USF Writing Community Server

 This is a short post that I wrote for a class that I'm taking. It's ashame I can't put my really good stuff up here, but you know, that's valuable stuff.

 After reading these various articles, the common theme between them seems to be a contention about whether technology is inherently a positive or negative force for people. Does our use of technology pave a path up a mountain to a summit, a summit towards something? That something depends on who the author is, but it might be egalitarianism, self-awareness, knowledge, or something else. Or does technology deceptively lead us to walk endlessly over a circular path of unresolvable arguments, inequality, and exploitation? Do Computers and Writing feel more like the movie Groundhog Day to you, a repetition of Ohmann’s ”Monopoly Capital” and the failures of Typewriters in the Classroom, as Kalmbach refers to? Or is more like “1492″ with the Nina, Pinta, and the Santa Maria taking us to the land that Gerard says “reveal a richness in experience,” that allows us to be “crossing borders” “intersecting” and “instantiating,” all the while full of “optimism” (222)? Of course, 1492 might darkly refer to Ohmann’s pessimistic Marxist reading, too. Are we, as Bernhart points out, improving on traditional texts by making them more “situationally embedded,” etc? (151)? Are computers similar to pencils - models of industrial efficiency - or have we just allowed students between Maine and Texas to mindlessly communicate with each other (Baron)? Will Rhetoric function similar to Neo in “The Matrix” by improving our lives, or is it simply the illusion (as Ohmann says) that enslaves us in a capitalistic system that has existed since the late 1800s, evidence that we’re all sleeping through an exploitive definition of ”literacy”? What kind of theorist are you? What is it going to be, the “red pill” or the “blue pill”? Do you want to go down the rabbit hole with Ohmann? You might not like what you see.

Ohmann’s article is contrarian in nature. He begins his article saying that his title is very possibly “nonsense,” which begs the question, “why not change the title”? But he’ll have none of that. Ohmann proceeds not so methodically to explain how “literacy” is really a means of controlling people rather than liberating them. Ohmann writes, “My point is just that technological determinism is a powerful ideology which tends to infiltrate our minds when we look the other way. I think we need to be on guard against it, when thinking about literacy or any other technology, including: Computers” (682). In other words, about 150 years ago, capitalism got smart, and the invisible hand became visible, steadied the volatile economy, and enabled the ruling class to divide “politics, education, literacy, journalism, and recreation,” thus controlling education. People began to learn how to read from the state instead of from each other, and the state taught them just what they needed to know. Consequently, people begin not to read, and Ohmann asks, “why should it be otherwise? Isn’t the functional literacy rate just about what you’d expect,” when one considers the opportunities of most Americans (686). Thus, Ohmann asked whether computers will really improve writing.

      To contrast Ohmann, we’ve read Gerard whose article surmises that the field of Computers and Writing has become institutionalized, it’s leaders have become well respected, their work substantial, their language more metaphorical, their ideas of writing broader, their influence no longer on the “fringes” but rather central to administrative concerns. What’s interesting is that Ohmann would not necessarily argue with any of this, he would just say, “What does this have to do with the price of fish in Brooklyn?” To be fair to Gerard, she mentions that members of the Computers and Writing conference are concerned with whether computers simply teach students to have a good time or teach rhetorical thinking, whether they promote to much commercialism of technology, or whether technology can become “overwhelming in the classroom”? Gerard writes over and over again about questions being asked and answered, a type of progression one doesn’t see in Ohmann. At first, they asked whether computers taught rhetoric, and while that assumption still seems “pretty radical” to others in the University, it’s a “truism” in this field now (214). But it’s Ohmann’s contention that while it may teach some people critical thinking, it merely represents false hope to others. It represents the McDomination of the world, where some people write the code and others push the buttons with the yummy pictures. Gerard observes this too; it is one of the many problems she notes that people in Computers and Writing have addressed.

So both authors are tackling the same issues, but have two different dispositions, and I won’t here say which one is right. Having been to Computers and Writing more than once and intending to go this year, I’m very sympathetic to Gerard, but Ohmann’s position is very persuasive as well. Unlike Neo, I don’t have to swallow a pill though, but if I did . . .

                                - Quentin Vieregge

Flash . . . . the computer turned  . . .  a pop-up that  asks . . . what I lost it, oh I can't remember  . . . Flash, an e-mail from an instructor . . . the website is down because . . . flash, a fellow student writing a really interesting post about . .  . oh my memory of that distance ed. class . . . the pain  . . . the pain. What was it about? Why have I blocked the memory of the time I took a distance education class out of my brain? What was my student I.D. number? Why are there strange men with syllabi and machine guns on motorcycles chasing after me? What is my identity? These are my fractured memories of my distance education class; that is these images might be those memories if I had ever taken a distance education class.

