In Clueless in Academe, Gerald Graff’s chapter about building vocabulary lists and advocating an authentic voice bring to mind a number of issues.  His contention that vocabulary needs to be increased is certainly unique, but it fails to account for his own theory of compartmentalization. However, Graff’s argument about negotiating the minefield of authentic voice and scholarly support has far more credibility.

Graff’s example of a teacher building up two vocabulary lists, one for Realspeak and one for academic-speak, is initially appealing.  Students need to be able to have the variety of linguistic tools (words) that English offers.  Building up vocabulary appears to be a worthwhile goal.  How educators pursue that goal is an entirely different reality.  The Graff example of the two columns will certainly engage students during that particular class/semester.  Unless this process and the words themselves are repeated year after year, most of the students will simply divorce the vocabulary from their Realspeak.  A handful of students will incorporate it, just as a handful always manages to appropriate new scholarly words, but the majority of the class will simply discard the information.

While his zeal for engaging students is laudable, Graff has forgotten the incredible appeal of compartmentalization.  In an earlier chapter, he directly summarized this tendency and explored its powerful role within the academy.  Somehow this lesson has escaped his analysis of these word-building exercises.  The two-column approach to vocabulary only works if the students encounter these words in subsequent classes/semesters/years.  Otherwise, they will allocate this information to the “something we did in English” category and eventually delete it entirely.  Until this type of vocabulary or discourse becomes emphasized throughout the entire academy, only a few words will ever sink in.

Fortunately, Graff’s discussion of authentic voice is far more realistic and insightful.  Students are expected to show originality while writing in the language and tone of scholarly works.  This dynamic is an absurd paradox that should not be proposed at the beginning of the process.  Our current method of using these characteristics can easily confuse and stump even some of the more eager writers.  Using quotations can help students overcome this hurdle, but exposure is one of the best predictors of future use.

One of the difficult issues here is measuring outcomes.  How can we make sure that a particular lesson or strategy yields a specific result?  The answer cannot be defined in this computerized input-output methodology.  In interviews, many graduates will make a comment about how they wish they could retake courses using their current knowledge.  These graduates or “experienced” students learned a great deal of information spread out among an enormous variety of fields.  It is only at the end of the process that this seemingly disparate information begins to appear valuable.

Consider Graff’s vocabulary list activity.  While many students will compartmentalize the words and consequently discard them, other learners will hold on to a few of them.  Why?  Well, it is likely that these students encountered these new words in another class or outside of school altogether.  For these students, the activity connected with some other aspect of their lives.  Not surprisingly, the new scholarly words were deemed useful and retained (transferred).  Measuring the human mind and the learning process is not a linear or simple process.

In Gerald Graff’s Clueless in Academe, the author describes the cognitive and societal obstacles that interfere with students and teachers at institutions of higher education.  Graff covers a great deal of material, including the tension between scholarly jargon and the vernacular, but his discussion of compartmentalization is particularly insightful.  For reference purposes, most of this exploration takes place on page 68.

The entire credit system is a double-edged sword.  On the one hand, it theoretically affords students the freedom to choose courses of interest.  On the other hand, these mix-and-match patterns of coursework don’t often yield the general body of knowledge that an institution’s mission statement advocates.  Every student’s experience is unique, which poses some interesting issues.  Consider my background.  As an undergraduate math-major-turned-English-major, my academic transcript is rather odd.  While the number of math courses is predictably excessive, it is the overflow of non-American literature and history courses that is particularly striking.  Most of my coursework involved a study of French and Russian history.  As for literature courses, only several courses in Shakespeare would count as “traditional” literature classes.  The reason behind these choices had to do with scheduling and finding the “right” teachers.  As a result, I’ve managed to be one of the few English majors that have never read Hemingway.  What does this mean?

More importantly, this issue brings up the tendency of students, including myself, to compartmentalize knowledge in each course.  When learning physics, I did not apply it to any “real world” examples that were outside of class.  Application or transference was something that I assumed would happen later through some magical process involving experience.  This flawed assumption on my part and the inaction on the part of the education system to foster interdisciplinary thinking created a gap in my understanding.   It’s no wonder that many students score highly on tests and in course assignments but are unable to solve problems on their first applied job.  The gap between knowledge and application appears to be growing.

