Sarah
Donovan
April
2013
Prospectus
Public Discourses in English Education:
Reading for Modernity in the English
Classroom
The Dialectic of Democracy in Schools
According
to the test scores, Valerio had a learning disability in the language area but
not in other areas… He couldn’t say, for instance, what “hot,” “cold,” and
“warm” have in common. The answer is “temperature,” but he said “opposites” and
“liquids.”…Reading, for him,…was not reading for meaning or enjoyment but
reading in order to fill in the blanks and hoping he got them right so that he
wouldn’t have to do it over again...I thought about the magnificent circularity
of schooling, that schooling historically has trained students into
fill-in-the-blank conceptions of reading and then complained when students have
thoroughly absorbed that training. (Cintron 101)
Valerio’s disability did not measure how well he engaged
in discourses that were performative and social. The tests he was given did not
measure his fluency in discourses constructed dialogically. The discourse of schooling, an authoritative
discourse, is resistant to probing questions and dialogic learning, so the only
logical conclusion was that Valerio had a “disability.”
In Angels’
Town, Ralph Cintron considers issues of power and social order in an
ethnographic study of a Mexican-American community. He explores how people and
ethnographers make sense of their lives through cultural forms of modernity. In
the context of the ethnography, Cintron sees discourses of measurement as the
mapping and texting that changed expansive, public land to something reigned
and placed under authoritarian control. I am appropriating the phrase
“discourses of measurement” for the purpose of considering education and, more
specifically, the classroom as something potentially expansive and complex, but
also that which is being reigned, tamed and controlled by school reform
measures.
What is lost in this ordering, as Valerio’s story
hopefully shows, is that nature of disorder and the innovation that comes from
spaces of complexity and discovery are valuable and necessary to public life, a
public life that is increasing “transnational[1]”
(Hesford).. For Cintron, the “texting”
(and here I do not mean cell phone texting) that sought to tame the expansive
nature of Angels’ Town (e.g., claim
forms, contracts, bills of sales and even street names) reduced the mystery and
potential of space to something visibly contained -- contents fenced in by
paper. In other words, the state manages
space and individuals by evoking the discourse of measurement, which creates distance
in social relationships thereby cultivating individualism in the shared space
and positioning the state as a hegemonic body dictating its ideology. Without human contact and person-to-person
collaboration, the state can objectify the individual. Therefore, in schooling,
the discourse of measurement functions to de-personalize its subjects for the
sake of development and competition; students are labeled, numbered, tracked,
identified, and targeted. Similarly, teachers are monitored, compared, and
evaluated. Cintron might say that schools are “writing” on the students and
teacher.
It is such a
common sense understanding of schooling that we will “write” on our students
the knowledges of the state, so much so that it is outside of consciousness.
The “writing on” and the discourse of measurement “belittles other knowing
systems – implicitly, if not explicitly – or at least to make a prior discourse
obsolete…These displaced ways of knowing and talking represent a precision that
may not be taken as one more sign of backwardness when compared to the
discourses of modernity” (Cintron 213).
It is also common sense to say that discourses of measurement lead to
dependence and anxious expectations about control; subjects come to expect
forms to fill out, rules to follow, and tests to gain access. As I see it here,
discourses of measurement represent a force that is leading school reform and a
force that is not only antithetical to democratic ideals of inclusivity,
participation, and critical engagement
but will ultimately fail to prepare students to consciously participate in a transnational
world.
Valerio’s “disability” performs only in a school setting,
and, as Cintron suspects, that disability and the poor tests scores that
quantify it as such say more about “social/political contexts in which testing
occurs” (104) than in the subject, or better yet, human being: Valerio.