I haven't, so the previous reconstructed memory is purely fictional; I've never really blocked out a distance education class experience. Then again, maybe I have (how would I know)? This is not to say that I haven't taken hybrid classes, where electronic communication limits classroom time, or computer enhanced classrooms, where technology augments a traditional classroom experience. I have taken those classes, in addition to teaching them, but those classes are not the subject matter of John T. Battalio's article concerning how best to teach a distance education program. In his article, he writes, "this article offers suggestions for courses taught entirely online," even though they might apply in some ways to other classroom models also. So his focused approach allows me to only bring in tangentially my sizable experience with technology in the classroom. Nevertheless, after reading his article, I have an observation to make about his assertions. That's right Battalio, "I warned you, and know I'm bringing this discussion to your doorstep."

My observation is simply that I believe Battalio is right to emphasize scaffolding as a major step in building a collaborative atmosphere to a distance education class. In fact, for collaboration to occur in any classroom, students and teachers alike must first develop trust with one another. Trust (to use a cliché) is the foundation of any relationship edifice. When farmers get together to build someone a barn, they must first build a foundation, not just literally but figuratively, as well. The figurative foundation is the assurance that one's selfless effort today to build a neighbor a barn will be repaid in kind some time in the future. It is the social contract. The unspoken mores that societies are depend upon. Furthermore, for students to interact, they must learn how to customize their interactions with each other and learn one another's personalities. The ebb and flow of conversational style, the curves and slopes that form the contours of any relationship - how people talk to each other, relate, respond, assume and delegate authority, offer opinions and so on - form the all-encompassing ether of any successful community. Without that ether to bind together the energy of everyone's efforts, their community dissolves into a gray tepid pool of nothingness - the classroom's life becomes - in Hobbs’s words - "short, nasty, and brutish." A bit much? Perhaps so, but you get my point.

Battalio, though not directly, makes the same point - though certainly with less emphasis than me. Battalio writes that "the first week collaboration should be a "get to know your classmates" Web discussion board post in which students include in their posts information such as their majors and minors, student classifications and plans for employment" (278). As the semester continues, the students becomes progressively more involved with collaboration by first completing small projects with one another, then larger projects, and finally a major end of the semester project. Furthermore, they are encouraged, especially at the beginning, to respond to one another's posts, respond to different parts of the same reading material so that they will be more likely to read what each student has had to say. Finally, they are given specific tasks and responsibilities in their groups, and are allowed (it appears) to opt out of some group work all together or at least pick their own groups. What Battalio's methodology does is slowly create a meaningful community out of nothing. What is a distance education class? It has so little substance that a community must be consciously created. I think Battalio has set up a good example of this in his article, and only wished he would have emphasized this point more rather than making it just one suggestion in a long list of suggestions.

And now our hero has come upon the end. After having taken the class, all the secrets are revealed. For instance,  . . . . . Hmm . . . This is where my movie metaphor ends. I don't want to ruin the film for anyone who hasn't seen it. 

P.S. It’s a great film.

Van Woerkum, in the article "Oral and written communication," suggests that written communication is ultimately a version of oral communication. Furthermore, the influence oral communication may have on written documents is potentially very positive. For instance, he writes, "I shall try to show that an oral perspective on written communication can enhance its effectiveness, in the sense that adapting to the word of mouth of readers is an interesting idea, but also - and this is the next step - that bringing in the orality of the writer can be functional" (184).  Approaching the article, I was assuming that the subject matter would mainly be about videos, music, new media, etc. While the author touches on these points, that does not seem to be his main focus. Instead, he writes about the way in which written text can embody certain traits of oral communication. For instance, on page 188, the study of advertisements is introduced; they are referred to as an object of study, where "orality is accorded a place" (188). Four set of criteria on the next page elaborate on the ways in which oral communication is successfully executed. However, what is interesting then is Van Woerkum's synthesis with written language: "The underlying principle is quite simple. Words that are used often in everyday speaking and hearing are more familiar to people. More familiar words in written texts are recognized more quickly" (189). His rhetorical move here is to apply principles of orality to written communication. However, two questions immediately enter my mind as a result of Woerkum's argument. How is this application of orality to written communication unique to the 21st Century? And second, why call these criteria oral in the first place, if they so easily relate to written communication? I have no doubt that written communication is changing in dramatic ways because of new technology in the 21st Century. But when he writes that "texts that encompass a lot of the active vocabulary of readers are read more quickly. So, incorporating readers' orality supports ease of reading," I can't help but wonder if that is a uniquely modern connection. To be fair, Woerkum doesn't seem to make the explicit connection to our modern technologically advanced word until the end, but the connection seems implied throughout. Furthermore, couldn’t we just as easily say that "incorporating a listener’s written knowledge supports ease of listening" (189)? After all, the inverse could be true as well. One final point about this article. It occurred to me that blogging is a useful educational tool to show the connection between oral and written communication. I know that whenever I blog, I consciously think of the connection, and doing so has helped me to think about the connection in the rest of my writing also.

