A funny, observant, and grammar-rich analysis of Sarah Palin’s English by Anna North for the New York Times appeared yesterday. In the article, North compares Palin’s speaking style to that of a canonical Greek orator: read here to find out why!
As a Barnard Writing Fellow, I spend a lot of time talking about and thinking about writing. I read papers on The Hymn to Demeter and term papers on architecture. One student even had to write a paper on English butter. However, my job isn’t all about writing and reading: it’s also about listening.
I read papers, but I also listen as students explain their thoughts beyond and around the page. I listen to frustrations: about professors, the American university system, writer’s block, deadlines. I make comments, suggestions, I nod and say “mmhmm.” I listen to my peers, listen to them talk about writing, all in a non-judgmental, peer-to-peer environment.
There aren’t a lot of spaces to talk about writing on campus. University Writing and First-Year English and Seminar focus heavily on college-level writing, but what other classes are specifically about writing? Writing seems to be a skill we are expected to have at Columbia; we are expected to be able to communicate our ideas in English in a structured, clear manner. We’re meant to express our ideas, our thoughts, our arguments, and cite other arguments and adhere to our professors’ criteria. This is a difficult task. It’s especially difficult when your first language is not English, or your secondary schooling did not focus on teaching writing. I listen to all the frustration that comes along with these obstacles.
While these factors alter how the student and I communicate, the basic structure always holds: I am always listening deeply. I pay close attention and take notes on what I hear. I spend time only listening, giving careful attention to the student’s perspective and needs. In the conference, our desire and sometimes struggle to understand each other becomes a fruitful space to sharpen arguments and consider new perspectives.
Writing Fellows provide a unique space on campus, one where students have the opportunity to talk about writing to someone both within and outside of the institution. Sometimes, it’s confusing what we represent: we are students, not TAs or professors, and we don’t grade anyone’s work. We become intermediaries for our peers: we are educators who can critique work, but we are also peers who will listen and empathize as a friend would. In this way, it is a safe space: one where students’ ideas and frustrations can be vented and considered.
However, it is also a “dangerous” space, one where we can question the institutional guidelines of writing. It is a radical space, one where ideas are challenged, one where (I hope) students are not afraid to write outside the lines.
My listening focuses on the student. While students have a lot of valid concern for what their professors will think, I encourage them to follow their own judgement. I let them ask if a conclusion is really necessary. I listen when their passion veers from their assigned topic and try to find ways to incorporate it into the final product. I help outline and re-outline and see all the different arrangements of an argument, all while putting utmost care in making sure the student’s ideas are understood clearly. I spend more time listening than I do talking. While I do ask questions, I mainly listen and take notes on what the student answers. My attitude is not “how can I make this paper better?” but rather, “how can I make sure this student’s voice is heard both on and off the page?”
A session with a Writing Fellow is a rare and beneficial opportunity to spend 30-40 minutes talking only about your paper with someone. I go to the Writing Center myself for that very reason. It’s like a two-person class on a text written by one of the members. It’s not often we have an open space of discussion of student writing like that.
When papers are often written in silence and read in silence, it’s important to shatter that silence every once in a while. The student benefits from having their work critically examined, and I benefit from engaging with the students’ perspective. It’s a beautiful exchange—a balance of writing, talking, and listening.
What does “safe space” actually mean? This contested term has been relentlessly thrown around in the media, sensationalizing American college students as being “coddled” in the classroom. Roxanne Gay, author of Bad Feminist, wrote an op-ed for The New York Times about a week ago, and she defined a safe space as a place that “allows people to feel welcome without being unsafe because of the identities they inhabit. A safe space is a haven from the harsh realities people face in their everyday lives.” In fact, Gay attributes the introduction of “safe space” –as a means of fostering open, productive dialogue—into our cultural vernacular to feminist theory. So where is the line between “safety” and “coddling”? In my experience, I have yet to meet a Barnard student who is uninterested in being intellectually challenged in the classroom. But at the same time, students appreciate being treated as a whole person in the classroom—someone who is more than just a body to be lectured at, but a nuanced and complex human being. How can we create the kind of productive and safe intellectual discomfort in the classroom that comes from tackling challenging, weighty, and convoluted issues?