Measuring, or assessing, transference between courses and fields is an extremely difficult task, yet scholars and successful professionals often cite the ability to link concepts across seemingly unrelated fields as a key ingredient in innovation and progress.  It would seem that interdisciplinary studies would best be suited to accomplish this goal.  Unfortunately, institutional barriers quickly emerge to thwart such an undertaking.  For example, budgetary concerns question the rationality behind paying two teachers to teach a single class.   This doubling in the budget at a time when money is tight (when isn’t it?) has prevented team teaching from becoming a reality.  Not surprisingly, compartmentalizing has become the norm.

Graff’s discussion of the criticisms of the elective system dating back over one hundred years is particular disheartening.  After such a long period of experimentation and analysis, the need for a significant change or modification would appear obvious.  However, the credit/elective system is tied to a series of interests, laws, regulations, legal precedents, and budgetary mandates that maintain the status quo.  The only realistic opportunity for addressing transference appears to remain inside the classroom.  Perhaps reforming the curriculum to include cross-disciplinary evaluations and activities are the only short-term solution.

In Textual Power, Robert Scholes spends a considerable amount of time discussing the power and relevance of the text. In particular, he decides to attack the idea that a text is nothing more than a result of the interpreter. He attributes this point of view and approach to Stanley Fish. In his argument, Scholes contends that the text’s contextual clues and its actual language serve to constrain meaning. Therefore, the free-for-all interpretations that have no basis in the text’s background and context can be judged as incorrect or invalid.

Scholes is advocating what most readers have done all along. My students and I use different contextual clues from within the text to derive meaning. It’s a constant struggle between our own experiences and the boundaries that the text presents. If we rely too heavily on one aspect, our view of the writing and its meaning becomes skewed. Like Scholes, most readers use more than a single approach to a given piece of writing. One of the major misconceptions in classes about literary theory is the tendency to isolate each school of thought. Naturally, a student leaves the classroom thinking that people read a text using a distinct literary theory such as New Criticism or New Historicism. This is rarely the case. While some readers advocate a particular theory, I have never met a fellow student or reader that completely adhered to a particular tract. The interaction between the text and the reader demands a number of different approaches. In some cases, a considerable amount of cultural knowledge is necessary. In other texts, a specific knowledge of a case or moment in time is helpful.

Shakespeare is a perfect example of a text that requires a little knowledge from a wide range of fields. The language requires the ability to appreciate rhyme schemes. Some of the references are based on historical events, so a cursory knowledge of “basic” history is equally helpful. Finally, a firm grounding in basic psychology or human nature can help illuminate some of the various motivations that each character brings to the action. Are all of these elements necessary? No. Are they extremely helpful to deciphering the text? Yes.

At some level, the text is communicating some essential message or truth. That explains the similar reactions that people have to an unknown text. While readers differ in their precise interpretations, the fact that most agree on a few basic concepts about a given text is an indicator of something within the text. To argue that interpretation is purely based on cultural influences is to deny the power and tools present in the text. Texts have meaning and value. Our view of the text may change, but some aspects and themes (good and evil) remain ever-present. I am reminded of that old saying about the journey being more important than the destination. In the case of literature, the process of discovery leads to critical thinking and deep learning. Losing site of that goal is a constant danger.

–Francois Guidry

            Over the past five weeks, the entire class has responded to various readings using a blog.  Each of us has shared personal experiences and chosen specific passages to critique and analyze.  Reviewing my posts over the first several weeks of the semester, a few key themes and patterns clearly emerge.  My blog entries have focused exclusively on the question of “valid” textual interpretations and the need to help students tackle traditionally difficult works of literature.  The pattern of analysis used in these posts follows a two-tiered structure.  The first part of each post is a short summary and a theoretical response.  After defining the issue in more general terms, the remainder of each blog entry blends personal experience with the theoretical approaches explored in the reading.

Creating meaning and judging interpretations is a dominant theme throughout my blog posts.  My exploration of the concept begins with a response to Robert Crosman’s Do Readers Make Meaning and his refutation of New Criticism.  Predictably, the response to this article begins as a summary and ends with personal and practical applications.  Using a personal example about literary interpretation allows me to move into teaching experience.  The blog entry from that week emphasizes the confusion over the issue and concludes with an analytical conclusion that “evidence is the key to determining validity”(Week 4).

