kjaxon – Page 3 – Theories of Literacy

Featured Curators: Neesa Sonoquie & Jesse DeMercurio

By kjaxon | February 19, 2019

Who knew that the tradition of the “essay” was such a fiery, polarizing hot topic? As an older, long-time student of writing, and as a person habituated to believe that the role of a student is to receive knowledge, not interact in the process of learning, I had never analyzed the essay as a “thing”–it was, rather, just something I always had to write. But, in the course of last week’s Theories of Literacy class I heard a blistering takedown of the essay, owed greatly to a passionate and super cool address at the 2015 CCCC convention by then Chair, Adam Banks (“Ain’t No Walls behind the Sky, Baby! Funk, Flight, Freedom”). Discussion in class, coupled with Chapters 2 and 3 (“The New Literary Studies,” and “Postcolonial Approaches to Literacy: Understanding the ‘Other’”) of our assigned reading in The Routledge Handbook of Literary Studies, led me to believe that this new way of thinking was a sign of the times and that most everyone on the cutting edge of literacy thinking would agree with the following, as suggested by Banks:

I hereby promote the essay to dominant genre emeritus. I thank you for your loooonnng and committed service over more than a century. We still love you. We want you to keep an office on campus and in our thinking, teaching, and writing lives. We will continue to throw wonderful parties and give meaningful awards in your name. And yet, we also acknowledge the rise and promotion of many other activities around which writing and communication can be organized. And we realize that if we are going to fly and find new intellectual spaces and futuristic challenges to meet with our students and each other, we have to leave the comfortable ground we have found with you.

The essay, it seems, has not only become irrelevant in the rapidly expanding view of what being “literate” really means, but it has also been demonized as the root of what was referred to in the eighties as “modern consciousness,” a model of literacy based on the values of “essayist prose style” as suggested by Ronald and Suzanne Scollen in Narrative, Literacy and Face in Interethnic Communication (Routledge, 39). The Scollens describe mainstream Anglo-Canadian and American English literacy practices as based on these values, placing the relationship between sentences higher than that of speaker to speaker, or speaker to sentence. The emphasis is on vocabulary and grammar, not the social or rhetorical aspects of communication. They go on to say that this approach also fictionalizes both the audience and the author. When one writes as essay, rarely is the potential reader a specific person–instead, one imagines an idealized entity onto which the essay is thrust upon. And the discouragement of personality within the essay form forces the author to erase their own identify in favor of a general “I.” All of this bleeds into the way we Americans talk to each other: we discuss and we argue to form and re-form our opinions, we talk over each other and we interrupt. Power dynamics are obscured as communication is as alive as the sea in unpredictable weather. This is all fine and good until one steps outside of this particular culture.

The Scollons show this jarring confusion when they compare the essayist prose standard to the what they refer to as “bush-consciousness,” specifically, the literacy practices of an Alaskan Native people known as the Athabaskans. In contrast to the expressive, unpredictable literacy approach of “modern consciousness,” the Athabaskans allow power dynamics to guide communication–subordinates listen and learn. The Athabaskans respect and protect individuality, so only enter into communication when perspectives are well-known and already formed. The Athabaskans allow for long pauses in dialogue and discourage posturing. You can see how this would drive a difficult wedge in communication between these two cultures, each judging and misinterpreting the behavior of the other. But, the chance that the American with a mouthful of ideas prevents the Athabaskan from getting a word in, thus deeming the Athabaskan idea-less, or that the Athabaskan label the American as full of himself and lacking substance because of such a passionate and unpredictable display of word-vomit, only highlights the question that seemed to rise above the discourse this week: how, then, do we measure literacy across cultures and communities? That contemplation itself sparks another, maybe more pertinent consideration—how does literacy change across cultural, social, and ethnic boundaries? And lastly, then, how does the writing of an essay test the literacy comprehension of students who bring a vast array of personal and cultural histories, experiences, habits, and knowledge?

