Design Discourse - Composing and Revising Programs in Professional and Technical Writing, 2010a
Design Discourse - Composing and Revising Programs in Professional and Technical Writing, 2010a Design Discourse - Composing and Revising Programs in Professional and Technical Writing, 2010a
Franke and meaning are made. It was literally a “pre-liminary,” a hesitation at the threshold. Our best goal might be to support, not lament, the way students reactively formed sub-communities of writers, to explicitly identify and seek those places where they could confirm their identity in one area and from there explore the big world of alternative writing identities. Instead of seeing a writing identity as a destination—for a program or a student—I came to see it as a necessary but contingent role, an identity-by-contrast, a set of attributes, behaviors and attitudes such as a character from a play or novel might possess. If I gave up my attempt to define a “professional writer” as someone who seamlessly moves through various rhetorical situations, I gained the ability to see what these writers were actually doing in our program—and what we as faculty were doing. The successful professional writer was perhaps better understood as someone able to join with the struggles for authority and identity in one community, and only after immersion in that community, imagine the conflicts and purposes of other, less familiar situations, again not unlike our attempts to build our program’s identity into a small island, separated from the larger academic community. My students, connected to creative writing, had refused to be “managed” by rhetorical theory or fundamental skills of writing; they were ineluctably drawn to celebrate identity as a writer’s key accomplishment. We could accept this as their first principle, and only then begin to imagine other writers’ identities. I started to imagine ways to base my classroom questions on identity. What clichés describe a writer of digital media or technical documents? What do such writers really think about their role? What do they really do? What does a short story writer know about organizing in his genre, and what expertise in creating patterns might he bring to the challenges of organizing a business proposal? What does “the writing process” mean to a writer in a different situation? When I personalized my problem with the buggy hard drive problem, I had been on track. By emphasizing the lines between writers, the tension between “them” and “us” was highlighted and made more useful, not erased or transcended. Only by attending to these conflicts did my students get what they needed to proceed, a “home base,” a perspective from which to eye, with mixed curiosity and suspicion, the new. Creating an identity, however provisional and mutable, needed my attention more than the possibility of teaching my students skills that were immediately “portable.” 122
Curriculum, Genre and Resistance contingent identities It was a short step to apply this not only to the individual student writers, experiencing their own crises when confronted with unappealing genres, but to the program as a whole. We as faculty, those who had painstakingly designed the program, were ourselves engaged in a conflict that pitted our aspirations for a “peaceable kingdom” against our students’ unexpected resistance. The main document we used to establish our expectations was the curriculum we had written. The curriculum did not only organize our program, giving it shape and character, but as we could now see, also built in complications. Just at the curriculum “shaped” our students (in ways we didn’t expect), so they in turn created the exigency—a conflict—that propelled us to take the initiative and reflect on our status. We had rediscovered that even “reducible” documents are endemic. Or to take it home to our situation, we had to learn there is no “identity” cut loose from the complex swirl of texts and communities one writes within, contexts that produce both frustration and the initiative to change. Really (re)committing to our students’ development as rhetors meant giving them a room with a view before we asked them to roam the neighborhood. Likewise, the development of our program required that we had to accept the reality of what we were handed: a difficult college context to develop a writing program, a depressed rust-belt employment situation not favorable to writers of any stripe, a small faculty and limited resources. We soon began three changes. The first and hardest was to recognize that we were ultimately competing with other liberal arts degrees to provide students with an identity. Like it or not, we had to recognize that the diploma was, for many students, an elaborate nametag. Not a job, not a way of life, not a ticket into the Western Tradition. As our students had tacitly asserted, the royal road to their identity was most often, in PWR at least, through creative writing. In PWR we were selling the opportunity for students to recognize themselves as “writers,” and we could only set the stage for their future development. In other words, it was time for us to lighten up. This implied opening up the curriculum again. This time, however, I think we began to see that treating curricula as they really are, as contingent documents, which allow us as administrators and teachers to develop new ideas and make interesting mistakes. We started to see that change was inevitable and necessary. Not only are the curricular requirements always subject to reinterpretation—as second-semester seniors have sometimes taught us—but what the curriculum “spells out” is also always changing as courses develop over time, teachers gathering more experience and learning how their courses are connected or incommensurate. We came to see the curriculum as 123
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Franke<br />
<strong>and</strong> mean<strong>in</strong>g are made. It was literally a “pre-lim<strong>in</strong>ary,” a hesitation at the<br />
threshold. Our best goal might be to support, not lament, the way students<br />
reactively formed sub-communities of writers, to explicitly identify <strong>and</strong> seek<br />
those places where they could confirm their identity <strong>in</strong> one area <strong>and</strong> from<br />
there explore the big world of alternative writ<strong>in</strong>g identities. Instead of see<strong>in</strong>g<br />
a writ<strong>in</strong>g identity as a dest<strong>in</strong>ation—for a program or a student—I came to<br />
see it as a necessary but cont<strong>in</strong>gent role, an identity-by-contrast, a set of attributes,<br />
behaviors <strong>and</strong> attitudes such as a character from a play or novel might<br />
possess.<br />
If I gave up my attempt to def<strong>in</strong>e a “professional writer” as someone<br />
who seamlessly moves through various rhetorical situations, I ga<strong>in</strong>ed the ability<br />
to see what these writers were actually do<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> our program—<strong>and</strong> what we as<br />
faculty were do<strong>in</strong>g. The successful professional writer was perhaps better understood<br />
as someone able to jo<strong>in</strong> with the struggles for authority <strong>and</strong> identity <strong>in</strong> one<br />
community, <strong>and</strong> only after immersion <strong>in</strong> that community, imag<strong>in</strong>e the conflicts<br />
<strong>and</strong> purposes of other, less familiar situations, aga<strong>in</strong> not unlike our attempts to<br />
build our program’s identity <strong>in</strong>to a small isl<strong>and</strong>, separated from the larger academic<br />
community. My students, connected to creative writ<strong>in</strong>g, had refused to<br />
be “managed” by rhetorical theory or fundamental skills of writ<strong>in</strong>g; they were<br />
<strong>in</strong>eluctably drawn to celebrate identity as a writer’s key accomplishment. We<br />
could accept this as their first pr<strong>in</strong>ciple, <strong>and</strong> only then beg<strong>in</strong> to imag<strong>in</strong>e other<br />
writers’ identities.<br />
I started to imag<strong>in</strong>e ways to base my classroom questions on identity.<br />
What clichés describe a writer of digital media or technical documents? What<br />
do such writers really th<strong>in</strong>k about their role? What do they really do? What<br />
does a short story writer know about organiz<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his genre, <strong>and</strong> what expertise<br />
<strong>in</strong> creat<strong>in</strong>g patterns might he br<strong>in</strong>g to the challenges of organiz<strong>in</strong>g a bus<strong>in</strong>ess<br />
proposal? What does “the writ<strong>in</strong>g process” mean to a writer <strong>in</strong> a different situation?<br />
When I personalized my problem with the buggy hard drive problem, I<br />
had been on track. By emphasiz<strong>in</strong>g the l<strong>in</strong>es between writers, the tension between<br />
“them” <strong>and</strong> “us” was highlighted <strong>and</strong> made more useful, not erased or<br />
transcended. Only by attend<strong>in</strong>g to these conflicts did my students get what they<br />
needed to proceed, a “home base,” a perspective from which to eye, with mixed<br />
curiosity <strong>and</strong> suspicion, the new. Creat<strong>in</strong>g an identity, however provisional <strong>and</strong><br />
mutable, needed my attention more than the possibility of teach<strong>in</strong>g my students<br />
skills that were immediately “portable.”<br />
122