Determining how to do this is our job, not just as students in our own courses, but also in our role as Fellows. When fellowing, how can we create a hospitable, safe space that simultaneously challenges and pushes students? This question has no easy answer, but it is worth paying mind to. I suspect these issues, which challenge the pedagogical core of higher education, will continue to be talked about for the remainder of our college experiences.
Thank you, Monica. My words of disbelief can’t really get on this word’s level. Because it isn’t a word. I decided, therefore, to use a gif. (How do you pronounce gif anyway? Does it matter? Clearly words don’t need to be pronounced anyway anymore!)
The community of those who still communicate in full sentences (punctuation, capitalization, and all!) has erupted at the announcement that Oxford Dictionaries’ word of the year is, in fact, not a word. The emoji named “Face with Tears of Joy” has instead been “chosen as the ‘word’ that best reflected the ethos, mood, and preoccupations of 2015.”
Oxford Dictionaries’ specious justification is that 2015 saw emoji use increase. Why wasn’t the word of the year the word emoji, you might ask? I haven’t the foggiest. I don’t even want to get into the choice of emoji. How does the face that’s laughing so hard it cries sum up the ethos of a world confronting hate crimes, nuclear deals, annexations, and refugee crises? Words that made the shortlist were: sharing economy, on fleek, Brexil, Dark Web, lumbersexual, they, refugee, ad blocker.
On October 19, Ava DuVernay, a black female filmmaker and distributor of independent films, was honored at the 22nd Annual ELLE Women in Hollywood Awards. There, among people underrepresented in the film industry, she outlined a solution to the lack of diversity in Hollywood in front of and behind the camera.
Her narrative begins with an anecdote her uncle told her about a black village its country deemed valueless. Though considered subordinate, the villagers continued existing as everyday citizens—cutting their hair, teaching, preaching, baking, performing works that help a community function as a people.
Despite that, the village lived in coerced segregation. When confronted with situations denying their existence, they “fought…for recognition of their humanity and dignity.” DuVernay’s anecdote illustrates a community’s desire to exist beyond external perspectives. They live as themselves, not consuming or allowing sources that devalue them to control their existence.
To live like such people, we should focus on supporting our neighbor and developing the community. “We value us. We build or village. ….We focus on her—the woman sitting next to us. We focus on us.” DuVernay emphasizes community, perpetually stating “we.” Contrasting the villagers’ isolation, she believes redefining our understanding of “us,” so that “we” extends to the villagers rather than the comforts of the country, the self, is one solution to systemic segregation.
Dwelling within the comfort of the self, only inhabiting spaces congruent to one’s social identity, and, therefore, prolonging segregation, creates a social impediment that perpetuates issues like racism, sexism—every “-ism” within the patriarchy. The conflict of the self, which leads to the creation of “-ism” terms, distracts us and “keeps [one] explaining [their] reason for being.” This conflict of the self embodies a problem with the term “diversity.”
Diversity focuses on how the self looks and appeals to external sources. It does not support, celebrate, or attempt to create a village. Rather, it simulates the country’s relationship with the village. When populations exist in a space like the village, they must learn to live beyond external perceptions, defined by the country or within it. Either decision marginalizes those populations and prevents them from belonging within the country.
Less metaphorically, a couple of weeks ago, I found myself in an awkward position in class as someone felt obliged to announce my blackness. Needless to say, I was the only black student. The comment derived from a need to justify my reading of a black character, while signifying that such action did not mean I was to act on behalf of black people. The person made such a concept into a joke. Out of confusion and discomfort, I laughed in response.
After speaking with a professor about the moment, she explained that these types of classes typically lack “diversity,” and cases like mine are nuanced but frequent. As the only black student in a class lacking racial variability, I exist as an outlier because my presence and actions need to be justified—comically or otherwise.
