Diversity in the English Department

English departments in many different universities are often varied entities. Within the department are creative writers; those who stress literature and critical responses therein; rhetoric and communication enthusiasts; future teachers; and scholars specializing in language theory. Though separate entities, they all fall under the umbrella of English, and thus dichotomies between any combination of the four can create problems within the department. It is essential that each subsection of the English department be represented equally in the curriculum and perhaps even integrated for a more fulfilling and complete academic experience.

Because of the varying interests of students within any academic department, the curriculum within each major and minor should reflect variety just as wide as those students' interests. As such, the argument can be made for the English department. One good example is the ongoing “Horace Mann University staff meetings” in the advanced essays class. Some students stressed the importance of literature above all else, while those concentrating in English education generally wanted classes that would pertain to their future careers as teachers. Still others thought that creative writing should take the forefront. The need to come together with a concise and complete 16-course curriculum for this assignment made compromise and balance a definite necessity.

Arguments against this can be made. One student argued that literature classes can address most academic needs within the English department. He stated that if taught correctly, the literature classes could teach not only the literary background, but also grammar and spelling, as well as help those going into education with their futures as educators and offer a template for creative writing.

A couple of other students agreed, while others disagreed. Counter arguments were made. How would creative writing be taught from a compositional point of view? How would advanced, college-level lessons in grammar be applied in classes that are focused on content rather than technical aspects? While no opinions were wrong, it was clear that compromise had to happen in order to create a fair and balanced curriculum for all of those involved.

If such in-depth debates were sparked between “staff members,” then how much bigger the conflicts are among students in a curriculum that has not reached a compromise. Thus, it is the faculty and staff who must make sure that as many interests as possible are covered within their department. Deans and other decision makers must be sure not to be biased in any way. Educators must decide how to accommodate for each course's objectives while helping students to get the most out of their education. Both the administration and the professors must work together to make sure that the objectives of each course within the department are a harmonious mixture of practical and theoretical.

Of course, this is speaking on a wider plane, it seems, than that mentioned by a scholar like Scholes. In “Textual Power,” Scholes says, “The field of English is organized by two primary gestures of differentiation, dividing and redividing the field by binary

opposition. First of all, we divide the field into two categories: literature and non-literature” (5). Further down the page he defines literature as classic “texts” that are read and studied in class, and non-literature as anything but, specifically literary criticism and creative writing. Though this broad categorization suits his argument, and though he does mention the “dividing and redividing” of the two, I would say that the line that he draws is slightly off-center as well as exclusive.

In a counterpoint, Graff, though his focus is also on the dichotomy between “literature and non-literature,” tends to at least mention the whole picture. When speaking of the relationship between creative writers and theoreticists, he says that he doesn't see “many signs of curricular collaboration between these factions – or, for that matter, between creative writers and scholars or critics, or between any of these groups and teachers of rhetoric composition” (273). Here, Graff mentions what Scholes failed to acknowledge in his essay, which is that there is more to an English education than simply reading what other people read and responding to it, or attempting to copy the styles of what one has read. I personally would agree, especially given the varied results of our class' assignment in picking 16 courses for an imaginary university's curriculum.

After the presences of other areas of study within the English program have been brought to mind, another issue can be tackled. That is the problem of integration. Should literature, creative writing, language theory, education and other fields be acknowledged as completely separate entities and treated as such, taking care of each one in its own time? Graff mentions that professors “require that those who major or minor in creative writing cover a number of literary periods and genres. How or whether students integrate their creative writing courses within their courses in literature, composition, or theory is left largely to students to figure out on their own” (272). This is where I return to a subject upon which I lightly touched earlier, and that is the importance of defining course objectives in a way that will apply knowledge across the curriculum rather than just in the field denoted in the course title. As a practical person, I think it is essential to learning – be it in the classroom, in the workplace, or in life in general – to apply related knowledge wherever it is applicable. For instance, a creative writing assignment might be to study short bits of literature to find a style or theme that suits the student as a writer. Likewise, in a literature class, assignments to write brief creative pieces of writing based on the styles being studied at a given time might help students to apply the theories with which they are working. Of course, none of these blended assignments could take the place of an actual, separate course in another subject, but the results could be a more complete and satisfying educational experience for students and professors alike. Students could break the potentially boring cycle of reading and responding, or writing without direction. Professors might better see the potential of their students and also maybe witness something new. Also, I would imagine that plenty of people wouldn't mind breaking the monotony of a class singly focused on one particular subject. The incorporation of different teaching techniques could add a new dimension to otherwise two-dimensional course work.