Although the structure of the response is similar during Week 5, the actual progression of thought regarding textual interpretation slightly changes.  The idea of using the text as the basis for interpretation remains, but there is a new focus on discussion.  Textual support is important, but classroom debate and discussion also enter the equation.  According to my Week 5 posting, “Even more frustrating was the teacher’s decision to move on to another text without any discussion.”  Once again, a personal example is used to expand upon the discussion over “valid” or “invalid” meaning.  This shift in argument is partly a response to Blau’s text and also a result of discussion about interpretation during the class.  Consequently, my view of interpretation moves from strictly textual to one that includes discussion and debate.  This shift is likely a result of direct writing.  When tackling a single subject through repeated writing assignments and analyses, new insights and details are often discovered and integrated into the approach.

The other major theme that is apparent in my blog posts is the concept of difficulty and the strategies students use to negotiate a complex work of literature.  My first response to this topic involved a broad assessment of the problem and the need for students to defer meaning.  As my Week 1 post indicates, my approach to the issue was one-dimensional.  Students should simply skip over difficult material. Framing this argument through my experience as a teacher I state, “I always tell my classes to avoid getting stuck at any one point in a reading” (Week 1).  At this point, there is little depth provided.  This point was clarified and further explained in subsequent postings.

Fortunately, the posts generated a number of comments from other students.  One of the class members, Edith, asked, “If we tell students to just skip over the tough parts and aim for the overall meaning, are we skipping a step in the reasoning process?” (Week 2).  My peers were concerned that my one-dimensional “skip until later” approach was a quick shortcut for difficult texts. Using these comments, I was able to more fully expound upon my argument and define it as only a preliminary strategy for novice readers.  This refinement took place within the “comments” section.  Student interaction was vital in shaping my argument and redefining the technique of deferral.

Clearly, the process of blogging has created some noticeable shifts in my thoughts and responses to teaching literature.  The comments and discussions from other students have proven invaluable to my own growth as a learner and teacher.  The constant need to construct written responses while interacting with both texts and peers forces me to critically evaluate my opinions and interpretations.  It is not sufficient to simply share an experience.  As the changes in my blog posts indicate, integrating textual support and comments is vital to uncovering meaning and shaping my approach to the teaching of literature.

–Francois Guidry

Sheridan Blau’s The Literature Workshop is a two-pronged approach to address the various issues encountered in a literature course.  The author begins by analyzing the various challenges that arise when students and teachers interact with a given text.  Having explored those difficulties, the author moves on to provide concrete examples of assignments and activities for teachers and learners.  However, I found the discussion in Chapter 3 to be particularly interesting and insightful.  Blau brings up some of the difficulties with asserting that a single meaning is “correct” when dealing with a specific text.

Blau uses Roethke’s My Papa’s Waltz to illustrate the cultural effects on literary interpretation.  Before the 1980s, most students tended to view the poem as an expression of warmth and a fond recollection of the past.  Students growing up in the 1980s and today generally read the poem as symbolizing abuse.  This is a compelling argument against the idea of a single meaning within a text.  To a large extent, the reader is a result of his or her cultural background.  I remember reading this poem in the 1980s.  At the time, I thought it was clearly about the author’s love for his father.  Predictably, half of the class brought up issues of abuse or the idea of a strained relationship.  Even more frustrating was the teacher’s decision to move on to another text without any discussion. These clashes in interpretation are at the heart of literature.  Discussions are vital whenever a text is explored; otherwise, students tend to file the poem away as simply “something else they had to read”.  In my case, the potential for learning was never realized.

Blau’s comparison of the literary field to other disciplines is also enlightening.  This is the first time I’ve seen this particular argument made, and it mirrors my own views on learning.  Blau implies a number of interesting parallels between literature and other fields, such as law.  Courts are considered the final word on a particular issue, usually an interpretation of a piece of law.  However, these courts often have split decisions with nearly half of the judges voting against the majority.  It should come as no surprise that the idea of finding a universal and singular meaning from any text is problematic.  Yet many instructors fail to recognize this parallel and continue to teach the “correct interpretation” of a particular text.  This argument strikes me as especially powerful because it broadens the definition of a text.  Most students view literature as a specific field, but the reality is that every piece of writing can be considered a text.