As these themes have been in the ether since the beginning of the term, what literacy actually IS has governed much of our class discussion and reading. But leading into this fourth week of class the discussion has gained new dimension with the introduction of how class and culture, along with the age of technology, affects how literacy is defined. In fact, it looks like even the term itself has graduated to “literacies,” making the concept intrinsically more inclusive. On this subject, the class had much to say in our own Google+ forum and during class. Much of the focus has been on literacy as an act, not a thing, and that it is social by nature, and that literacy changes as the context and participants require. For example, Charlotte points out:

We’re looking at how literacy is a social concept, and largely separating it from the individual experience. The implications being: even reading a book alone, however solitary it may seem, is still a social activity, in its own way. Which makes sense to me, I’ve been known to tell my sister the entire plot of books she has no intention of reading, just so I can talk to someone about them. It’s explained: “People do not just read and write texts; they do things with them, things that often involve more than just reading and writing. They do them with other people—often people who share a socially significant identity…These people often make judgments about who are ‘insiders’ and who are not.” (Routledge, 36)

Thus, even the most solitary acts of literacy desire a witness, and it is the members of each community or culture of literacy who make the rules.

So, how to address the complications that accepting the relevance of a variety of literacies entails? And ultimately, how does a fresh approach to literacy and the concept of being literate enter the classroom? It seems the first step is a massive conceptual shift toward “critical literacy.” Rahat Naqvi describes what this looks like in Chapter 3 of the Routledge handbook as follows: “To be critically literate is to be able to do more than produce and represent information in the same form it was absorbed. The aim is the development of human capacity to use texts to analyze and transform social relations and material conditions.” (p. 50) So, critical literacy is not a thing to gain but a thoughtful, meticulous act that never ends. Like a mountain range pummeled by time and the weather, under the influence of a world bursting with ways of meaning-making, our own relationships to literacy will break-down, re-build, shift, collapse, and evolve as long as we expose ourselves to the elements.

But what does this look like in real-life? Historically, dominant cultures eat up subordinate cultures in one gulp. How do differing literacies exist alongside and interact with each other without the “subordinate” culture being eviscerated? Postcolonial philosopher and critic Homi Bhabha suggests that this is actually a collision of opportunity and can be referred to as a “third space”: the “interstices between colliding cultures, areas where new and intriguing developments can take place.” He goes on to say that, “In this ‘in-between’ space, the collision of cultural traditions and ways of knowing allow new cultural identities to be formed, reformed, in a constant state of becoming.” (p. 53) On the concept of this sort of respectful, active duality, Isaiah posted in our forum:

Rahat Naqvi summed up the reasoning behind implementing critical literacy quite well: “Rather than attempt to eliminate the ‘other,’ both the dominant and the subordinate cultures should make efforts to recognize that the other has much to offer in terms of new points of view and ways of knowing” (56). That seems like an ever-increasingly important strategy for how to run a classroom. There is a distinct possibility that students may never have had an opportunity to learn about other cultures before arriving to my class. However, perhaps even more importantly, “by posing questions that cause an individual to reflect, often the dominant culture is forced to come to a deeper understanding of itself” (56). The ability to self-reflect and self-criticize are skills that are hard to grasp but incredibly useful. For me, the next logical question is how to continually find new ways to implement scenarios where critical literacy can be practiced through a class.

It seems that everyone is culpable in this scenario, further highlighting the social nature of literacy and the loud dialogue that surrounds it. Much of our class discussion on Monday night centered around Chico State being named an official “Hispanic Serving Institution.” As a class activity we examined how the university is currently responding to that title and how that could be improved. Close scrutiny revealed that there is a bit of a lag between the talk and the walk, but some of that may be due to another big question posed by Dr. Jaxon: How do we know the ways we are succeeding and failing when we are part of the dominant culture? In other words, it is difficult to see outside of your own experience, particularly when experiences exist on opposite ends of the spectrum. We came to no conclusions, as every question seemed to bring an onslaught of more questions. Maybe this is how great ideas are born–I have yet to be in the room for that, but I can sense the energy in potential, the vibrant unknown that holds the possibility of up-ending old ideas to make room for innovation.

