Tag Archives: argumentation

Comments on Graff, Part 2

My thoughts this week are a bit more disjointed and scattered than my past posts have been. I have been sick, so this may have something to do with it. On the other hand, I found the last chapters of Clueless in Academe much more of a hodgepodge than the first seven. That being said, I found these chapters much more engaging and practical than those we read last week. (I previously commented that Graff identified problems, and even suggested some solutions, but offered no practical way to implement them). Although these last chapters seemed more of a grab-bag, Graff does suggest some practical approaches to engaging students and bridging the gap between academic and student life.

As Graff points out, students are steeped in their own culture of argumentation. Students argue passionately with their friends about any number of issues (as Graff points out in his anecdotes about sports, nerds, and tough kids). This argument culture starts much earlier, though. As anyone who has ever stood in line behind a four year-old and his mom at the grocery store knows, kids learn how to make claims, counterclaims, and pre-emptive arguments almost as soon as they know how to talk. Young kids (and the students they become) simply don’t recognize that what they’re doing is in any way “academic.”

According to Graff: “schools should be tapping far more than they do into students’ youthful argument cultures, which are not as far removed as they seem from public forms of argument” (155). When I first read this suggestion, I was a bit skeptical. Sure, some students argue passionately and articulately about things that matter to them; however, there are just as many students who “argue” with adjectives, i.e. “that sucks,” or “that’s cool.”

The key, as Graff points out, it isn’t enough to simply teach a unit on popular music and expect students to jump into an academic conversation. (Additionally, if it’s not done right, students might react negatively to teachers “being fake” or “trying to look cool.” Teachers need to give students the vocabulary of argumentation, which they can then apply to classroom conversations about any number of issues. As teachers and educational scholars, we are steeped in academic lingo. We forget that even if students have the skills to articulate their position on an issue, they may not have the right vocabulary. Graff identifies modeling basic argumentative structure and clarifying key terms (such as “claim,” “counter,” “maintain”) as two relatively simple things teachers can do to help imrove students’ argumentative skills.

Another great suggestion comes from Chapters 10, “Outing Criticism.” Although criticism is often confusing (even alienating), Graff makes a great argument for introducing students to it sooner and more frequently. Of course, teachers need to pre-select articles that are written clearly and are not steeped in excessive jargon. Bearing that in mind, if used properly, critical writing could radically alter the way students think about literature. In addition to demystifying the academic world, it could demonstrate that literature is relevant outside of the classroom, expose students to the larger “intellectual conversation,” and provide them with a potential “naysayer” for future essays they may write.

As I finish this post, I am realizing that I have to retract (or at least qualify) some of my earlier comments. I initially said that I felt this half of the book was not as cohesive as the first. While the topics were more varied, there is a common thread running through the last seven chapters: taking students seriously. If we take students seriously, we recognize that their interests are valid. We acknowledge their pre-existing conversational and argumentative skills. This type of validation, from a student perspective, is priceless. It creates a classroom environment in which students feel at ease, and are thus more likely to fully engage and participate in the learning experience.

An Argument: How “Being Jewish” Influenced Graff More Than He Admits

Gerald Graff says briefly and in passing in Clueless in Academe that he is Jewish and that others (presumably his classmates and teachers) therefore regarded him as intelligent. Graff says, “In my case being Jewish already carried a presumption of being smart that I did not entirely disavow” (p. 216). Graff then attributes his “hidden intellectualism” to a number of factors such as his interest in sports and movies (p. 217). However, I argue (you like that?) that Graff’s being Jewish carried much more weight and had a greater influence on Graff’s value system than he admits. I contend (ha!) that if Graff is like most Jews, being Jewish predisposes him to valuing education, argumentation, and interpretation of texts.

In our last class session, I mentioned that argumentation and interpretation of texts has been the primary pedagogical tool used in formal religious studies since ancient times. Yeshiva boys and rabbinical students read portions of text, considered them deeply, and toyed with how they might be applied in various situations, hypothetical and real. To put it in modern literary terms, they did close readings of texts, sometimes consulted secondary sources (the Talmud), interpreted them, and created arguments. They would often be paired with other students to argue their position, then switch positions and argue the opposite point. This ancient pedagogical practice is still part of rabbinical training today.

Text interpretation and argumentation is not a technique exclusive to the rabbinate; it is embedded in Jewish life for all practicing Jews. The most obvious place we see text interpretation and argumentation is in the synagogue service. Jews read the Torah during particular synagogue services each week and then look for ways to connect the text they have just read to their lives, usually with the guidance of the Rabbi’s sermon. That is why a key component of the modern Bar of Bat Mitzvah service is the reading of a portion of Torah by the child, who then shares his or her interpretation of the text before the congregation.

Interpretation and argumentation also occurs for most Jews outside of the synagogue service. Children who attend Hebrew school, for instance, do close readings of texts, interpret them, and formulate arguments about how that text can be applied to various ethical questions. Recently, for example, my daughter’s religious school class discussed how Torah can be used to argue for or against stem cell research, homosexuality, and various environmental initiatives. Furthermore, home-based Jewish rituals such as the Passover service provide further opportunities for Jews to read texts, interpret them, and formulate arguments. The Hagaddah (the text read aloud at a Passover service) describes the story of Exodus but also offers commentary on that primary text.

