Response to Huot, and Connors and Lunsford

Hands-off Teaching

To begin with, I must say that I have never held “proofreading and editing” in very high regard. For some reason, I have always associated the conscious performance of those terms with error-hunting, thinking of them as surface corrections that do not deal with content. (I have, however, always approached the task of polishing my papers as absolutely necessary. I do not remember ever actually being told that my papers had to look a certain way, but rather that the habit of polishing my papers in such a way has long since become second nature.)

Those admissions aside, I realized about half way through Monday’s class that I do actively engage in editing and proofreading, but that those behaviors have become so engrained in my writing process that I no longer consider them distinct or noticeable steps. It was when Professor Takayoshi discussed the fact that many of her students have developed the unfortunate habit of printing their writing assignments without taking the time to read them aloud that I realized how invisible and fluid my writing process has become. Every time I write academically, even as I compose this blog entry, I pause every ten minutes or so to take a deep breath and reread (aloud) the last paragraph or so of what I have written. This process keeps me focused on the “point” of what I am writing, preventing me from haring off on a literary tangent. For reasons that I cannot identify, I actively participate in my own writing process, though no one ever told me that I should.

I say all of this by way of speaking about my reaction to the Huot article, which is one of appreciation and awe. Students are not encyclopedias, they do not come to us with ready-made knowledge of all things writing, and we should not assume as much. I agree with Huot’s claim that we must ease our freshman students into discussions that involve the vocabulary of writing, and that we should be patient, because though their writerly “orientation” may, at the start of their academic careers, be limited, they will learn more given time and opportunity (214). And while it is probably not necessary to hand-hold freshman writers all the way to their portfolios, we should not assume that they can get through the writing process without our support.

In addition to empathy, I fervently agree with Huot’s position that students’ writing can improve through frequent writing assignments of various types. Assigning students reading responses, informal student journals, and polished writing assignments seems like an excellent way of keeping students (who will no doubt find college at least a little bit overwhelming) engaged in both the writing process and what goes on in class. This engagement should not be underestimated, nor should the wealth of experience earned by such regular composition be overlooked. Though the notion of students resolving many of their own composition problems through increased exposure to and experience with the writing process seems highly intuitive, it also seems very, very likely. Thank goodness for writing therapy, in all its forms.

(Im)Perfect Objectivity

Similar to the intuitive-but-still-true nature of the Huot article, much of what I take away from the Connors and Lunsford article would seem almost uselessly obvious, if it was not so important to think about on a personal level. Though I hope to (whenever possible) avoid the sad and exhausted reality of the teachers mentioned in the article (and their blasé responses), it is hard to fault these weary warriors for their unhelpful and uninvolved responses to student writing. Speaking with the hope and enthusiasm of one who is yet inexperienced in the realm of exhaustive teaching, I can proclaim my belief in the idea that teachers must be active and engaged (and engaging) responders to student writing. It is my hope that when I begin the important task of responding to students’ writing, it will be as an interested, non-objective reader, rather than as a distant professional. For though I believe in the need for objectivity in such fields as medicine and history, I do not believe that writing teachers, who are tasked with reaching students on what I believe is a very personal level, should be trained to be clinically objective. Connors and Lunsford’s claim that the teachers whose responses they analyzed “seem conditioned not to engage with student writing in personal” ways is very disheartening to me, and it makes me more aware of the importance of retaining (and, if need be, actively defending) my lack of perfect objectivity (214).

I believe that I truly must “ache with caring,” both about students’ compositions and the students themselves, and that such caring will positively influence many other aspects of my teaching. If I care, I may be able to close the gap that Connors and Lunsford discuss on page 215 that often exists between what teachers claim to be teaching and what they grade their students on. If I care, I believe I will be able to remain cognizant of the fact that the writing process is entirely flexible, and that I will be able to help my students understand and learn that flexibility. If I care, I think I will be more able to pay attention to student writing in a way that looks to see if it seems like my students are making the same mistakes often, and to help them to grow out of such patterns, rather than bleeding red ink all over their work. If I care, I hope that my comments on students’ writing will attend to their work as the most recent part of an ongoing process, instead of an end in itself. If I care, I believe I can reach my students.