Fastforward, then, to a class in second-language acquisition research the night after this Theories of Literacy class, where I witnessed a distinguished, seasoned professor of educational psychology excitedly shared his new and innovative project with the class–a software program that would eventually be able to grade essays on its own! Once the kinks were worked out, this thing would be able to count keywords and various required data and then offer an appropriate grade. Think about how many more essays could be written, how much more time that teachers would have, he said. I was taken aback. Here was a knowledgeable and experienced researcher actively working to not only uphold the essay form but to further dehumanize it with a robot reader. I found myself annoyed, taking the side of Adam Banks and the “new literacy” proffered by our reading and class discussion—but why? Was I just responding to the point of view that I received first, without thinking critically about it? Did I agree because Dr. Jaxon had a more spirited argument and a brighter personality? No—I realized that in the few weeks of reading and discussion in our Theories of Literacy class my mind had been opened to a fresh perspective on literacy, one that ushered in an entirely new paradigm of thinking, replacing stale thoughts that I had absorbed simply because the teacher said so. I replaced old habits with new mechanisms for active thinking, questioning and wrestling with all that I have learned and what I am currently learning. I was engaging in critical literacy, I think. I mentioned to the professor my most recent education on the tremulous state of the essay in current academics, and I touched on the widening scope of literacy and emerging ways to test comprehension, and he suggested that both his work and the other could co-exist and even support one another. I see them in direct conflict and said so. Hmm. If this discord is a reflection of what is taking place in the study of literacy at large, I think there is a long and bumpy road ahead.

Author Bio: Neesa Sonoquie is an editor and writer and currently working toward a master’s degree in teaching English as a second language. She enjoys going to the movies, Oprah, hot yoga, true crime, good wine, and hanging out with her cat.

This week we continued our reading of The Routledge Handbook of Literacy Studies, with chapters 2 and 3. After chapter 1 introduced us to the foundations of literacy, which saw literacy as a mental happening, chapter 2 told us about the concept of the NLS (New Literacy Standards) viewing “readers and writers as primarily engaged in social or cultural practices” (35). This chapter introduced three founding documents of the NLS to give an overview of the perspective.

Chapter 3 looks at the effect social imaginaries, or theories about how the social world works, have on a postcolonial world. Specifically, Rahat Naqvi argues, the social imaginaries within the field of education need to be examined and reworked again. Where does the immigrant stand within the western world? Naqvi concludes by stating that to be the subordinate in a culture means to be constantly living a dual life. The ultimate goal of educators should be to “…maintain awareness of this dual consciousness, but in a way that integrates the selves” (59).

After reading both chapters, our class had a plethora of takeaways, which found their way into our blog posts. Florencia boiled down the NLS to the idea that “we are not individuals floating in space just doing what we do. We are completely and one hundred percent shaped by what surrounds us.” Isaiah was interested by the topic of critical literacy and came to the conclusion that the “ability to self-reflect and self-criticize are skills that are hard to grasp but incredibly useful.” Kyler was fascinated by the idea of “thinking about literacy involving the ability to even prod what is understood.”

After reading James Paul Gee’s “The New Literacy Studies” and Rahat Naqvi’s “Postcolonial Approaches to Literacy Understanding the ‘Other’,” Zeth defined literacy “as the interaction between people building a (literacy) culture through interacting. However, no one person is one literacy. At the bottom of this well is an individual that isn’t just one literacy but multiple literacies interacting with each other.” Lorena highlighted the importance of teachers being aware of the spaces and situations students are in, as they bring all those literate practices to school. Alex saw the following quote as the definition of literacy: “to be critically literate is to be able to do more than produce and represent information in the same form it was absorbed” (50).

Hannah E. was interested by Scollon and Scollon’s discussion of discourse patterns, particularly where they stated that discourse patterns are “among the strongest expressions of personal and cultural identity” (38). Hannah connected this particularly to the strong affinity Americans have to their particular regions’ accents and dialects. (Also see SNL’s “The Californians”) Haley believes that literacy “should be about moving on from conventional methods of literacy and mov[ing] towards something more socially/culturally equal.” While reading about the English-speakers condescension toward Athabaskans, Neesa “appreciated how the differences in a culture’s consciousness (bush-minded or modern, in the case that they provided) led to stereotyped assumptions built upon misunderstandings fed by ignorance.” Kaitlynn was shocked by the scenario of a child bringing home an Easter egg to their confused immigrant mother (eggs and bunnies?) and explaining the holiday (and all it’s accompanying traditions) by saying, “It’s Easter…this is what we do.”