My state of being, however, rests in the hands of someone (the country) who traditionally exists in the place I inhabit. In representing the villagers, the moment forces me, as I did, to overlook the situation or address the discomfort. Either decision forces me into a role of separation where I must confront another’s distress with my being in the class.
The conflict rests in the need for my presence to be justified or presented as a disclaimer when I perform a task in the classroom. Having “diversity” within a class, then, creates a varied population that does not know how to exist comfortably with each other.
DuVernay’s conclusion articulates my sentiments, which “diversity” fails to address. “I really hate the word ‘diversity’,” she says, “It feels like medicine. Diversity is like, ‘Ugh. I have to do diversity.’ I recognize and celebrate what it is, but that word, to me, is a disconnect. There’s an emotional disconnect.”
The “disconnect” refers to how the term merely seeks to acknowledge difference in a singular space. Diversity has no transformative action. As determined by its definition, diversity represents a state of being diverse—having variety. The term embodies an inactive noun that allows one to evade social issues by, for example, acknowledging variability (or the lack thereof) within a population and not doing anything with it.
In my example, the professor uses the lack of diversity to distract from the belief that I do not belong in the class. The burden of comfort rests in my need to adjust to the others rather than each student in the class adjusting collectively. Diversity falsifies the experience of a united community; it recognizes the village in the space, but does not address the relationship it has to the country.
DuVernay suggests we replace “diversity” with “belong.” She states, “… We all belong to film. We all belong to television. We all belong to what this is…So I just want us to think about belonging. Think about who belongs. And welcoming people into that belonging.” Again, she requires the audience to adjust for the sake of the group. We need to think about who belongs. We need to welcome those people. We need to broaden and extend our power to best practice this liberal delusion of diversity.
By now, many of you have probably viewed Adele’s new music video for “Hello.” If you haven’t, you must. Many of you might also be wondering how you could draw public speaking lessons from Adele. Bear with me…
If you watch Adele’s “Hello” music video, there are no pyrotechnics. She doesn’t require backup dancers. She relies on her talent. This is the first tip we can take from her. Rely on what you have to say instead of showing off your Power Point and Prezi skills. As much as a compelling visual enhances your presentation, a visual is intended to ENHANCE and not REPLACE your presentation. Your content matters.
Stylistically, Adele makes eye contact with the camera. This might seem like a small action, but eye contact draws an audience in, so make eye contact with those in the room throughout your presentation. This is also helpful during interviews. Last but not least, we have Adele’s powerful and beautiful voice throughout the music video, which is what caused the video to go viral. Yet another tip from Adele is understanding the power of your voice. As Speaking Fellows, we discuss the importance of style. Projecting your voice and making sure you are heard, while using natural gestures, is also crucial and can “make it or break it” for that speech or presentation to deliver in class.
The biggest lesson from Adele is to be yourself and be natural. One of the reasons Adele is so popular is because she relies on her raw talent rather than the pyrotechnics and special effects so many other artists use. Allow your personality to show in a setting you have to speak. Feel free to use humor or present interesting facts. If something isn’t in your script but you feel it adds to what you have to say, go ahead and say it. While practice is important, there is a fine line between being prepared and sounding rehearsed. To be impromptu is as helpful as to be prepared.
Check out the below article outlining best storytelling practices from Margot Leitman, a champion storyteller at The Moth.
“Lesson 2: Have a Few Go-To Stories at the Ready You should have a polished story or two in your repertoire. You never know when it’ll come in handy, says Leitman, pointing to a moment in Steve Jobs’s original iPhone keynote when the slide deck failed, and he sprung gracefully into a story he had at the ready. “I think it was a story he told socially a million times,” says Leitman. “Probably it worked socially, so he decided to tell it in front of the crowd. To me, it’s the most memorable part of that speech. Rather than talking about the components of the iPhone, he’s taking a moment that makes him human.””