Kristie,
I love your module. =
It’s
exciting, inviting, richly thought provoking, and comes at just the =
perfect
time for me, and, I’m sure, for others, as well—if you love =
to
write, it’s always the perfect time to ponder poetry, which, for =
me, is
what we get when the body, the realm of imagery, and symbol systems get =
all
beautifully tangled up in one another. If you love to teach =
writing, then
perhaps it’s always urgent to keep some poetry in your =
bones. All
of which is to say, the (long, now, sorry) meandering to follow is all =
your
fault, and I thank you for the excuse to do it (not that I ever need too =
much
of an excuse, mind you).
--After reading your module, I =
started
remembering. The very first semester that I taught as a grad TA, =
many of
my friends, including my roommate of the year before, who was a =
Sophomore when
I started teaching writing, were still undergraduates. It’s =
strange
to think of, now, since I’ve never been what a person might call =
conventionally
attractive (by whatever definition is going at the moment—so far, =
none of
them has seemed to have the likes of me in mind, though I suppose it =
could
happen any minute, now), but, at that time, some of my students were =
apparently
physically attracted to me. I typically dressed up a few notches =
for
class, since I was aware enough of issues of appearance to understand =
that I
looked pretty much exactly like my students as far as both age and =
general
style went, and since I didn’t have nearly enough natural or =
acquired
authority at that point not to need any of the external trappings of =
it.
I remember being nervous, of course, but soon we were focused on =
writing, and I
rather forgot about my physical presence except for the general pleasure =
of
moving about the class, talking, laughing, answering questions, asking =
them,
listening, all of that. So, a few weeks into it, I was feeling =
pretty
good about the whole thing. Then, I visited with my roommate of =
the year
before. She knew some of my students—partied with them at =
frat
houses, it seems—and passed along the news that several of them =
found me
“hot.” There were no ratemyprofessor services complete =
with
chili pepper hotness scores back then, and I’m glad, because even =
though
I understood that this was supposed to be a compliment, and this is =
clearly how
my friend figured I’d take it, that bit of feedback made me feel
weird. It was like I had been floating up on one of those silvery
tethers, marvelously non body conscious, and then was suddenly, =
unceremoniously
slammed right on back into my skin. It was a high gravity =
moment. I
didn’t like it. Already, then, and ever since, I simply =
never
related to my students that way. Here were people whose =
intellectual
wellbeing I was claiming some responsibility for: sexual =
flirtation
wasn’t a language it would ever have occurred to me to speak to =
them
in. (I’d speak to them *of*
it, if the subject came up in the course of things, but not *in* it, which is a whole separate
deal.)
--A number of years later, a Dean
interviewing me privately for the final round of a tenure-track position =
noted
my relative youth, and wondered how much of a role this might play in my
student reviews. He was a great guy, really, but the clear =
implication
was: you’re young, and that’s why students like =
you.
Oh! I remember saying something about how if youth is a flaw, =
it’s
a fleeting one, and pointing out that attitude and approach can always =
be
fresh, but this was another of those moments of feeling stuffed =
disconcertingly
back into my skin. I did accept that position, and a full-time =
faculty
retreat soon followed. Overnight at a downstate forest =
preserve.