Here are a few of the questions our class had for going forward:

How can we continually find new ways to implement scenarios where critical literacy can be practiced through a class? (Isaiah)

Does understanding something also inherently involve the ability to question it? (Kyler)

How can practical approaches to critical literacy play out in the classroom? (Hannah D.)

Author Bio: Jesse was born and raised in the East Bay Area before transferring to Chico State in 2014. She graduated with a Bachelor’s in English Education in 2016 and fulfilled a quite-literally life-long dream of becoming a teacher by earning a single-subject credential in 2017. Now, she’s continuing on with graduate studies at Chico State while also teaching middle school English. She enjoys Disney, Harry Potter, Netflix, iced coffee, and stories. (An English major who likes stories? Shocker.)

Luke Scholl: The Rise of Writing (Chapter 4/Conclusion)

By kjaxon | April 24, 2017

The fourth chapter of Brandt’s The Rise of Writing, “When Everybody Writes,” focuses on how writers and writing work in relation to other writers. As Brandt states, “Proximity to other writing people—ample, ongoing, routine proximity—plays myriad, formative roles in the development and calibration of writing, writing skill, and writing consciousness” (158). Early in the chapter Brandt discusses the “scenic” nature of writing (137-139). She notes that due to the fact that writing is scenic, that is something that takes place and can be witnessed, people are more acutely aware of how it works in the world. Brandt explains, “Seeing and being seen, knowing and being known—these everyday events form a broad undercarriage for awareness about how writing fits socially, politically, economically, aesthetically” (139). She then connects the scenic quality of writing to how writers interact with other writers. Because writing is scenic, writers are acutely aware of the writing that exists in the world: “Proximity to other writing people invites, and often requires, close attention to their habits, working conditions, and potential attitudes” (144). She also brings in the concept of mentalities and examines how it applies to her study of literacy. Brandt acknowledges how reading has historically disseminated information and thus contributed to establishing “shared understandings” (135), among the people of any given time and place within literate societies. However, she notes that as our literacy practices become more and more writing based, rather than reading based, the way we form these mentalities may be shifting.

In her concluding chapter, “Conclusion: Deep Writing,” Brandt co opts her nemesis Nicholas Carr’s phrase “deep reading” and reworks it to form her own concept of “deep writing” (159). She contends that the evidence provided her book suggests that we are “entering an era of deep writing” (Brandt 160). She argues that our literacy practices are no longer typified by prolonged and intense reading of texts but instead that “more and more people write for prolonged periods of time from inside deeply interactive networks and in immersive cognitive states” (Brandt 160). She ends her conclusion by examining the how these changes in our literacy practices present exception challenges for education as our schools are “growing increasingly out of step with the wider world” (Brandt 165).

During our discussion in class, Dr. Jaxon asked the students if we thought of each other and our professors as writers, and whether or not we really ever collaborate on writing or just give each other feedback. To me it seemed that the general consensus wound up being that we had not really seen at each other as writers until graduate school. This sentiment extended to our experiences with collaboration; I believe it was Kelsey King who stated, “the collaborative nature of writing is definitely something I’ve learned about through school.” I think when asked about our feelings toward collaboration in writing, many of our minds jumped to the concept of ‘group work.’ And like most sane individuals our knee jerk reaction to ‘group work’ is to say, “I hate group work.” I found it interesting that, for many of us, the concept of collaboration in writing was immediately conceived of as group assignments in school, and indeed our discussion did primarily revolve around collaborative writing within school. I couldn’t help but wonder how negative experiences with group work in school might contribute to the persistent stereotype of the solitary writer; even though, the form collaborative writing takes in these types of scenarios rarely reflects the level of professionalism, commitment, and responsibility that one might find when collaborating with a colleague in a professional environment.