Of course, the issue of balance works in many ways in this situation. Not only must activities be integrated between subjects, but also there must be boundaries within the activities. As Bernstein illustrated so well through example in the latter portions of “Frame Lock,” writing in a class focused on linguistics, for example, should at least try to make sense and form a clear thought through the use of language. Creative writing could certainly be used in a class focused in something like linguistics, but in general, I would think it to be a good idea to leave the random, experimental styles to a class designated for such a thing. It is important for a writer to consider his or her audience in order to communicate effectively, and I would judge by Bernstein's writing that he would support this idea.

On the subject of communication, I would say that this is the key to beginning anything that I have previously mentioned here. Graff says, “I think that our isolation from each other, which deprives us of the possibility of helping each other, makes our jobs harder and less pleasurable in the long run – not least by depriving our students of a continuing conversation that they might join, by leaving them confused about the relationships between courses and instructors, and by forcing them to start over virtually from scratch with every new instructor” (273). In this way, we see both student and professor benefits. By unifying the system, students gain a standard by which they might judge their own work. Ask any group of students which professors they would recommend and why, and you will get a fair amount of agreements about which ones grade the hardest, which ones have the strangest quirks, which ones favor certain styles of writing, etc. In a grand unification throughout the department, a certain level of objectivity can be gained in that professors will understand each other more and will be better equipped to handle each other's needs. This, as Graff said, would make the job much easier overall.

English, by nature, is quite a broad subject. As a form of communication – a language – it encompasses many facets and has many uses. As a reflection of this, by recognizing all of the different subsets within the English department, getting over personal biases, compromising and communicating, a new, unified and efficient format for the department can exist. It might take a little motivation and action, but the benefits would be outstanding and well worth the effort.

First sentences of critical essay

English departments in many different universities are often varied entities. Within the department are creative writers; those who stress literature and critical responses therein; rhetoric and communication enthusiasts; and scholars specializing in language theory. Though separate entities, they all fall under the umbrella of English, and thus dichotomies between any combination of the four can create problems within the department. It is essential that each subsection of the English department be represented equally in the curriculum and perhaps even integrated for a more fulfilling and complete academic experience.

Disagreeing with Bernstein

In his essay, "Frame Lock," Charles Bernstein states that writing in an academic setting has become too rigid and cold. He argues for a more lenient and personally expressive style of writing to be used in scholarly contexts. He says in a rather long-winded statement, "I diagnose the problem as 'frame lock,' a kind of logorrheic lock jaw, or sandy mouth, or bullet-with-the-baby-not-just-quite-then-almost-out-of-reach, as a mood swinging under a noose of monomaniacal monotones, the converted preaching to the incontrovertible, the guard rail replacing the banisters, stairs, stories, elevation, detonation reverberation, indecision, concomitant intensification system." More or less, he is arguing that there is a block that typical academic-styled writing creates between the writer and sincerity, or at least clarity.

Personally, I would have to disagree, even though I can definitely see his point. Sure, I hate the academic style as much as the next student. I don't like to read it; surely in any other situation there would be far more effective and efficient ways to make and prove a point than with complicated jargon and words that no sane person should ever use in front of an audience. It is often trite, confusing, and boring. Even now, I am choosing to write in a more expressive, personal and conversational tone.

However, there is a time and place for everything. One must consider his or her audience. Unfortunately for innocent, layman bystanders, the target audience for academic writing is the elite. The tone suits the purpose in this situation. Jargon is often the most effective way to communicate among those who understand, and those are the only people who would really benefit from the information, anyway. Usually these articles are written in highly specialized and detailed areas that simply do not relate to the general populous, but instead to a similarly specialized and small group. Jargon is a good way to form shortcuts in such situations. Therefore, the academic would not be inappropriate in the given context, but rather prudent.

On "The English Apparatus"

In Textual Power, Robert Scholes makes one main argument, which is that English as it is taught in institutions of higher learning is treated as far too sacred and concrete. He offers the idea that perhaps things are a bit too stiff and systematic in English departments, and universities should consider taking a fresh, new approach that apply students practically, rather than theoretically, to the learning process.

In the text, Scholes presents a similar dichotomy in English education as Graff's essay did -- that "creative writing" vs. literature education are treated as completely separate within the department, and that that should change. While he doesn't seem to favor one over the other, he does promote reform in both.