 Tony Scott's academic article, "Writing Work, technology, and the pedagogy in the era of late capitalism" addresses the uneasy compromises technical writing professors must make between a "rigorous, ideologically aware examination of technology" and a "practice skills / based pedagogy." It posits that these competing interests will shape what Technical Writing Departments become and what type of professional expertise they provide their students. After reading his article, I'm convinced that this issue should be a central concern in the field even more so than in other fields in the English Department. However, what struck me as most interesting was not the article's central argument but the many secondary references Scott introduces to reinforce his argument, and that's what I intend to blog about today. The article's references to both fictional literary characters and fictional Clintonian administrative officials (yes, I don't believe Robert Reich exists. I'm going on record with that. But I do believe it's not butter) was both clever and well thought out. Before expanding on that point, a short summation of Scott's essay is only fair to him and ultimately pertinent to my discussion. The majority of Scott's essay problematizes the issue, both by reflecting on his own experiences and surveying the research and opinions developed by others. His coverage is admirable and professional, and his conclusion is both practical and theoretically fair. He writes, "More generally, we need to take steps that enable us to be more mindful of the cultures we have created within our programs and the field." He continues with specific suggestions about inviting community activists to speak in Technical Writing classrooms as well as business leaders. That sounds like a wonderful idea to me; it could work as a compromise between a theory based classroom and a practicum based classroom because it rethinks the tension. No longer is the tension between these two competing interests a zero-sum game; it is a mutually reinforcing relationship. You see, by inviting social activists into the classroom, the spirit of practicality and hands on learning is maintained, but an inquiry based learning environment is encouraged as well. Suddenly, considering the social good becomes very practical (someone needs to complete "community based projects"). The solution in a small way helps to break the paradigm of the zero-sum game, which I appreciate. I am aware that compromise will always be a necessary component to the tension in this debate, but sometimes a solution lies in going around the obstacle or turning the obstacle into an advantage, and that is what I find the second most intriguing thing about Scott's essay. What I find most intriguing about Scott's essay doesn't actually exist: Robert Reich. This circumstance essentially means that, by definition, I find "nothing" interesting about Scott's essay, and following the advice of the eminent philosopher of our times, Billy Preston, I should not try to derive something (namely analysis) from nothing (Reich). Nevertheless, I will attempt to explain why I found his discussion of Reich interesting. I read a book by Reich several years ago, wherein nobody addressed the professional and economic divide between "symbolic analysts" (a term "nobody" coined) and more subservient workers. Scott makes the point in his article that any increase in symbolic analysts necessarily increases by a much larger degree the number of lower level workers. This is because the analysts create the procedures, software, etc. that de-professionalize the jobs of the lower workers. This tension is presumably a zero-sum game. My point is simply, "does it have to be that way"? Does an increase in symbolic analysts always lead to a loss in agency? I would have to say "no." I would say that this tension simply requires someone to break the paradigm, to find a way to provide lower level workers professional agency even as the upper level symbolic analysts reinvent their profession. Who this someone will be to break the paradigm is still a matter to be determined. One thing is certain, if somebody doesn’t do it, then “nobody” will.   

I knew my grandfather my entire life, as is true for most everyone who has a grandfather, or grandpa, or papa. My grandfather's name to me was "pop;" he was my father's father, and that's what my dad would always call him (as sons sometimes do call fathers), so I simply learned him by that name. My earliest memory of him - at the moment at least - consists of the time I squirted tomato juice from a mini-tomato on to his nice white shirt. I was about four, and for some reason there was a large basket of very small tomatoes in his house that evening. Perhaps even odder, my elders decided giving a four year old a batch of tomatoes was a good idea, even though the people around him were all dressed nicely. I cannot remember why everyone was dressed nicely, nor can I remember why the tomatoes were there. I cannot even remember if I spilled the staining juice on his shirt on purpose. I don't think I did. What I do remember is loving tomatoes before it happened, and then hating tomatoes for years to come (maybe ten years, no exaggeration) after I saw the stain set in and the raised grins on mature faces fall flat. Anger is all I could feel . . . at myself. Agitation ensued among family members including my father, but my grandfather remained congenial and tolerant. He wasn't angry with me, even though I was upset with myself. My father was certainly upset, and let me know about it, though.                                 