I also find it interesting that the knee jerk, “I hate group work,” reaction has always seemed to be so pervasive. In my own experience I have been part of groups that were pure nightmares, but also groups that worked extremely well and which provided me with incredible amounts of support; yet, I still stand firmly in the “I hate group work” camp. I can’t help but think this attitude has something to do with the nature of school and grades. As students we are keenly aware that we are constantly being assessed. Despite that grades are just letters they failure to live up to a certain standard could, like writing, have significant and very real consequences in the world and their lives. The sociocultural significance and pressures of grades heavy influence the nature of group work in school. If you feel one person is not contributing enough you are angry that their lack of commitment will have an adverse effect on your grade, and, on the flip side, if someone is doing a large amount of the work you become concerned about whether you are contributing enough.

Amanda Rhine: The Rise of Writing (chapter 3)

By kjaxon | April 12, 2017

Writing is the Right Thing to Do for Literacy

In chapter 3 “Occupation: Author” in The Rise of Writing, Deborah Brandt starts off by stating “The belief that writing ability is a subsidiary of reading ability runs deep in American society and schooling. You can only write as well as you can read. The best way to learn how to write is to read, and read some more. Reading is the best way to exercise the mind” (89). These were all (almost verbatim) proclamations that I heard growing up, so I think Brandt really taps into the typical old school American literacy mindset here (not surprising since she’s Deborah Frickin’ Brandt). However, as Brandt discovered with Evan, reading and writing don’t necessarily go hand-in-hand––which is not a bad thing.

Evan had a well-known exotic animal website that “attracted the attention of a major publishing house for pet care books” (92) and published a book. As a result, Evan identified professionally as an author and has gone on to write magazine articles, etc. While Brandt was interviewing him about his literacy development and the role reading had, Evan confessed that he did not like to read, stating, “I’d rather be writing than reading” (92). This is not uncommon, in my opinion, since I can relate and know many authors who feel the same. Brandt was intrigued by Evan’s declaration and his literacy development being connected to broader industries of writing rather than reading (93), so she set off to do some research.

I won’t go into the details of Brandt’s literacy development research study, because there’s a lot of it in this chapter, but the main takeaway from Brandt’s arguments is that she advocates a “full return to the heritage of mass writing as a basis for advancing a genuinely writing-based literacy” (133). Brandt’s idea of this heritage is not based on the American idea that writing is dependent on reading––essentially that literacy theory has become obsolete. Brandt’s arguments are based on the “evidence drawn from the testimonies of thirty young adults who pursue literacy predominantly through writing; individuals who elect to write on a nearly daily basis and in genres long considered bulwarks (defensive walls) of a thoughtful reading literacy; individuals who have found ways to orient to writing even when the environment around them tries to orient them otherwise” (133). So while the notion of reading being a catalyst in writing advancement may still present be in teaching and sponsorship, writing is a significant player in literacy development by itself. It promotes a motivation for self-improvement that isn’t restricted to someone’s reading ability. Therefore writing-based literacy and reading-based literacy should not be lumped into one literacy development practice in order to be considered beneficial.

*Side note: I own the Kindle version of The Rise of Writing, so my page citations might differ from those of a physical copy.

Meredith Murrietta: The Rise of Writing (chapter 3)

By kjaxon | April 12, 2017

Brandt starts out the 3rd chapter, “Occupation: Author” with the task of trying to differentiate between a reading-based literacy and a writing-based literacy. She claims that writing has taken a shadow to reading with regards to importance in our culture. Brandt seeks to argue that writing-based literacy is its own and does not necessarily stem from, rely on, or play second fiddle to reading. On page 96, Brandt discusses the concept of writing over reading. She stated that her research participants “would abandon the expected duties and pleasures of reading and begin writing in their minds as they sat over a text written by someone else,” and that this act “requires deliberate separation from the rules of reading.”

Although I can respect Brandt’s research and theories, I cannot personally relate to them and thus have a differing view. Brandt says that “learning to read is an expectation and a rite of passage for children in this society. But the idea ofbeing or becoming a writer has more profound aspirational power” (98). I couldn’t disagree more in my own walk. I found (and find) reading to be the motivation behind my reading-based literacy. I love to soak up information, to experience that lightbulb moment when reading others words. When it comes to my own writing, I hit constant roadblocks. I shared with the class about a webinar I recently attended through work, and how the speakers of “Thriving in Chaos” started out discussing brain research and how our brains react. The first priority of the brain is safety. If the brain does not feel safe, it will not progress past the first priority. It will be looking for ways to get back into safety. Fears, anxieties, etc. can cause the brain to lag in this danger zone. Unfortunately, if you are living in this state of fear, then you wont make it past the first priority on to the second, which is experiencing “something interesting”. This was a big wake-up call for me in all aspects of my life, and in this case, my writing. As I had discussed in my earlier blog post, there is fear of judgement when it comes to my writing. I believe this fear has hindered my ability to effectively write. We see this in many examples through this chapter with Brandt’s research participants. Whether it be individuals not posting on social media for fear of the implications, or a daughter who does not want her family to find her diary: the consequences of writing can absolutely cause hindrance.

On the flip side, I thoroughly enjoy my reading-based literacy, not only because I don’t feel hindered, but also because the words I read and apply from others have significantly changed the courses and actions of my life. Towards the end of the chapter, Brandt states that “what matters in writing is its rhetorical value, its projective and transactional value, its effect on others. Even in writing, then, reading is what counts” (128). Ultimately, as we have seen quite often as a foundational piece in literacy, it comes back to the human connection. Literacy is built and truly sustained through social means (even if not explicitly social). As readers and writers, we are communicating. We both have something to gain from this interaction.

Several other questions were raised in class, the following are a few:

-If our culture really values reading more than writing, why is it that we pay writers and call that an occupation?

-Do boundaries in writing, or being told to write, take anything away from creative writers?

-Is there really a difference between writing masters and writing sponsors?

Ibe Liebenberg: Brandt, The Rise of Writing, Chapter 2

By kjaxon | April 5, 2017

In Brandt’s chapter two, “Writing for the State,” there is a clear connection made to chapter one’s idea of a ghostwriter’s inability to relinquish the emotional costs that are not deferred, or distributed with the transfer of work produced. One of the observations made in chapter two is that of an individual’s inability to write themselves out of work produced (86). This idea worked into our classroom discussion of whether to write ourselves into a paper or just get the job done for the grade, especially when there is no interest in the subject matter. It seemed like for most the public workers interviewed, they did not mind the writing in their field of expertise, so there was no lack of interest, but they felt it was too difficult to remove their voice. The contradiction of having a human write for the “state” or “government” but as a nonhuman element made it difficult for the workers to not use any of their own self. But the government knows how messy this can be: “Most intriguing is how government, including the courts, readily recognizes the intimate intermingling of the writer subjectivity with institutional mission as the dangerous mix that potentially undermines the government’s voice when employees speak out in the public domain and the political arena” (87). This intermix of human writing for a nonhuman entity will always have some form of human interference, but the government’s concern is to play a role to limit it.

We talked about how writing and teaching at the CSU level is constricting and limiting to both teachers and students. A student’s voice is rarely heard in a place where they feel that they are trying to appease the teacher. Likewise, professor’s feel the constraints of the administration. It raised the important question, do we have any reading without constraints? It seems like there is always some sort of filtering. We are almost always reading it for a reason other than our own. But constraints are sometimes good when thought of for something like creative writing. This is because it forces a form on the writer, or a lens to help write in. Where the opposite effect would seem to be limiting a creative writer, certain constraints actually apply parameters that allow the writer narrow their focus to just writing, instead of form or subject. Too much freedom can often result in a lack of focus.

Chapter two also gave examples of how even the most scientific and self-removed writing can still be misinterpreted and skewed to fit the reader’s intentions, ultimately to influence an audience for someone else’s own agenda. This was the case with the writings of the scientist Melinda Lucas, who was a part of a complex thirty year “unbiased” study. She describes the complexities of her study and how everything she reports and deals with is just data. But when it is “rerepresented” (68) by media or other special interest groups, its interpretation is skewed by someone else’s agenda. In her case, a group wanted to use the data to save jobs, but we can see that even the most removed writing from the human bias can still be used and manipulated for others agendas and unprofessional interpretation.

The chapter finished with the idea that “There is no Occupational Safety and Health Administration for literacy” (87) to with help an individual writer who is writing for government in some form. Instead individuals like the police officer Henry Pine turned his writing into a means of releasing the emotional baggage by using his writing and record keeping as a way to transform daily experiences at his job into a journal to help export some of the psychological strain from himself to the actual report itself.