Specifically, he argues that creative writing should be taken a bit more seriously, which would reflect a lack of trivialization of the educational process itself and perhaps instill in students a higher sense of accomplishment and progress within their schooling.

On the literature education subject, he makes the point that one's reaction to literature cannot necessarily be dictated, and so literature classes should, again, be more practical than a simple summary over a work. In this he expresses a wish to blur the lines between creativity and literature studies, promoting a more creative and personalized response technique to the writing.

Overall, it seems to be Scholes' intent to show that English education can be improved by taking a new perspective that can, in his opinion, affect students more positively. The text is very much focused on individualization and how it can improve a student's educational experience.

On Reading Montaigne

Unfortunately, illness is keeping me out of the classroom today, but I can still discuss my impressions here.

Montaigne's writing is surprisingly more accessible than I had originally anticipated. I was expecting something along the lines of the complexity of Lamb for some reason, but what I got was something simple, understandable, and not unenjoyable. It shocked me how small my vocabulary expansion list was for this author, at least so far -- this certainly does not detract from the writing, as I appreciate artful simplicity. I was not able to make any progress into "Virgil," but his other essays are fairly memorable.

I thought "On a Monstrous Child" was an interesting perspective on Siamese twins. It was unusual, in the context of this day and age, to read a less "tolerant" of an individual with a birth defect. In contrast, there was a strange innocent tone, almost, that accompanied what might today be considered medical ignorance.

"On Books" was a good account of the literature at the time. Montaigne obviously felt strongly about reading and it definitely shows. My favorite part was when he mentioned "attacking" books, and how if after two attacks he didn't fully grasp the text, he simply moved on to the next portion. It is an odd thing to have impressed upon me, but as a book lover with a surprisingly slow reading pace and perhaps a bit poor comprehension, I could definitely relate.

First paragraphs, take two

[Note: I must have accidentally deleted the first version of this entry, which was posted on February 12. My apologies.]

1. I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on the man who would, as it turns out, be the one to drive me completely insane. It started harmlessly enough. I walked into an unfamiliar house and he was there, sitting on the couch. He smiled a magnetic smile and introduced himself. At that point, I realized it was all over. The torment began. I would never be the same.

2. All my life it seems that nothing in the world has quite fit right on me. Shirts aren't long enough. Jeans aren't wide enough in the hips. Religion isn't flexible enough. People are too shallow and quick to make assumptions. Then the thought occurs to me: Maybe I am not the right shape for the world, not the other way around.

3. Of all the places to observe the ubiquitous stupidity that runs rampant throughout humanity, perhaps the least expected place I have found it is in regards to the cell phone. It can be seen clearly in the car accidents caused by overly ambitious texters. Teachers and even professors see it when the words "you" and "are" are replaced by single letters in students' papers. Movie lovers witness it in the theater when a girl just has to take a call from her boyfriend in the middle of a particularly dialogue-heavy scene. The people have the phones plastered to the sides of their faces. They can't leave home without them. They have to turn back and go get them on the way to work. They scorn those who prefer to wear watches. Cell phones are an epidemic, making the world stupider one person at a time.

4. In my mind, movement is sacred. It is as sacred as the body which produces it. When viewed from a scientific perspective, muscles, tendons and bones working together to create an effect should not be such a beautiful thing, but it so often is. By far one of the best and most powerful examples of this is dance.

5. It is surprising what nature can offer in the way of imparting knowledge on the spiritual world to those who will simply stop and listen. Lightning storms can dampen plans or they can invigorate. The sun can burn or it can cause life to grow. Plants can cause allergies or they can produce beautiful scents and colors. Winter can chill one to the boen or it can remind one to be introspective. The earth is full of mysteries and wisdom; it is completely up to perspective to dictate whether one sees it or not.

Why Hormones Are Such Terrible Things

I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on the man who would, as it turns out, be the one to drive me completely insane. It started harmlessly enough. I walked into an unfamiliar house and he was there, sitting on the couch. He smiled a magnetic smile and introduced himself. At that point, I realized it was all over. The torment began. I would never be the same.

First off, let me set the record straight. I am not a romantic, let alone a hopeless one. I do not swoon. I do not watch chick flicks. I do not lie awake at night wistfully listening to love songs. I definitely do not enjoy reading silly teenage vampire romance books. I like my music danceable, my movies bloody, and my demeanor funny yet aloof. When my curiosity led me to read said vampire romance novels, I was appalled at the fact that the main couple's "love" is based solely on physical attraction in one way or another.