My view on the matter of a “single interpretation” is close to Blau’s argument.  When I was an undergraduate, many of my literature courses were straightforward lecture-and-repeat classes.  The meaning of the text was explained, and my task was to recite this meaning on the test using textual examples as support.  I didn’t see a problem with this approach because I simply used the so-called “single meaning” provided by the instructor as a springboard to arrive at my own personal interpretation.  On the tests, I simply repeated what was expected.  Internally, my views on a specific text were often different than the accepted “single meaning”.

As a teacher, I realize that students have different learning styles and may not be able to use the “single meaning” to internally create their ideas.  Interpretations should be weighed and discussed during class, and the emphasis on any one reading of a text should be debated.  It seems to me that the goal of the literature classroom is similar to the goal of courts: an interpretation must be made based on textual evidence.  One of the overarching aims of college is to encourage students to think critically, and the multiple meanings derived from text serve as a perfect opportunity.

–Francois Guidry

    Robert Crosman’s Do Readers Make Meaning is a powerful rebuke of New Criticism and the idea of a close reading of the text.  Crosman is clearly denouncing the idea that a text as a universal meaning that an educated reader can eventually uncover.  He favors the idea that the reader brings at least as much meaning to the text as the actual writing itself.  In a sense, Crosman is challenging the idea of a universal truth although he expressly limits that debate to the field of literary studies.  From my experience as a reader and a teacher, a middle ground between the text and the reader must be reached for meaning to be valuable.

I remember studying New Criticism as an undergraduate.  I was immediately drawn to the appeal of a “close reading”.  After all, my years in high school consisted of readings and bizarre interpretations.  It was a world where every interpretation is valid.  That seemed a bit far-fetched to me, so the idea of uncovering truth was instantly appealing.  However, it becomes immediately apparent that meaning does not exist in the text alone.  Once a reader begins discussing literature with other learners, several different interpretations appear.  In a purely New Critical model, only one of those interpretations would be valid.  This is where Crosman makes a point in denouncing the idea of a single meaning.  How can we possibly decide which “meaning” is the universal truth?

I notice this issue first hand when I read Othello.  Most essays, teachers, and readers immediately jump on the themes of love and pride.  In truth, these are central to the context of the play and its appeal.  However, I have always been fascinated by Othello’s refusal to promote his trusted lieutenant, Iago.  Othello trusts him completely, yet the promotion is given to another person.  He never explains the rationale to Iago or provides compensation.  Some have argued that Othello had suspicions about Iago, but I see no evidence in the text.  Consequently, my reading of the play always takes on a slightly different approach.  I do not view Othello as the great and noble hero from the play’s outset.  He already has a flaw. Is my reading unjustified and false?

This is where evidence and textual support come into play.  As long as the reader can cite several examples and build a coherent case, then the interpretation must be accepted as valid.  This is an essential part of meaning.  If evidence is allowed to be weak and flimsy, then my high school experiences of free-for-all meaning will resurface.  It is a half-truth to say that a text means something.  It is also a half-truth to say that a reader creates meaning.  Both the reader and text are necessary.  Evidence is the key to determining validity.

–Francois Guidry

Randy Bass’ post within the Visible Knowledge Project presents two crucial insights into the minds of college readers. The first point that Bass, a leading figure in the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning (SOTL) movement, makes is that students obsess and focus on unclear reading passages. If a certain sentence or section is not immediately clear, students will spend enormous amounts of time attempting to decode that particular area. As a result, many readers will either never finish the rest of the text or they will lose interest in the work entirely.

My experience with college-level readers, particular those in developmental courses, mirrors Bass’ findings. I have noticed students struggle with a single sentence for several minutes. Consequently, they do not finish the reading on time, and they tend to fall behind. Some students will waste a considerable amount of resources and time looking up new vocabulary words when they should focus instead on the text’s overall meaning and value. Once the meaning for that word, sentence or section is clarified, they have no trouble progressing.