When I was twelve I spend every afternoon with my "pop." I'd walk home from school - his home - and wait for my mother to drive over after work. During my daily dose of two hours with him, he'd teach me different card games (back ally bridge) and domino games. When bored, the television entertained me. To this day, the light blue of Buster Bunny and the bright pink of his spunky sister, Babes, morphs inside my mind into the smell of the cologne on his shirts and the volume of his laughter. After a while, I met Marc (I wonder where he is now), and my time with my grandfather every afternoon became truncated. When I was thirteen, those afternoons came to an end, as I went to a junior high on the other side of school. 

 Tennessee Williams once wrote that "time is the greatest distance between any two places," and time separates those lazy dog school day afternoons from my final moment with my grandpa six years later (wow only six). I saw him over the next six years an uncountable number of times - three or four times a week. But slowly our relationship changed because it existed within a much grander network of relationships - that of my family. Saussure, the linguistic scholar, once observed what has now become a truism; that a word (the signifier) carries meaning not only because of its relationship with the object it represents (the signified) but because of its relationship to other words. When one word shifts meaning in a lexicon, all the other words that are tangentially connected (meaning all words everywhere) are affected. As one word changes meaning and, therefore, shifts an entire lexicon, so a small spice can enrich or drain the taste of the other ingredients in a dish, It can even flatten the taste of the entire dish. And what Saussure said of words applies to families too; it applied to mine. The tomatoes, the dominoes, the card games, the cartoons, and the lazy afternoons, suddenly and finally changed because of drama between uncles, fathers, grandfathers, aunts, and so many others into something else, something ugly. Conflict killed our family long before it killed my grandpa. The details are unimportant, but like a stranded sailor in the middle of a storm, our relationship existed within something much larger and ominous than itself.                                                                                                      

Sarah approached me in Lockney, Texas when I was seventeen during a youth event, and we immediately became friends (I wonder where she is now). A year later, because she had dental work done, she couldn't drive from Weatherford to Lubbock to see my graduation, so I said I'd drive to see hers. Only, low and behold, my grandfather, who I hadn't talked to for some time, happened to be driving to the Dallas area also. It was decided that it would be best if I went with him. So, one morning, he drove by the house, picked me up, and we went to Dallas. Five hours in the car with this man I sat. At first, awkwardness reigned, but slowly we began to talk. On the high plains of West Texas, scenery isn't much of an option. Neither was literature a potential topic for my "pop" who spent more of his childhood on a farm working than going to school. Music, fortunately, had potential and between the two of us, both literally and figuratively, was potential fodder for discussion. Most of it did not quite interest me, and I was feeling somewhat selfish that day, so without asking too much I put in the only tape that interested me: the best hits of John Denver. He liked it, and I liked it. It was an oasis of sound in this West Texas desert, and the impetus to a nice discussion that lasted five hours. I cannot remember any of the discussion, but I remember having one, and I remember the conversation being like half a bridge across a ravine. We connected again, but not really.

Again, on the ride home - to his slight consternation - I kept putting in the John Denver tape. What once was just pleasant music now became a commonality between two people who didn't have much to bind them together, anymore. Also, I simply didn't like any of his other music. “Let’s try something else,” and “You know, I have other music,” he, who so easily forgave his four year old grandson and his red tomato soaked hands, would say in a gentle tone to which his grandson would reply by stealthily switching the topic back to Denver. After a while, I relented. “O.k., let’s listen to something else, pop,” I said. The tape he picked just wouldn’t play though, and by the time it began to work, our time was finished. We were back in Lubbock. Down one street, then another, slowly his car moved closer to my home, and I wondered, “So now, now that the trip is over, is this talk over, is this relationship over? Just like that?” I wondered what to say to tell him how I felt, but he wasn’t the kind of man that had those kinds of conversations. The car stopped; the trunk opened; he lifted my luggage onto the street, and back into the car he went. “Bye,” or some absurdly stupid remark, and those were the last few words and the last image I had of him, driving away from me. A month later, he was dead, and the details of the death  . . . well . . . it’s not important. But every time I think of John Denver or hear those eight songs that were on that tape, every time I think of my friend Sarah who I saw again just a week before he died, every time I think of absurdly short goodbyes, I think of him and everything that made him him: both the patience he displayed to the four year old and the eighteen year old and the foolishness that exemplified his behavior in larger family conflicts that made that final drive of ours so bitter sweet. As the country boy sings, “you fill up my senses,” grandpa.                      

