a student must read a lot, write a lot, and spend years in school in order to learn how to skillfully speak and write in Academic Esperanto.
So pessimism and exhaustion notwithstanding, I am grateful that I begin my Masters Program with classes so rigorously structured. They will prepare me for the things to come. But I just wish I had this level of training when I was a freshman.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Practice Makes Perfect
Patrick Hartwell quotes Mark Lester in his essay, “Grammar, Grammars, and the Teaching of Grammar,” saying that “there simply appears to be no correlation between a writer’s study of language and his ability to write” (571). Several of the essayists in our Norton book agree with him; they have conducted “experiments” on the matter and come to the same conclusion: grammar just isn’t that important.
It is hard to take these researchers seriously though when one considers that their methods are questionable. How can there be a controlling factor when every writer is unique? He/she has come from varying socioeconomic backgrounds, from different localities, from different schools of thought. This variable, the writer variable, is never constant; therefore the test results are always inconsistent. In addition, the researchers are biased towards their results. They want to prove that grammar is irrelevant, so it is possible their outcomes are swayed to fit their beliefs.
But putting their gross abuse of the scientific method aside, grammar is at the very core of composition. It is the study of language at its most fundamental level, and since it is a writer’s job to manipulate that language to affect his/her reader in a specific way, it stands to reason that the writer needs to master it in order to be effective. Grammar, the mechanics and usage of language, is the skeleton that holds the body of language up. If a person is dedicated to learning how to write well, he/she needs to learn how to put that skeleton together bone by bone to his/her advantage. Writing is a craft, and it is both sloppy and lazy to refuse to learn every single aspect of the discipline.
I am not suggesting that one master grammar before attempting to write. Hartwell wisely points out that you wouldn’t tell someone to master physics and momentum before letting them try their hand at pool, nor would you tell them to get a degree in automotive engineering before letting them drive a car (571). Certainly, I am no angel when it comes to grammar and am continuously learning new rules myself. But I believe it is a work in progress and it is best done by practice. In “The Language of Exclusion,” Mike Rose states:
“Educational psychologists had demonstrated that simply memorizing rules of grammar and usage had no discernable effect on the quality of student writing. What was needed was application of those rules through practice provided by drills and exercises. The theoretical underpinning was expressed in terms of “habit formation” and “habit strength,” the resilience of an “acquired response” being dependent on the power and number of reinforcements. The logic was neat: specify a desired linguistic behavior as precisely as possible (e.g., the proper use of the pronouns “he” and “him”) and construct opportunities to practice it. The more practice, the more the linguistic habit will take hold.” (589)
The basics must be taught, and they should be taught using the method above. Practice makes perfect. You may not expect one to get an automotive degree to drive a car, but you better teach them where the gas pedal and brakes are before you hand them the keys.
It is hard to take these researchers seriously though when one considers that their methods are questionable. How can there be a controlling factor when every writer is unique? He/she has come from varying socioeconomic backgrounds, from different localities, from different schools of thought. This variable, the writer variable, is never constant; therefore the test results are always inconsistent. In addition, the researchers are biased towards their results. They want to prove that grammar is irrelevant, so it is possible their outcomes are swayed to fit their beliefs.
But putting their gross abuse of the scientific method aside, grammar is at the very core of composition. It is the study of language at its most fundamental level, and since it is a writer’s job to manipulate that language to affect his/her reader in a specific way, it stands to reason that the writer needs to master it in order to be effective. Grammar, the mechanics and usage of language, is the skeleton that holds the body of language up. If a person is dedicated to learning how to write well, he/she needs to learn how to put that skeleton together bone by bone to his/her advantage. Writing is a craft, and it is both sloppy and lazy to refuse to learn every single aspect of the discipline.
I am not suggesting that one master grammar before attempting to write. Hartwell wisely points out that you wouldn’t tell someone to master physics and momentum before letting them try their hand at pool, nor would you tell them to get a degree in automotive engineering before letting them drive a car (571). Certainly, I am no angel when it comes to grammar and am continuously learning new rules myself. But I believe it is a work in progress and it is best done by practice. In “The Language of Exclusion,” Mike Rose states:
“Educational psychologists had demonstrated that simply memorizing rules of grammar and usage had no discernable effect on the quality of student writing. What was needed was application of those rules through practice provided by drills and exercises. The theoretical underpinning was expressed in terms of “habit formation” and “habit strength,” the resilience of an “acquired response” being dependent on the power and number of reinforcements. The logic was neat: specify a desired linguistic behavior as precisely as possible (e.g., the proper use of the pronouns “he” and “him”) and construct opportunities to practice it. The more practice, the more the linguistic habit will take hold.” (589)
The basics must be taught, and they should be taught using the method above. Practice makes perfect. You may not expect one to get an automotive degree to drive a car, but you better teach them where the gas pedal and brakes are before you hand them the keys.
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