This brings up Bass’ second major point about reading: deferral. Teachers should advocate and explain the idea of “deferring meaning” while reading.

Expert readers may not fully grasp each and ever sentence during their first read. However, they are experienced, so they refuse to allow a small element in the work to impede their progress. The importance of the piece’s overall meaning overrides the desire to understand a specific sentence or unknown word. Novice readers operate from the standpoint of a recipe. I find the recipe analogy appropriate because it fits the mindset of many readers. From the novice reader point of view, every sentence and word must be understood as they are encountered if the entire work is to make sense. Recipes must be followed sequentially; therefore, the meaning of a book or essay must be decoded sequentially. The idea of skipping sections and deferring meaning until later seems “dishonest” or “incorrect”.

In my English composition courses, I try to encourage students to skip over difficult areas in a text. As a class, we can always cover these trouble spots later. Novice readers must remember that the first goal in reading is to comprehend the meaning of the text. Vocabulary and bizarre sentence structures can be dissected later. Nonetheless, many of my students refuse to “let go” of the recipe or formula schema. They continue to spend a great deal of energy on individual elements. Coupled with a lack of confidence in their own abilities, this recipe schema undercuts the ability of novice readers to tackle difficult readings. Students must build up confidence by exploring a variety of texts to reassess their approach to reading. Expert readers, on the other hand, tend to skip over sections quickly without consciously acknowledging this activity.

Mariolina Rizzi Salvatori and Patricia Donahue’s The Elements (and Pleasures) of Difficulty is a useful window into the minds of undergraduate readers. However, the author’s discussion of The Education of Henry Adams and Shakespeare’s Othello are particularly relevant to my experience as reader. As an undergraduate, I was forced to read both texts in various courses. Salvatori and Donahue’s description of the average reader’s reaction to the text mirrors my experiences as well.

In the case of The Education of Henry Adams, I distinctly remember using the words “long” and “boring” to describe the text. Although the text is an autobiography, Adams routinely uses the third person point of view. Combined with some rather lengthy sentences and unusual sentence patterns, the third person perspective made this text rather dull when I was an undergraduate. Salvatori and Donahue’s suggestion about writing a “difficulty paper” and exploring the reasons for my reaction would have been an interesting and enlightening experience. Ironically, the course that assigned the reading was a senior seminar English class that served as a capstone for the whole program. It would have been an ideal course for critically assessing the effectiveness of the text using concrete examples and analysis. Unfortunately, the course emphasized the text’s overall form within the autobiographical genre. Before class, most of the students would talk about the text being “long and boring”. As Salvatori and Donahue advocate, writing and discussing these difficulties within the class itself would have served as a useful analytical tool and possibly provided some solutions to the dilemma.

Shakespeare’s Othello was another assigned reading during my undergraduate experience. While a great deal of the vocabulary and terminology was alien to me at the time, I did not let the issue impede or slow my reading of the text. As Salvatori and Donahue point out about English majors, I was ignoring “what did not make sense” and moving on through the rest of the text (103). A quick glance at the text’s footnotes would usually reveal some of the definitions when it became necessary. The key point here is counter-intuitive. Few teachers firmly advocate the idea of skipping over confusing text to ascertain the overall meaning. For many students, the thought of ignoring words or lines may seem dishonest or insulting. Nonetheless, most experienced readers and writers ignore certain pieces of text and only return to them if they are curious or believe them to be vital the work as a whole. I always tell my classes to avoid getting stuck at any one point in a reading. It’s important to move on and understand the entire piece rather then spend several minutes figuring out an odd sentence or two.

As a teacher of English composition at a community college, I do not cover a great deal of literature. However, the class does respond to several short readings. One of the most useful discussions over a reading involves the text’s accessibility or difficulty. I make it clear that the text is not necessarily the authoritative final voice in the discussion. If the class finds flaws in the content or layout of the reading, we will explore it either in small writing groups or orally. I find that this exercise empowers students with the confidence necessary to approach new readings. In particular, developmental or “remedial” English students gain the most from this activity. Often, they are intimidated by unknown vocabulary and complex sentence patters. Once the students begin breaking down the text and analyzing it, they begin to realize that few texts are truly inaccessible.