I'm sitting here at 2:45 am in the morning. I know that I need to go back to bed because if I don't I'll be tired twelve hours from now, at the other 2:45, but it's hard, so hard to. First, I don't feel particularly sleepy. Second, I've got things on my mind, and third, I've a list of things to do. So, instead, I sit here, attempting to blog, thinking that at least it will reduce my tasks for the following day by one, and, perhaps, soothe my troubled mind.  What I'm thinking about mostly is the difference between belief and application, the difference between knowing something intellectually and knowing it intimately as a part of one's life. The Germans have two verbs for our "to know" - "wissen" and "kennen." The first simply means to know a fact. For instance, I know the earth is round (even though the people in the flat earth society don't). I know the door alarm in the University Library is more trigger happy than Popeye Doyle, and I know that the chances of my ever meeting Tony Shalhoub are one in a million. I know these things factually (wissen). However, I know (kennen) my friends well. I have known my sister for my whole life, and I know the city of Prague (which I've visited) in my heart as well as my mind. The difference between these two types of knowledge is the difference between recognition and relationship. One you know by fact, the other you know by heart. Now, I don't know if this distinction applies to philosophical beliefs or not, but, in this blog, I would like to suggest an extension of this distinction. Namely, that there is a difference between lessons learned and lessons applied, a difference between a philosophical belief and a philosophical approach. At this point in my post I would normally provide supporting detail. Here that would mean giving examples from my own life or from those around me that would easily represent the difference I'm trying to describe. However, critically describing the actions of others in my blog would not be fair, and critically describing my own actions would not be prudent. Therefore, I will try to explain my meaning through explanation rather than examples. The distinction I'm making is the same one made by Bill in Tarantino's film Kill Bill: "Kiddo, there is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path." For those academically inclined, it is Freire's distinction between "belief" and "praxis," and for those spiritually inclined, it is the difference between "faith as knowledge" and "faith as a way of life." It is the difference between knowing and doing. Or, more specifically, it is knowledge (or belief) manifested in life, a manifestation that transforms that life and by doing gives that belief a tangible quality. The relationship between a belief (or an idea, or a claim, etc.) and the believer is somewhat similar to the relationship between two lovers (bear with me, I'm going someplace with this). The closer the couple, the more each individual transforms the other, making each into someone that they would otherwise not be, and making them together something unique to the world. As they continue to share their lives, their interactions transform each other, and by doing so, lead to greater intimacy and further transformation. At least, ideally. The same applies - ideally - with a man and his belief. From a distance, the belief might seem attractive, but when known intimately, it becomes simultaneously both more and less attractive. In other words, it sometimes reveals itself as something much more demanding and more beautiful than it first appeared. But if the marriage lasts (that between believer and belief), then both are better for it. First, the believer transforms the belief, hopefully, not into his own image (for that would be a tragedy) but into something he aspires to. In other words, it becomes "his better half." That "better half," the belief, then cultivates the believer and his aspiration into a new creation, a new believer. A relationship forms, one not easily broken, a relationship that is more than mere possession. No longer does X have a belief (as if he could "own" it). Rather, he embodies that belief. Like a few marriages I seen (just a few), the difference between the two individuals (man and wife or believer and belief) becomes difficult to identify. This description represents the ideal of "praxis," "of faith," of "walking the path." As Fred Kemp might put it, this relationship is an "open system," wherein the input affects the system and changes its nature (relevant only if you know Fred Kemp). But ideals do not represent reality often, and the sparseness of those ideals in actual life is something that I've noticed lately, both from myself and others. This disparity between the real and the ideal troubles me, and I look now to something greater than myself to bridge that gulf. I would like to point out that by belief, I do not necessarily mean a deep philosophical belief. It might be something mundane too. Like for instance, X might say, "I must accomplish Y action, so that Z will happen." When X does not accomplish "Y," she deprives herself of not only "Z" but of whatever else she would have learned along the way. I started this blog upset, both at myself and at many of those who I interact with on a daily basis. I am still upset, but at least now, I have a clearer idea why. I have a kernel of knowledge, an image or two, to go along with my belief. In a sense, writing itself is like knowledge applied, for writing unravels one’s thoughts, and demands more of the writer after he writes than before. It transforms the writer as the writer forms and transforms the text. Writing, like the ideal belief previously described, appears attractive at first, but after practiced becomes simultaneously both less and more attractive, more demanding but more rewarding.

Welcome 1102 Students. I hope you find blogging this semester to be very engaging and interesting. I will be blogging alongside you, and I hope that you find the daily writing educational.