There were sessions, and singing, and drinking, and all sorts of =
mandatory
chumminess. One new colleague saw fit to ask me, as I claimed =
tiredness
and headed off to sleep, if I wore Frederick’s of Hollywood =
lingerie to
bed. Guess it was fun for him to think about what all lacy =
nothings I
might have crammed into my rucksack, but, again—uncomfortably =
bound in my
skin by the power of a single comment. Reduced to skin. That =
night,
my roommate, who was an Acting teacher very near retirement, delighted =
me (and
frightened me just a delicious little bit) by easily regressing to a =
three-year
old homesick child right before my eyes: she nailed the voice, the =
movement,
the air of the thing. I could practically see the air around her =
shimmer
with magic as she did it. Here was skin as parchment, as costume, =
as
malleable joy. More flinty and melting skin moments eventually
followed: the colleague who had “heard all about” my =
lesbian
adventures (and how the hell does a straight married woman who is doubly
offended--by the narrow-mindedness, there, first of all, and by the fact =
that
he actually apparently had another colleague and good friend in mind-- =
respond
intelligently to that one?); the all male Teaching Center committee =
members,
mostly twenty or more years older than me, who proposed setting me =
up in
a kissing booth to generate funds; the miscarriage that had me missing a =
few
sessions of still another committee, much to the chagrin of its chair, =
who
finally backed off when, in a moment of frustration, I told the dean he =
sicced
on me (and who was a great guy, and thus refused to sic, though he did =
discuss
it with me) that I wasn’t going to haul my body to thrice weekly =
meetings
while blood was snaking down my inner thighs and didn’t want to =
hear
another word about it until I had this physical problem under =
control.
Bloody female body as power and curse. It wasn’t discussed =
again.
--First year of grad school, while =
I was
apparently busy being hot without knowing it or wanting to be, I lived =
in an
old garden style apartment building. In the apartment just to the =
north
of mine lived Lisa, who had been legally blind from birth. We met =
when
she came to my door with a measuring cup in hand, seeking milk for =
something
she was preparing. Now, I hope I’m not limiting her to her =
body
when I observe that she was gorgeous. Long brown hair, skin the most =
beautiful
color I’d ever seen, and the kind of lithe and willowy body that a
lifelong dancer might have. We became friends. I learned all =
about
the special computer she used to magnify books, listened to her =
boyfriend woes
(he wasn’t sure he wanted to marry a blind woman, but he =
wasn’t
thinking he wanted anyone else to have her, either), and discovered that =
she
was loathe to use her cane while walking around campus. Never mind =
that
she was practically killed by bikers, skaters, and general jostling =
several
times a week. She didn’t want the cane because it meant =
people
would process her as “blind person,” steer around her, and =
never
engage with her on any other level. In the apartment just to south =
of me
lived John, who had cerebral palsy. I learned to keep my apartment
stocked with straws so I could offer him a drink when he came over, =
since
drinking directly from a glass or can was tough for him. John
couldn’t leave the outward marks of CP at home, and it constantly
frustrated him. Girls were a particular source of concern. =
Like
Lisa, he was very generous with me. I’d never had close =
friends
with disabilities before, and here, quite suddenly, I was flanked by
them. They let me ask all sorts of questions. John and I had =
long
discussions about the challenges of dating. He was a
romantic—writing poetry, buying flowers, falling hard and =
fast. We
wondered, together, about how his body complicated things. Coming =
on too
strong? He figured he came on too strong for some women just by
being. Just a year or so later, one of my own students, =
Barbara,
was blind. No special viewing devices for her, since the blindness =
was
total. Our whole class was somehow defined by her rhythms, which =
were
assertive, but kind, and very comfortable (largely a magic of her =
making).
The clicking of her slate and stylus became part of our world, we all =
learned
(even “why would I touch you when I don’t even *know* you?” me) to offer our =
arms
with ease when it came time for Barb to navigate the busy halls of the =
English
building, and workshop days meant we all read aloud to each other, so =
the hum
was constant. Barb wrote the most beautiful, detailed visual
descriptions. She always brought her slate and stylus to =
conference
sessions, too, and took notes as we talked. All of these generous =
folks
who let me learn from them how to be easy with them (and hard on them, =
and
ticked at them, and just *with*
them, generally) made it possible for me to be very comfortable with =
managing
the challenges and joys of working with many later students who came =
bearing all
sorts of bodily and emotional difference: blindness, CP, deafness, =
brain
damage, epilepsy, depression, histories of =
abuse.
