Blog 2: From Stupidity to Engfish

It sounds like English departments in the 60's and 70's must have been hell.

First, we read William Riley Parker's scathing diatribe against freshman composition courses that were "fumbling and faddish and lacking well-defined goals," (6) against theme-writing that was a "dismal and unflowering desert," (14) and against a profession characterized by "acquisitiveness, expediency, and incredible stupidity" (15). Then came Kitzhaber, more balanced in tone and systematic in presentation than Parker, but still insistent that many comp teachers were "bored or resentful," (261) and that rhetoric textbooks have "probably done a good deal more over the years to hinder good writing than to foster it" (263).

We polished off this week's assigned reading with another caustic critique of postmodern English departments: an excerpt from Ken Macrorie's Telling Writing. Macrorie tackles the issue from a different angle than either Parker or Kitzhaber. Rather than addressing problems with instructors, methods, or textbooks, Macrorie focuses on the writing itself. Poor instruction has left students' writing sucked dry of power and vitality by forcing them to speak in a "phony, pretentious language" that he calls "Engfish" (297).

According to Macrorie, English textbooks and teachers alike encouraged students to write in ways that had no connection to the real world. It's interesting that the pragmatic push that started during the Industrial Revolution, the movement that kicked out the classics to make room for relevancy, wound up stranding English teachers in sterile wastelands of "A Happy Vacation" (Kitzhaber 261) and "impressive impressions" (Macrorie 298).

However, Macrorie says, there are simple cures for bad cases of Engfish. Write truthfully, he pleads. Honest expression. No facades. Your own unique voice. Write freely first, then write with focus. "Reward them [your readers] with meaning" (313). Thankfully, most English departments have pulled out of the dismal slump that characterized them in Parker's, Kitzhaber's and Macrorie's day and have allowed fresh ideas to blow through stale classrooms. Today's English departments teach students to write in ways that speak.

While I enjoyed most of what Macrorie had to say, I found myself a little disappointed by the end (maybe if I read the whole book, I would be satisfied). I guess I'd hoped for a magic potion for getting students to drop Engfish. I spend the first half of the year in sophomore comp trying to get my kids to write for the real world using their real voices. Some of them spend all their sophomore, junior, and senior years in my classroom feeding me sickening Engfish, convinced that it's what I really want. Although I didn't get my magic potion, Macrorie did inspire me to focus on reading (not just correcting!) students' writing, to help them find their authentic voices, and to reward honest writing with honest praise.

Blog 1: Cicero vs. Quintilian

Roman rhetorician Cicero posited the idea that success in rhetoric was measured by the response of the audience. A rousing response meant that the speaker had achieved his goal; the lack of strong response indicated failure. Quintilian challenged this idea by asserting that the virtuous character of the speaker and the quality of his content were the primary indicators of success. According to Quintilian, a cruel dictator may elicit impressive responses, but because of his nefarious character and corrupt message, he is not a successful rhetorician in every sense.

As a high school teacher, part of me wants to believe that Quintilian got it right and Cicero was out to lunch (although admittedly, lunch is difficult without a tongue). I stand before an audience and use rhetoric all day long, and the responses I get are far from what Cicero would term "rousing." My students are often bored with the content and express little interest in learning the material for its own sake. Their response is typically, "What do I have to do to get the grade I want?" I'd like to think that if my character and content are sound, that one day my students will look back on my class and appreciate everything I tried so hard to give them. I'm an idealist, clinging hard to the notion that the stuff I'm teaching is not only opening doors for the kids' immediate futures, but also expanding their universes, helping them see life through different points of view, and simultaneously building self-esteem while squashing narcissism. "They'll get it someday," I tell myself.

Yet I can't ignore the validity of Cicero's perspective. Audience does matter. Response does matter. Kairos does matter. I don't want to be a stuffy intellectual or one of those Oxford "wall lecturers" who were content to teach to the tables and chairs when students no longer showed up for class. Just as writers don't write in a vacuum, teachers certainly don't teach in a vacuum. Teaching, like any academic endeavor, is part of a great conversation and should be treated as such. It's vital that I continually reevaluate my content and delivery for timeliness, relevancy, and dynamism.

Although teenagers aren't very intentional about providing positive responses, once in a great while, I get a little exciting feedback. There's nothing better than hearing the occasional, "Wow, that's pretty cool," about Shakespeare or a "Hey, are we gonna read some more Dickinson?" at the end of a poetry unit. Often those responses come from the most unexpected places. My first year of teaching, I had a girl in my Brit Lit class who seldom spoke up and turned bright red when I called on her. Her papers stuck tightly to the prompts and never went a syllable over the required length. Yet at the end of the year, she ducked into my classroom (bright red as usual), slapped an envelope on my desk, and left without a word. Inside, she had written the following: "Dear Mrs. Wilson: I had never really thought of ordinary books having ideas hidden throughout, subtly influencing the mind of the reader. This class helped me to see what power a book can have, even though you might not know it as you're reading it. This has provided very useful insight for me."

Good character is essential. Quality content is imperative. But positive responses are the most tangible, rewarding, and downright exciting indicators of the rhetorician's success.

Sorry, Quintilian.