That is why there is a huge conflict set up in my mind regarding my feelings in this particular situation. Suddenly I have reverted back to my 13-year-old self. I might as well be wearing Powerpuff Girl tank tops and Bonne Bell lip gloss and listening to Irish pop music. Oddly, I think then I might be saner than I am now.

Take, for example, my biggest source of embarrassment. I have regrettably learned over the last two years that I have a major blushing problem. Any time I speak in class I turn bright red. If I get angry, I turn bright red. If I hear good news, I turn bright red. If I exert myself physically, I turn bright red. If I am embarrassed...well, I guess blushing in that situation is a little more normal. The point is, however, that any emotional agitation I feel causes the capillaries all over my face to swell with blood, flare out and turn me into a veritable tomato.

Now imagine my face every time I run into the object of my desires. It is humiliating. How does one explain that? "Oh, my face gets red every time I see you? Maybe it's allergies," or, "What are you talking about? I'm always this color. Have you ever seen me any other color? Exactly," or, "I know it's only 11 a.m., but I felt like getting started early on tonight's drinking binge. Want to come?"

Naturally, I just avoid it and pretend it's not happening. Last time I saw him he had an exceptionally large smile on his face and looked positively radiant. I can't decide if he was just very happy to see me or if he was taking great amusement in the fact that he has an inexplicable power over my blood vessels.

Also regarding the last time I saw him, I'm not quite sure what happened to me in the communication department. We discussed English subjects after I had walked out of linguistics class. He explained that he much preferred literature to the study of the language itself. What I meant to say was a graceful, elegant and mirthful phrase such as, "Oh, I prefer language studies, darling. Sadly, I personally read very slowly so literature classes are out unless necessary. How fascinating diversity is!" Unfortunately, it came out more like, "Oh really? I suck at literature. This is me in literature," and then I inserted some indecipherable hand motions that may or may not have conveyed the idea that I read slowly with somewhat poor comprehension. Once again, my brain had failed me, just like any time I tried to give him a compliment but ended up tripping over my own tongue. If tripping over one's own tongue sounds impossible, you should just watch me sometime.

There was, of course, the first memorable time that I felt stupid around him. We were in his car singing a duet by a band that we both liked, and he turned to me and said, "By the way, I think you have a very pretty voice, Cynthia." The ever present blush appeared on my face in its most viciously dark form. My response was, "Thanks. I think you have a...cool...voice...too." Inside, I had my face planted firmly against the palm of my hand. What kind of a response is that to a compliment? It's times like that that you become strikingly aware of just how permanently words can stick, if only in your own head to taunt you.

The paranoia of being ditsy has driven me partially crazy. If I think I'm going to run into him, I try to recite a mantra of, "I'm cool, I'm cool, I'm cool," which of course makes me just the opposite and probably causes people to give me very strange looks in the hallway.

In situations in which I'm trying to force myself not to react stupidly -- these attempts are rarely successful -- I start trying to rationalize the whole thing as well. Why do I feel the way I do? I came up with several answers. He is ridiculously pretty was the first one that came to mind, which made me ashamed of myself. What else? We've have sing-alongs to obscure bands that few other people in this part of the country would know. We have fun, drunken nights, assuming that we ever actually hang out. I can talk to him about basically anything, depending on how much alcohol I have in my system at the time. Did I mention that he is very pretty?

I have yet to find an explanation that has a firm basis in anything substantial. All I have been able to determine is that I am no better than that fictional teenage girl I loathe so much who fell for the vampire for no real reason -- shallow, stupid and completely irrational. It can't be love; it must be infatuation of some sort. I know this in my brain and I have more or less come to accept it. It is confusing, though, because I never could have imagined that anything less than love could be quite this difficult or torturous.

If nothing else, this shameless display of vulnerability and a lack of control is a humbling experience. Though I wouldn't say that I am showing the real me -- rather a stumbling and possibly mentally disabled version of the real me -- at least I know that it is possible for me to feel so extremely and not be able to explain why. It is kind of a novel idea and, in a way, I kind of feel proud to experience such a unique sensation. That doesn't make the situations any less painful, but at least I know that, in ten years when I am finally (maybe) over him, I can look back and laugh, with maybe only a hint of a blush on my face.