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A Look in the Mirror
“… but how, especially as graduate students with limited experience, can we better serve the needs of students?...I think [a clear] point that was present in all three of the readings [Fulkerson, 2005; Wardle; 2009; Matsuda 2006] is that within the flaws of the first year [sic] composition program, it’s impossible - and okay - to not know the answers to that question. It could be argued that by acknowledging the inequities and the flaws, we are already progressing to a more equitable and effective method of teaching first year students.” -- A reading response I drafted in the first week of my writing pedagogy class, dated August 21, 2021
When I drafted this reading response, written in the opening week of my writing pedagogy course in 2021, my fears were still very much present, and for the first time, I was truly considering the implications of coming out to my students, and working, even subliminally, to decide on what academic drag I would don (Samek & Donofrio, 2013). At the same time, the field of composition, let alone teaching composition, felt intimidatingly expansive, encompassing far more intellectual sprawl than my earlier assumptions of enforcing grammatical correctness, positing limited genres, and grading students, all of whom were still learning writers, for subjective brilliance on an undefinable numeric scale. Fulkerson (2005), Wardle (2009), and Matsuda (2006) were the first pieces of scholarship on teaching writing that we read in this course, and in all three, I found myself nearly in a state of shock as the metaphorical curtains on the field were pulled back.
In an articulation of what the first semester of graduate teaching is like, Restaino (2012) poignantly notes that not only are graduate students operating as students of the field of composition, but students of the act of teaching as well. Moreover, Restaino continues that graduate students in this formative time have very limited opportunity to develop the intellectual background---which in an ideal world would take years to develop---for how their teaching operates in a greater disciplinary conversation, the context of their students, and the theories of pedagogy.
In short: from that first week in that very first exposure to the field, the (un)growth took hold. The first step in this process was a decay, even rotting away, of those assumptions, which were somewhat rooted in my own experiences as an undergraduate. What I assumed I would be teaching, or rather how I would be teaching, was what I knew as a student. From those early readings and first weeks of learning what it meant to teach, I needed to metaphorically and literally look in the mirror and confront that the pedagogy I knew, as well as the student I was, did not match with who I felt myself becoming as a future instructor. The readings, as well as the professor of that course, were inviting me into a new stage of active learning, as well as a whole new world of what teaching could look like.
It is critical here that I define what I mean by teaching radically, as well as teaching queerly. As scholarship over decades elaborates, the combining of queer theory and composition is complex, simultaneously generative and limiting, representative of a strategy and a theory, a mindset and a practice (Alexander & Gibson, 2004; Alexander & Rhodes, 2011; Alexander & Wallace, 2009). For graduate students, I argue that queering the composition classroom can take on a variety of shapes, but most primarily involves an approach that embraces the theories of deep care, identity honoring for students and instructors, and encourages the challenging of assumptions (Neto, 2018). Though, in full transparency, I am not completely settled on the binary of my next point, I do maintain that the liminal position of being a graduate student impacts the enaction of queering the classroom in a way that is different than it might be for faculty. To me, my vulnerability in learning to teach, learning to be a professional, and learning to unpack my identity in this formal context of the university made a queered approach simultaneously necessary for my own wellbeing and intimidating in its riskiness. This is not to say that faculty do not experience similar feelings, as I am certain they do in making these pedagogical choices, but to me, all of these components were so new, so unknown, and so unsettling even without the added layer of taking a queer approach that I had to trust my instincts in a different way.
For example, I did not have a community of fellow peers to rely on to problem solve, discuss these strategies with, or even talk through my ideas. I was lucky to have affirming mentorship, but many outside voices within my graduate education cautioned me against taking on too much, trying to do too much, and that until I got my footing under me, taking an “alternative” approach to the classroom was perhaps more risk than potential reward. While I am only one perspective, this point is important for those involved in GTA education to consider: recognizing that there is not necessarily a “one size fits all” method for learning to teach, or forming a teaching identity, even with a set curriculum, as well as allowing GTAs to be exploratory in their approach, has potential to ease some of the fraught emotions that are somewhat inherent in entering the classroom for the first time. As practitioners in the classroom, we come to understand, whether we like it or not, that teaching is experimental and personal. Even with set standards, GTAs should be encouraged, and allowed, to understand this too. In articulating what it is to teach radically, I follow the definitional framework of critical pedagogy from Freire (1970) and hooks (1994) but, because of the precarity and risk of the graduate student positioning within the university, as well as the liminality of being both student and teacher, I argue that embracing critical pedagogy in that role tips into the radical sphere, from teaching with alternative assessment practices (Inoue, 2019) to building a culture of compassion (Jazaieri, 2018).
Pedagogical Strategies: Embracing the Process
In learning to become radical in my teaching, I quickly recognized that the breadth of the field was an opportunity, not something to fear. In other words, though it was difficult to embrace how little I felt like I knew, shifting my mindset into teaching as a process allowed me to mirror the same for my students. An early indicator of who I was as an instructor is illustrated in that earlier written response, where I noted that it’s okay not to know the answers. In fact, by acknowledging the flaws inherently present in our role as graduate teachers, or even in the field more broadly, we’re already on our way to a classroom model that is more progressive.
As writers, we could likely all agree that the idea of writing as a process is common knowledge. What I discovered, though, is that my students were entering the classroom with a set of preconceived expectations, not unlike my own, about what they were about to “endure,” for lack of a better term, in a general-education mandated composition course. In an effort to meet my students where they are, and where I am in return, I design a first-day survey, as well as first-week writing responses, that ask very simply what their prior experiences are in a writing classroom, what they’re hoping to learn (if anything, which is an important opener as well), and what their concerns are. Of course, not all students want to be vulnerable in this way, but that’s where my role as an instructor is especially important. On the first day, I share my teaching philosophy with them, and include it on the syllabus. I tell them what I believe about teaching, what my intentions for the course are, and how the writing classroom can be a place of opportunity, rather than a hurdle. In essence, I open a dialogue about process. I leave my expectations of how my students show up at the door, and embrace them where they are.