--Suddenly, I’m remembering =
the
bodies of teachers I loved. One very overweight lit prof never, =
ever
moved from the desk. She’d hike herself onto that scarred =
old block
of wood at the front of the classroom as the period began, and sit there =
the
whole time. And yet, I have this impression of grace when I think =
of the
way she moved around in text and in ideas, and I remember feeling =
breathless
and exhilarated by keeping up with her. Then, there =
was the
elfin film professor, very thin and short. He used to smoke and =
pace
across the room—this little engine of energy, puffing away. =
And
he’d fill the board with words and arrows and charts and drawings =
that
marked and moved our discussion along. I could never sleep after =
his
classes. They left me wired and wanting to read, write, talk, =
think *right now.* Oh, oh—and =
the high
school English teacher, Mrs. B. She was all pleated wool skirts =
and
cardigans, and she always had a line of chalk dust across her back, =
right where
she leaned against the chalk tray when she was at the board. Very
soft-spoken. When I think of her, now, it seems to me that her =
great and
rare talent consisted mostly of setting us in motion and then getting =
out of
the way. I remember just writing and writing and reading and =
reading and
writing some more, for her, but I never remember feeling at all =
pressured about
it. Her space was quiet and absorbing. =
--Then, too, the bodies of =
teachers
I didn’t love so much. The prim and prissy Shakespeare prof =
who
drew a large and apparently perfect circle on the board on day one, then =
turned
to us and told us that the ability to draw a perfect circle was the sign =
of a rare
and prodigious intelligence was one teacher I instantly and irreversibly
hated—even more so more because, of course, I couldn’t =
resist
trying the circle thing, and instantly discovering that without a =
compass, my
circle making skills were iffy, at best. Then, there was the Econ =
prof
who was simply boring. Somehow, I think beige and taupe when I =
think of
him, though I can’t really remember what he wore. I actually =
once
got up, gathered my things, and walked out of that class and into the =
exhilarating
spring sunshine (the sort of rudeness I hardly ever allow myself), =
simply
because I couldn’t take the monotone (and, apparently, the =
monochrome)
drone of him for one more instant. Then, there was the Soc. =
Prof
who was persnickety as can be. Very smart, kind of funny, but =
really not
at all nice. I remember watching the cowlick at his crown bounce =
as he
paced the room.
---Random grad school memory: =
Lit
prof known for flirting outrageously (and sometimes, more) with female
students. Creep. But, I had one friend with whom he never, =
ever
flirted, and she was deeply bummed about this. I avoided his =
courses, so
I was a bit at a loss. She *wanted*
the creep to be creepy to her? Sigh. Yes. She wanted to know =
that
she, too, was worthy of his creepiness. But she was not thin, not =
pretty
in the way he was drawn to, and entirely (as I told her, again and =
again) too
smart and too good and far too beautiful for him, anyway. I never =
read
Blake without thinking of her.
--Random teaching memories: =
The
young women who approached me very solemnly at the end of class one day, =
asked
me to raise my arm, withdrew a pair of manicure scissors from her purse, =
and
proceeded very gently to cut the tag that was hanging there. New
jacket. My little glow of pleasure about this new thing—I =
was
feeling uncommonly happy about the color and the fabric and the feel of
it—wasn’t at all undone by the gesture. Not many =
people could
have been that tenderly respectful. Another young woman who
approached at the end of class one day to thump our book onto the desk, =
and
declare “this book doesn’t include me.” And so =
it
didn’t. She explained why, and she was right. A young =
man who
wore a tee shirts with drawings of serial killers on them to class, who =
wanted
to shake some reaction out of his classmates in this manner, and who =
did.
Interesting negotiations had to go on to prevent that one from blowing
up. Another young man who wore lots of black eye makeup, lots of =
black
clothing, lots of dangly earrings, and who was very quiet, very =
sensitive, a
poet really. When I mentioned, one day, how talented I thought he =
was, he
said that it wasn’t until college that teachers ever said this =
wondrous
thing to him or about him. Before that, he felt that he was always =
pretty
immediately sized up and put into the trouble category. Oh, and so =
many
more lessons delivered skillfully from smart students to a teacher who =
learned
from them that’s it’s best to remember that there’s =
always
something new to learn about how to be a good teacher to =
them.