One must remember, too, Jews have always held education and the asking of questions in high regard. For example, the most revered person historically in Jewish communities was neither the wealthiest nor the most powerful person in the community; it was the Rabbi. This was so not because the Rabbi was considered to have special powers or to have a special connection with God; it was so because the Rabbi was generally the most educated member of the community and the one who could guide others in their own learning. The word rabbi, in fact, translates as teacher.

Graff, as a Jew, would be predisposed to valuing education, text interpretation, and argumentation. He attributes his status as “closet nerd” to other factors such as in interest in sports and movies. “Being Jewish,” as Graff puts it, no doubt carried at least as much weight as sports and movies in Graff’s pathway to intellectualism, and probably much more. — Laura Hills

The Curmudgeon of ENG 610 Asks Two Questions

At dinner last night, my husband and I engaged in one of our usual spirited conversations. This one began with theories of leadership that I’m studying in another course, but honestly, we could have been talking about goat herding. The topic didn’t matter. After several volleys, Cornell told me that I enjoy arguing. Moi? Enjoy arguing?  I jabbed back that he couldn’t be more wrong. I lock horns with Cornell during these discussions, I said, because I have strong opinions. That’s all.However, reading my four blog posts up in my office early this Sunday morning (while Cornell is downstairs eating breakfast), I have something to admit to all of you, my colleagues. Surprise, surprise, I see that my dear husband is right. The truth is that I’m downright cantankerous.

I didn’t realize until right now that each of my first four blog posts for ENG 610 argues something, and that that something is without exception based upon a negative. Here’s what I mean:

  • Blog Post 1: I argue that my instructors failed me by not teaching me how to read poetry and for not sharing with me that poetry is difficult.
  • Blog Post 2: I argue that Bass’s oral assessment method is cause for concern – three concerns, in fact.
  • Blog Post 3: I argue that the way we teach literature studies today is just a fashion trend – as was New Criticism – and that things will change again.
  • Blog Post 4: I argue that the lecture still has merit as a teaching and learning tool despite the fact that practically everyone says it doesn’t.

So Question #1 is: Why does Laura Hills keep coming at these blog entries with both fists up and so much vinegar and sass running through her veins?  Do I really just like to argue for argument’s sake?

Yes. When tasked with writing and posting my response to the readings in this course, my first thought each and every time is: What’s wrong? What’s troubling? Where did the author leave himself/herself open for a knockout punch? And, dear readers, what will make for interesting reading for you, my darlings?  I don’t want to tell you week after week what is right or good in what we’re reading. That’s a snooze. I focus instead on what is wrong, where the weaknesses are, where I can stick my scalpel, open the patient wide for you, and expose the hidden infection so you’ll see it and recoil in horror.

What’s most interesting to me about this observation is that in most human interactions, I’m not like this at all. I’m actually a nice person. Really. I am always the one looking for points of agreement between disputants, seeking ways we can achieve consensus, thinking about what makes us more alike than different. Ask the people I work with. Ask my students. They’ll tell you that I dwell on the good and that I’m the heart of the little university where I work. That leads me to:

Question #2: Why am I such a curmudgeon when it comes particularly to intellectual tasks like theoretical dinner table conversations with my husband and reading texts?

I suppose I’m no different from the rats in B. F. Skinner’s famous experiments. I run through my maze and press my little bar time and time again to get my little pellet of food. I argue in these situations because it’s hugely rewarding for me to do so. I’ve made the bulk of my money in my career not as a teacher but as a writer. Sass gets me the big bucks. (Figurative bucks, folks. They’re not all that big.) My ability to argue has also gotten me a bucket of A’s throughout school. Here I am in my last course for my doctoral program – nine years into my graduate school odyssey — and I see that I’ve built my academic career and success hugely upon argumentation. There are big rewards for taking the low road.

Argumentation has also become personally gratifying for me. If I told you in blog posts that Randy Bass and Sheridan Blau have great ideas, I’d not only probably bore you all into a stupor but I’d feel useless. It’s far more interesting, fresher, fun and satisfying for me to spit tacks at them. Frankly, it feels good to land a good one right on the kisser every now and then. In some circles, they call that scholarship. (Sorry, fellow 610-ers, there’s that sass again.)

In the spirit of learning something new this term, I’d like to try an experiment and I need your help. Next week, when we write blog posts based upon our readings, I promise to focus mine entirely on positives. I won’t point out faults or weaknesses or concerns or predict gloom and doom. This will be difficult for me. But I’m willing to play nice just this once to see how it feels. Then I can figure out what to do next.

What I need from you guys is to read what I write next week and to tell me what you think of it – really think of it. I’m going to let the curmudgeon take a holiday. But first, I’m going to join my husband for breakfast. I need to ask him to read this and to tell him that he was right. Oy! – Laura Hills