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Text appropriation: spirituality and pedagogy.

Article Excerpt
Abstract

Much research in rhetoric and composition has focused on the damage done by teachers who inappropriately control student texts, but little of this research has examined the origins of text appropriation. I believe a spiritually sensitive approach to reading student texts may shed light on the perennial questions surrounding text appropriation. In particular, this essay explores ideas about control presented by Jerry Miller in his book The Way of Suffering: A Geography of Crisis. Understanding the spiritual dimensions of control may help some teachers change appropriating behaviors.

Introduction

A significant amount of research in rhetoric and composition has focused on the myriad ways writing teachers read and respond to student texts (Connors and Lunsford, 1993; Shaughnessy, 1977; Brannon and Knoblauch, 1982; et al.). From the empirical examination of student error to the subjective dimensions of grading, this research is broad and a comprehensive discussion of it would be overwhelming. However, some scholarship focuses explicitly on the ways teachers control student texts: How much control should a teacher exert over a text that is in process? Some? None? What is the material difference between appropriating a text and helping a student to shape a text? In concrete terms, how does teacher control manifest itself in written commentary?

For at least thirty years, these perennial questions have been answered, problematized, re-answered, abandoned, and rediscovered. Because this pedagogical issue is such a familiar one with writing teachers, many are certain they know exactly where "good teaching" devolves into text appropriation. During my career, I've asked a number of teachers exactly where this line exists. Some of them reply confidently, "When I do this, I'm teaching. But if I were to do that, then I'd be crossing the line." In one sense, I admire these teachers because I'm not nearly as certain about issues of control--probably because I've struggled with appropriating students' writing, and I've learned that even my own "good judgment" can be misleading.

On the other hand, I suspect issues of control aren't nearly as black and white as we'd like to admit. Moreover, as I think and read generally about the concept of control from a variety of perspectives (psychological, political, spiritual), I've unwittingly adopted it as a holistic lens through which I view my entire practice--from providing feedback to conducting student conferences, from creating assignments to managing my classroom. I've become hyper-aware that I exert control in a number of different ways; I also realize this is a necessary part of my role as a teacher. However, I feel compelled to become more sensitive to the mechanism of control, its origins, and how my need for control impacts my students, especially when I provide written commentary on their essays. In "Imperfection: The Will-to-Control and the Struggle

of Letting Go" (Journal of the Assembly for Expanded Perspectives on Learning, volume 7), I explored the issue of text appropriation from a spiritual perspective. As part of my inquiry, I confronted my own penchant for controlling student texts inappropriately and found that the root of my problem was spiritual in nature. I was unwilling to accept the imperfections in students' texts because they mirrored and made public my own imperfections as a teacher and human being. Confronted with this, I responded by controlling (co-opting, rewriting, correcting) their texts in order to obliterate the problem and alleviate my discomfort (or dis-ease). In this process of appropriation, everyone was harmed. By exerting my will and denying the reality of imperfection, I was ignoring a spiritual truth that has echoed throughout many cultures and religious traditions for centuries:

"The first fact of human beings is that we are flawed" (Kurtz and Ketcham 20). It was a difficult lesson to learn, but I slowly came to understand that my students and their essays were not merely "problems to be fixed." By thinking of them in such reductionist ways, I was acting inhumanely. Instead, our imperfections point us in the direction of our humanity and spirituality, and our shortcomings represent opportunities to learn and to "get better." By embracing (instead of erasing) the imperfections in my students' texts--and by relinquishing my unrealistic demand for perfection--I was delivered, sober, into a real community with my students where we all could learn: "From flawedness flows the need for help" (Kurtz and Ketcham 20).

I do not claim to have conquered my overpowering desire to control student texts. To articulate this compulsion and assist teachers who may struggle with the same issue, I will discuss the ways some scholars in rhetoric and composition...

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