--Hmm, and then I was thinking, all =
in
response to this module, of how very different various sections of the =
same
course can be. One semester, there were two research writing
courses. One group was pretty quiet, very workmanlike, not that =
into
conversation or debate, but very solemnly absorbed. They =
consistently
handed in amazing work, and basically kicked butt all the way. =
They were
a pleasure, all around. Another group was challenging, raucous at =
times,
questioned every little thing, and cracked me up on a regular =
basis. Their
writing, on the whole, wasn’t quite as good—collectively, =
they had
further to go--but the engagement level was very high. I would =
sometimes
look at them in mock indignation and declare that I was lucky I could =
ever get
a darned word in edgewise, with them. Lots of the students in this
section were on their second or third time through the course. We
decided, right off, that this would simply have to be it: =
they’d
make it even if it killed them—or me—and we allowed as to =
how it
just might hurt a little bit, at times, but we’d just go on ahead =
and do
it together, anyway, and be glad of the chance to. Most of them =
(not all,
but most) really did pass. Toward the end, they kicked me out of =
the room
during the last ten or fifteen minutes of class, one day. That had =
never
happened before, but there it was: “Mrs. Fitch, you have to =
leave
now. We need to talk without you. Shoo.” So, I left,
wondering what they were plotting. Might have been anything from a =
mutiny
to a party, with that group. Turned out, they were plotting
flowers. A huge bouquet for me on the first day of the last =
week.
They had pooled their money, and also pooled their garden =
resources.
There were hothouse flowers, wildflowers, and heavy branches of blossoms =
cut
from trees and shrubs in their yards (and maybe their neighbors yards,
too). It was a huge and crazy bouquet—and exactly the sort =
of
composition that best reflected their spirit. I loved it, and =
them.
Oh, and there’s so much =
more:
the athleticism of teaching, especially in a computer lab setting; the =
maturing
of both body and spirit over time, and how this impacts teaching; the =
various
languages (Spanish, Vietnamese, Russian, and countless others, plus ASL, =
gang
signs, slang, tattoos, costume, hair) students bring to the project of =
writing and
learning with them; the language of fear and frustration in the =
classroom, as
it plays out on every level; the cultural differences when it comes to
virtually everything, including how marriage, family, and success (all =
things
that matter for the project of learning) get =
defined.
Well, no big insight to offer, but =
many
seemingly disparate things to ponder and to continue to draw together, =
and for
that I thank you.
Kathy
From:
teaching_composition-admin@mailman.eppg.com =
[mailto:teaching_composition-admin@mailman.eppg.com]
On Behalf Of Stephen =
Ruffus
Sent: Tuesday, November =
13, 2007
3:19 PM
To:
teaching_composition@mailman.eppg.com
Subject: RE:
[Teaching_Composition] NEW MODULE
Kristie’s post brings =
something to
mind. Recently, the General Education committee at my school =
proposed
that courses satisfying the college’s diversity requirement not be =
taught
online until we knew more about how students negotiate racial and ethnic
identities in digital environments. It seemed to me a basic =
question
about embodiment was being asked.
------=_NextPart_000_0006_01C82AD2.A1C2DC20--
From teaching_composition@mailman.eppg.com Sun Nov 25 21:43:31 2007
From: teaching_composition@mailman.eppg.com (Kristie Fleckenstein)
Date: Sun, 25 Nov 2007 16:43:31 -0500
Subject: [Teaching_Composition] Of Bodies Writing
In-Reply-To: <20071119233619.97D86758057@smtpauth00.csee.onr.siteprotect.com>
References: <35672B387D710B40B974BA1671413E894CD86B@SLCCEX.SLCC.int>
<20071119233619.97D86758057@smtpauth00.csee.onr.siteprotect.com>
Message-ID: