Writing is thinking. Writing is learning.
A priority of mine is debunking the myth that writing is a gift that only a few selected students are given. Every college student can learn to write. I agree with Peter Elbow (2004) when he says, “When students feel empty—‘I have nothing to say, nothing on my mind’—the cause is not insufficient input but insufficient output. Talking and writing put words and thoughts into students’ heads” (p. 10). I teach that good writing is the result of free-writing, drafting, revision, and peer collaboration—messy, nonlinear processes that occur in dialogic spaces, contrary to the solitary image of the writer alone at their desk.
Central to my teaching philosophy is Universal Design for Learning (UDL), or as I have started to conceptualize, “imaginative” design for learning, which is intentionally imaginative, pushing the design of learning environments beyond all bodies and minds, to all bodies and minds that can be imagined, creating accessible spaces, administering content and accepting work in multiple modalities, and perhaps most importantly, being flexible. Flexibility is paramount to my identity as a writing teacher. It is most identifiable in my interpersonal interactions with students, but also in my being unafraid to shift gears in a daily lesson depending on student needs, the “early and often” approach I have to peer review, and the fact that, in face-to-face classes, I post weekly notes on the LMS for every student, including those who may be unable to take them.
Empathy is also central to my pedagogical approach. This does not mean giving students a free pass because they had a bad day. Engaging in empathy is a critical exercise: It involves the emotional endeavor of having compassion as well as the intellectual endeavor of taking a different perspective (Davis 1994). To effectively use empathy as a pedagogical tool, instructors should be engaged and responsive, as echoed by bell hooks (1994): “To teach in a manner that respects and cares for the souls of our students is essential if we are to provide the necessary conditions where learning can most deeply and intimately begin” (p. 13).
To provide my students with a sense of what writing can achieve in the world, I seek out assignments and activities to allow my students to see its unambiguous power for change. For the past several years, my classes and I have been participating in Amnesty International’s Write for Rights campaign. Every year starting in October, Amnesty International highlights 10-15 individuals or groups needing help–they may have gone missing, been falsely imprisoned, or been exposed to environmental hazards–and calls on the globe to write letters on their behalf. I know students struggle finding the usefulness of writing outside academia, so this is a chance for students to use their writing to have a tangible effect in the world. We study the formal conventions of the letter, specifically cover letters, then transition to political action letters, noting differences depending on the function of the genre. Then students choose which group or individual case is most appealing to them and write a letter on their behalf. It is a joy when students realize the power of the written word and exclaim proudly to the class: “Emil got his sentence commuted! I wrote to his government!”
I strongly believe in translating teacher- student engagement into an online modality. The sacred space of the workshop can be recreated online provided instructor participation is high. I welcome new technologies and dedicate myself to learning them to enhance my ability to teach. In addition to keeping up with the professional development requirement for teaching online writing, I always attend one technology-focused presentation at the spring teaching symposium. This past year, I chose to attend Julie Christensen’s presentation about using podcasts as an assessment tool and I came away with many ideas. I recognize that teaching, like the art of letters itself, is not static; I push myself to continually improve my instruction.
My current title is “Lecturer,” but I’ve lately regarded the name as a misnomer, since I hardly lecture at all. I eschew the “banking” model of education as identified by Paolo Freire (2009), agreeing that “knowledge emerges only through invention and reinvention, through the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in the world” (p. 164). My daily activities usually focus on freewriting, pair and group work, and mindful meditation. The latter may give one pause; however, I stress the importance of being mindful in my class as a space of learning. I am also fully aware of the fact that I have much to learn from my students, just as they have much to learn from me. While maintaining boundaries and classroom authority, this facet of my teaching philosophy allows for an environment of openness and mutual respect.
Writing creates knowledge.
I learned that myself as a college student off the heels of an event that resulted in a traumatic brain injury localized in my left frontal lobe (traditionally regarded as the language center). I started college with the language abilities of a fifth-grader. I credit my aptitude in math for the reason that I got to go to college in the first place, but when I realized that it was writing that was giving me the knowledge I so desperately sought, I changed course. These experiences give me immense passion for, and faith in, what I teach. And as many students have indicated in my formal evaluations, my passion “is contagious.”