After decades of attempting to bring
order to education, reform measures have proven insufficient thus creating what
I will later describe as schooling. And as we will see, or as I hope to show, any
force that attempts to control the natural order of humanity will ultimately
fail because there is always an opposing force of disorder. I will say here
that I see the student as the “opposing force,” and I see “disorder” as
learning. Students, as we will see, are
always and already opposing the force of reform. In 1983, Ronald Reagan's National Commission
on Excellence in Education published an education report: A Nation at Risk: The Imperative for
Educational Reform. Implied in the title, the report explores charges that the
United State's education system was failing to meet the national need for a
competitive work force, and after evaluating trends in test scores from 1963 to
1980 along with comparing American schools to other nations, the report offered
some 38 recommendations for reform. The commission recommended, among others, schools
adopt more “rigorous and measurable standards,” seven hour school days, and
career ladders to differentiate teachers based on skill and experience. Not all recommendations were implemented, but
these few demonstrate the quantitative nature of reform and the lack of
qualitative interventions. In 2001, a
second education bill, No Child Left Behind (NCLB), was signed into law under
the Bush administration (but with bipartisan support). Among other reforms such
as "highly qualified teachers" and providing student contact
information to military recruiters, NCLB requires that all schools accepting
state funding administer a state (not national) standardized test and that each
school must make annual yearly progress (AYP) (e.g., this year's eighth graders
must do better than last year's on the same test). Giroux, in Schooling and the Struggle for Public Life,
criticizes Bush's policies charging the standardized curricula and testing to
be the kind of regulation that reduces education to job training and rote
learning in order to maintain the status quo. Moreover, Giroux suggests that the
Bush administration was cultivating a public pedagogy of militarism, a
significant element of imperialist ideology – far from democratic practices.
If we take a look at the Illinois School
Code, we can see the variety of reforms the state mandates, but on a more local
level. On July 29, 2010, Public Act 96-1374 (formerly HB 4209), became
effective, the Act that created the The Instructional Mandates Task Force that,
among other tasks, explores and examines all instructional mandates governing
public schools of the state. It makes recommendations concerning the propriety,
imposition and waivers of instructional mandates. The mandates range from
stating in what grade, how much time, and what topics about an issue should be
taught to permitting “local decisions on allocation of minutes.” Here is a
short list of current instructional mandates:
requiring an addition to the history courses a unit of instruction
studying the forceful removal and illegal deportation of Mexican-American
citizens; requiring all 7th graders and all high school students
enrolled in U.S. History to view the Congressional Medal of Honor film; sexual
assault awareness in secondary schools; career education; prevention and abuse of steroids; safety
education; violence prevention; internet safety; avoiding abduction; ethnic
groups and the role of labor unions; a unit of instruction on African American
History; the role and contribution of Hispanic; Irish famine study; history of women; arbor and bird day; conservation of natural resources; Lief
Erickson Day; and American Indian Day.
And now we have the Common Core Standards.
This initiative, however, is not a law nor is it a public act; it is “voluntary.”
Led by the nation’s governors and education commissioners, “The standards
promote equity by ensuring all students, no matter where they live, are well
prepared with the skills and knowledge necessary to collaborate and compete
with peers in the United States and abroad…[enabling] collaboration between
states on a range of tools and policies” (www.corestandards.org). Initially a voluntary effort between states,
federal incentives have created national standards. No Child Left Behind
law had ambitious goals to have every student “proficient” by 2014. The
deadline is nearing and as states could not achieve that standard, more and
more have asked for waivers (to be exempted from federal guidelines and, thus,
penalties). To get a waiver, states must develop rigorous and comprehensive
plans (“higher than NCLB” 2/9/12) to improve education outcomes for all
students, close achievement gaps, increase equity, and improve the quality of
instruction. This can mean adopting the
Common Core Standards, or developing their own standards, but the language of
accountability and college/career readiness is required along with evaluating
teachers using standardized test scores and principal evaluation guidelines. As
February 2013, forty-five states, the District of Columbia, and four
territories have adopted the Common Core State Standards; they are exempt from
penalties for low test scores. But this flexibility poses greater concerns. Not
only Florida, but Virginia and Washington D.C. have created different short-term
goals for different race, which have been approved. In October of this year, the Florida State
Board of Education passed a plan that sets students goals in math and reading
based upon their race. By 2018, it wants 90 percent of Asian students, 88 percent
of white students, 81 percent of Hispanics, and 74 percent of black students to
be reading at or above grade level.
While the Obama
administration is offering flexibility to the states with regard to NCLB
penalties and encouraging states to create their own rigorous standards and accountability
measures for students, teachers and principals, the question remains on the
validity of these measures to actually improve learning and, more importantly,
the type of learning. To meet the sort of goals that Florida and other states
are setting, schools will have to focus more attention and resources based on
race or sub groups. This is not new since NCLB and Response to
Intervention (RTI), an academic intervention of frequent progress measurement
and increasingly intensive research-based instructional interventions for
children who are failing, but there are
consequences to this.
Schools
are using race and poverty as excuses for low performance or barriers to high
achievement; classes are now segregated accordingly.
This follows a slow-growth model of achievement leading to measures that hope
to speed up learning: doubling up on
math classes; tripling reading classes; removing art, music, and foreign
language in place of skills-based intervention classes. But what is happening
in these reading intervention classes: programs like RIGOR, Read 180, SAIL,
AMP, or whatever other acronym the schools adopt to raise reading test
scores? Students are developing habits of mind where they ask for the
worksheet that orders the selected knowledge for them. They wait for the test
where they can select and bubble in the “right” response. They sit at computers
for timed reading. Such practices
have little chance for interrupting the academic and economic hierarchy, thus
making it nearly impossible for students to participate in the discourses that
shape their existence. Reforms have
proven, based on the successive efforts outlined above, to not raise test scores for all students,
but aside from test scores, this form of education (schooling) that isolates skills and knowledge from political
and global contexts will simply never develop a citizenry who can innovate and
one day tackle the sustainability issues we face today by. Critical pedagogues
will argue this is the point of education, to maintain the status quo, but the subject
of this dissertation is, in part, to consider what middle and high school
English teachers do and how we can understand what we do in light of the social
and political context of this new initiative.
Teachers must
participate in the system of
certification, where the state “writes on” teachers the permission to teach in
public schools; this system of “educating” teachers also reveals Cintron’s
“discourses of measurement.” Teachers learn how to use data (test scores) to
drive instruction; teachers identify the “bubble kids” or students who are
close to passing the state tests and need interventions; we must take classes
to understand IEPs, 504s, and ACCESS scores (a “newcomer” ESL students also has
to take the state tests); and finally, there is a behavior system (e.g., PBIS)
to learn to identify students as green, yellow, or red. Students in the yellow
walk around with a form for teachers to measure with a 1, 2, or 3 their ability
to conform to expectations. Such is the modern teacher. New English teachers
hoping to read Great Expectations or Hamlet or even Hunger Games in their English see their students like the state;
they are data. And the students, after a decade of NCLB, perform as data. They
live in the discourses of measurement. They have been trained to think in
measurable ways. I will call this “thin”
pedagogy – the sort of curriculum and instruction that is skills based for the
purpose of knowledge accumulation. English teachers face a crisis in the classroom as they attempt to
introduce methods that are “thicker” such as reading for understanding or
learning through discussion and writing -- ways of learning that promote
understanding through engagement and participation and reading for discourses
and experiences rather than filling in blanks on a worksheet or clicking
answers on a computerized test, even if it is “individualized” as the MAP tests
posits. The MAP, developed by the Northwest Evaluation Association, is a
web-based test that provides numerical data for reading, language arts, and
math; it takes five weeks to administer three times a year; in other words, the
computer labs of the school are taken up fifteen weeks of the school year for
testing (in addition to the ISAT or state test). And, Chicago plans to use MAP
scores as part of the “value-added” evaluation of teachers (NWEA and
Value-Added Measures).
Here is the point: there is paradox in
education reform. While positing reform for the sake of progress, reform, in
fact, enacts an antique and even violent logic in its exclusionary systems. Only one type of knowledge was measured in
Valerio’s case, and it was the kind the system could quantify: the discourse of
measurement. But what of the other discourses of public life, the many
discourses or, as Foucault writes, “practices that systematically form the
objects of which they speak” (54)? This
is not to say that the only discourses in schools are discourses of
measurement, for as I have said, the opposing forces are always at work (e.g.,
Valerio is able to categorize but
using a different discourse). Nevertheless, the dominant discourse of
measurement is deeply invested in a value system that no longer aligns with
democratic ideals (or perhaps never did). Here, I want to introduce a
definition of democracy that will frame my project. In “The Challenge of
Democracy to Education,” Dewey wrote: “…democracy in order to live must change
and move… If it is to live… [it] must go forward… If it does not go forward, if
it tries to stand still, it is already starting on the backward road that leads
to extinction.” Dewey goes on to say that schools must “provide an
understanding of the movement and direction of social forces and an
understanding of the social needs and of the resources that may be used to
satisfy them.” He stresses “understanding” rather than “knowledge” because no
amount of information or knowledge about
guarantees understanding or “the spring of intelligent action” (183). Schooling
is ignoring this “challenge” because schooling is an iteration of a political
system involving institutions and discourses of regulation and social control;
schooling sees like a state or nation. Thus, if we are to participate in
transnational public life, we must understand the discourses that create and
manage the public. This is the work of education, of Dewey’s democracy.
James
Scott, in Seeing Like a State, uses
the phrase “high modernism” to describe ideology that causes us (citizens, teachers, students) to see like
a state; the discourses of measurement (and thus reform), like seeing like a
state, attempt to make the world static, stop it in place, so that it can be
more easily assessed and controlled. Scott writes, “High modernism tended to
see rational order in remarkably aesthetic terms. For them [high modernists],
an efficient, rationally organized city, village, or farm was a city that looked regimented and orderly in a
geometrical sense” (Scott’s emphasis 4). And once such plans failed, the state
would resort to what Scott calls “miniaturization: the creation of more easily
controlled micro-order” (4). The discourses of measurement and order construct
a master narrative of what the world looks
like, what seems to matter, and how
people should behave in a “rationally organized” society. The discourses locate
our position in the master narrative and punish any social transgression (Misson
and Morgan 67). Of course, when considering Scott’s high modernism, we see the
state as authoritarian, but our state is a democracy. Why do we think of public
school as a democratic institution?
Indeed, the formal structures that order society are in place in America
like voting, representatives, and a text that says citizens are equal before
the law. Yet, if we consider Dewey’s democracy, as described above, we see a
very different representation even a different discourse of democracy.
Democracy has yet to arrive and may never arrive because it is dynamic, fluid,
and evolutionary. Of course, some will say, “Yes, I voted. I am living in a
democracy.” This act is easily made
legible because it can be counted, measured. Nevertheless, a quantifiable act
does not, perhaps cannot, demonstrate an understanding of the social forces
that create social needs nor the resources that might satisfy such needs,
particularly transnational forces, needs, and resources in which we, as a
nation state and as citizens who consent to representation, are implicated.
The master narrative of public life in
America and
all these various manifestations of school reform collectively represent the
imperatives of modernity and what I will discuss as the narrative of modernity throughout
this project; modernity is a complex narrative with hidden and violent turns,
and this dissertation argues that English teachers must lead the way in reading
schooling and the texts of our discipline for discourses that shape and are
shaped by public life. Walter Mignolo, in The
Darker Side of Modernity, explains that the exposition of this narrative
begins in Europe and builds Western civilization and its achievements while
hiding its darker side of coloniality; in other words, there is no modernity
without coloniality. This darker side embodies colonial systems and hierarchical
systems that discriminate based on class, race, gender, ability and sexuality.
Systems of knowledge, for example, position European knowledges as central to
the state ideology and a model of global power denying or hiding other
knowledges. Cultural systems follow the logic of coloniality by creating
systems that reinforce Eurocentric economic systems of production and labor. For
example, capitalism in education is evident in the outsourcing of teacher
evaluations to Pearson, a publishing company, which will evaluate two 10-minute
videos of the prospective teacher and the written reflection essentially
deciding who gets a license to teach. Also corporations are developing student
evaluations. The Partnership for Assessment of Readiness for College and
Careers (PARCC) received a $186 million grant from the U.S. Department of
Education’s Race to the Top assessment competition to design the “next-generation
assessment system” (www.parcconline.org). Arne Duncan
said in a September 2010 speech called “Beyond the Bubble tests: The Next
Generation of Assessments”: “For the first time, many teachers will have the
state assessments they have longed for – tests of critical thinking and complex
student learning that are not just fill-in-the-blank bubble tests of basic
skills but support good teaching in the classroom” (quoted in Strauss). (Design
constraints and timelines make it unlikely that this test will be ready for the
2014-15 school year.) First, teachers have not longed for the state to decide
what to teach and test their students, and, second, this Race to the Top
competition positioned states against each other for funding that made them
complicit in state controlled schooling; we now have, still have, a
hierarchical structure whereby the federal government controls what was a state
initiative: Common Core Standards and the PARCC assessment.
According to Mignolo, hierarchical
systems follow the logic of coloniality. I see a similar logic underlying the
rhetoric of competition we see in schooling reform measures. The modernity narrative tells constitutive narratives:
setting standards, measuring progress, and
comparing data across the country helps
us to participate in, if not control, the globalized economy “triumphantly
marching into the future” (Mignolo); the
assumption that the standards secure our place in transnational projects
overlooks the possibility that non-standards are alive and working toward
another imagined future. The two
narratives, of course, engender different responses, which is why one is
celebrated and the other is hidden. Modernity, and discourses of modernity such
as measurement, is a concept of a nation, one that serves to cultivate a state
identity and celebrates nationalism openly; it uses the rhetoric of
development, progress, and competition to establish ideological values in its
subjects. Coloniality is the hidden
agenda, an agenda not celebrated because the economic practices of the modern
state exclude discourses that do not fit with the nationalist vision. We might see the Valerios of the world as the
subjects, or human beings, as excluded subjects even, but, in fact, they are included in the discourses of modernity as
subjects who can be exploited or colonized – necessary subjects in hierarchical
systems.
For years, Valerio had the stamp “LD”
(learning disability) on his report cards, a spectacle that achieved the effect
and affect of modernity’s rhetoric for most of Valerio’s schooling. The stamp
selected him for low-wage earners to be managed by others, but the affect of
living through this selection process motivated Valerio to work the system. After
receiving decent grades in a few “regular” high school classes, he asked (and
fought) school officials to be removed from LD lists. Valerio said he felt like
“one of the dumbest students in the school…that I was not going to go on to
college and that I was not going to be very successful in life” (Cintron
123). The rhetoric of modernity, the
rhetoric of salvation, the rhetoric of newness, the rhetoric of progress, as we
see, has consequences. This is not to say that tradition is the answer or that
development is not necessary, but we see that schooling discourses shape and
are shaped to produce a particular effect and affect which is fundamental to
meaning and thus bound up with the ideology of modernity, a Western modernity, as
ideal. A student will read “college and career ready” (a phrase pervasive in
the Common Core Standards) as a personal mission and “does not meet” (a score
on the Illinois achievement test) as a personal failure. The implication is
such that without an understanding and ability to read for discourses, as Valerio
learned to do, the possibility of alternative “modernities” is lost. If the mission of education is modernity (i.e.
progress and development), why must
progress be situated in the discourses of measurement? Why must progress have consequences that ignore,
insult, exploit, or impoverish? Is there just one modernity? Mignolo, if I understand him correctly, might
say “no,” and suggest “epistemic and
political disobedience that consists of the appropriation of European modernity
while dwelling in the house of coloniality”; in other words, reconsider this
“universal” modernity and “clear up a space where we might become creators of
our own modernity” (39).
As an English teacher, then, the tension between
ideologies should lead teachers and teacher educators to ask: what should the
modern English teacher be doing? Should we be using data from standardized
tests across the global to drive our instruction and curriculum? Should we be
exploring political and literary writing that emerged in various periods and shaped
beliefs about modernity? Should we be discussing course aims in K-12 that are
more compatible with higher education English departments, and perhaps more nuanced
notions of modernity? Or might there be another option, one that might create
our own (which I see as multiple rather than national, but not necessarily as
plural but perhaps anti-nationalistic) modernity as Mignolo might say. I argue
for an approach that experiences the
organization of discourses as social, rhetorical and aesthetic so that education
can be about “understanding” – that will be the English teacher’s
“disobedience.”
Education alone
cannot successfully counteract the discourses of modernity; nevertheless, education
is something that can contribute to an intellectual, ideological environment in
which we are not completely subjected to the darker side of modernist
discourses. One of the characteristics of modernity is that it sought to move
away from a reliance on superstition or myth and instead ground knowledge in experience,
observation, and experimentation. This focus on experience (real lived lives)
is a valuable aspect of modernity that is important in education. In other words, my critique of modernity is
not that it lacks value; indeed progress and development can help with
sustainability of natural resources, for example, but I do reject its darker
side – the side that includes colonization and restrictive forms of measurement
as discussed above.
Up to this point, I have been attempting to connect that
ideology of recent school reform policy has a lot to do with viewing education
and democracy with modernity’s impulse to fix things in time, to make them
legible, easily assessed and controlled.
Democracy, on the other hand, at least how Dewey talks about it, is
about constantly reflecting upon and responding to our experiences in an
evolving world. I understand dialectic as a tension that
exists between two or more conflicting or interacting forces, and I see
democracy as embodying this tension as modernity does.
My Case
In 2004, my first year as a middle school English teacher
in an Illinois public school, the centralizing force of schooling, or what
Bakhtin referred to as the centripetal force, and NCLB pulled me into discourses
of measurement. Because I was new or because I was naïve, I found it difficult
to distance myself from the discourses enough to see the set of values NCLB was
promoting. Some would say that I “drank the Kool-Aid.” In the first English department meeting of the
school year, each English teacher was handed his or her student rosters with
test scores from the previous school year. I was told to highlight the students
who were “on the bubble,” or that did not “meet” on the Illinois Standard
Achievement Test (ISAT) but were within a few points. I was told that I needed
to develop a plan using this data to raise their test scores using the
“district-approved” curriculum.
In a matter of hours, my training in literature was
organized into a district-approved textbook written by Who Knows and published
by Prentice Hall, another corporate publishing company. The social discourses
in Lord of the Flies and imagined
discourses of students in a Socratic seminar with John Locke and Thomas Hobbes
to deliberate ethics and human nature – what I had planned to teach -- were
silenced by the discourses of school reform. The school district paid Prentice Hall over a
million dollars for math, history, and literature textbooks my first year
teaching. For literature, we had CD’s with recordings of every text, VHS tapes
for “anticipatory activities,” a database for test questions, three levels of
consumables or abbreviated (i.e., bowdlerized) versions of the texts for
English Language Learners (ELLs) or students who needed an “adapted reader”
(students labeled like Valerio), and skills worksheets with every graphic
organizer imaginable. And in addition to
the investment in textbooks, our school also adopted what I mentioned above: Measures
of Academic Progress (MAP). Students knew their Lexiles and RIT scores, a
curriculum scale that uses individual item difficulty values to estimate
student achievement, compared them to each other, and used these scales to
select literature. Needless to say, the classrooms and hallways were covered
with data. I even had visitors from other schools marvel at my charts.
A few years after NCLB took effect, and the textbooks
were no longer so new that we gave up covering them with shopping bag paper, a
decidedly different reform mandate passed in Illinois, one that seemed incompatible
with schooling’s discourses of measurement. And on the first day of my third
year of teaching eighth grade English, I received a notice that the Social
Studies and Language Arts Departments of our elementary school district would
need to add a unit about genocide to our curriculum. In the midst of analyzing
ISAT data and identifying “bubble kids,” we received a press release from then Governor
Blagojevich that said this:
As we teach our kids the important lessons of
history, we have to be sure that they understand that racial, national, ethnic
and religious hatred can lead to horrible tragedies. Sadly, these are not just
the problems of our parents’ or grandparents’ generations. We have to make sure our schools teach the
importance of embracing differences among people and encourage students to
fight intolerance and hatred wherever they see it. (August 2005)
Here is
the contradiction as I see it: while this mandate was, in fact, a discourse of
measurement, a discourse that controls
what is taught in schools, among these things to be measured is an issue which,
if taught with nuance and integrity, defies measurement in its complexity:
genocide. In other words, the genocide mandate became, for me, a symbol for the
contradiction in education on one level and the contradiction of modernity on
another level. The word “genocide” came to embody this dialectic of democracy
that I see and experience in education.
At a time when the national education movement was indeed
globally aware in the democratic sense of development, progress, and
competition with other nations, the rhetoric of the genocide mandate, and I
mean the actual text of this mandate, was dialectical in nature. While indeed mandating a topic of
instruction, which is a part of the official discourse, the language of the
mandate (as I will discuss in chapter one) deviated from language of
competition and achievement by asking for an awareness of global atrocities
without stipulating how to teach it or measure it. The genocide mandate
complicates the public discourse of education because it is not about
evaluation or measurement in the quantitative sense but rather overtly asks for
a conversation about globalization in the classroom. It might ask teachers and
students to read about genocide for a
day, a week or a month. Or, it might ask teachers and students to read for the discourses of measurement that
propagate conditions of coloniality and ultimately genocide. This is my “thick”
interpretation of the mandate, a way of interpreting education reform and what
we do in the classroom with the expressed purpose of troubling discourses of
measurement and “delinking” students from Western rhetoric and the logic of coloniality
(Mignolo). Carr, in “Educating for Democracy” explains a thick interpretation of
democracy this way:
The thick interpretation involves a more
holistic, inclusive, participatory, and critical engagement, one that avoids
jingoistic patriotism (Westheimer 2006) and a passive, prescriptive curriculum
and learning experience (Apple 1996). This version of thick democracy reflects
a concern for political literacy (Guttman 1999), emancipatory engagement
(Giroux 1988), and political action (McLaren 2007) that critics of the
traditional or thin conception of democratic education have articulated. They key concern for the thick perspective of
democracy resides in power relations, identity and social change, whereas the
thin paradigm is primarily concerned with electoral processes, political
parties, and structures and processes related to formal democracy. (Carr 118)
If we
extend Carr’s interpretation of democracy to reading, we might say interpret
texts in more “thin,” quantitative ways such as identifying or knowing, or
“thick,” qualitative ways that seek understanding and which often lead to more
reading. Thick interpretation subverts discourses of measurement by recognizing
the limitations of knowing and sees interpretation as always partial and
transactional. “Thick interpretation” uncovers gaps and fissures in a text’s
narrative or argument.
The genocide mandate, particularly the word “genocide,” helped
me recognize and understand education reform as something much more authoritarian,
what I have been calling “schooling” and carefully avoiding the word “education”
with regard to reform. Here I will elaborate. Mark Twain said, “Don’t let your schooling
interfere with your education,” which might help us think about schooling as
that which fashions minds and behaviors according to the interests and beliefs of
the state determining the knowledges and skills worth reproducing and
measuring. Schooling might be seen as a system of domesticating people or
making them fit in to the demands of the state. The pedagogy of schooling is
“thin” in what is right or wrong, what is fact and what is not, what is good
behavior or bad behavior or thinking. Schooling, therefore, is interested in
the status quo. Schooling depends on
there being an authority (teacher, textbook) to authorize what counts as
learning. Text or language that sought to reform schooling, as discussed above,
functions as a centralizing force, a nationalizing force, an exclusionary force
– much like the texts that prepared for genocidal acts (e.g., deportation
lists, mapping land for camps, ethnic-based laws). Of course, I am not going so
far as to make a direct comparison to schooling and genocide, but I do want to
point out the discourse of measurement present in both. However, the text in
the genocide mandate, while functioning as a centralizing force, potentially prepares
teachers for a different sort of act, an act that complicates the center. (I
write “potentially” here because while the language of the mandate does not ask
for quantitative assessments, teachers could still teach about genocide rather than teaching understanding because the language is not prescriptive – nor would
I want it to be.)
Kenneth Burke writes that the basic function of rhetoric
is the use of words by human agents to form attitudes or to induce actions in other human agents. The language of mandates
was, therefore, functioning rhetorically because teachers were moved to act one
way or another. The genocide mandate
moved me to action. I may have responded by teaching students about genocide much like English
teachers have done with the Holocaust texts, like Elie Wiesel’s Night: by Googling a unit for a novel or
a topic, giving multiple-choice quizzes chapter by chapter, having students
learn a list of vocabulary words and giving a test on the contents. Instead, I
set aside Prentice Hall and brought in the political and literary writing that
emerged during and after crimes against humanity; discourses by subject matter,
social community, and institutions offered different vantage points on
tradition and modernity before, during, and after genocide (e.g., The Genocide
Convention, Senate transcripts, The League of Nations Covenant, memoirs,
fictions, poems, philosophy, and Truth Commission Reports). This eighth grade
class was doing that which we ask graduate students to do: they were discussing
how historic events across the globe not only excited intense debates but also
provided literary opportunities for defining new vantage points on ideas of
tradition and modernity. They read for discourses
so that they could begin to understand that which is, in essence, not
understandable. When I say read for I
mean that instead of reading to show we know a skill like “summarizing,” we are
reading in order to better understand how these discourses work, where they
come from, what their consequences are, and whose interests they represent. Why
did Pol Pot organize an autogenocide in Cambodia? What was the historic
significance of Serbian nationalism according to the Serb, the Bosnians, the
Croats, the U.N., the U.S.? Why, since the Genocide Convention of 1948 to
prevent future Holocausts, have people committed genocide again and again? What
writing emerged from these modern atrocities? In what genres? Why? In this modern era, why do such barbaric acts
continue, and what is it about modernity that perpetuates nationalism and thus
violent nationalistic acts? Studying the rhetoric of these discourses in an
important and neglected part of what advocates of critical pedagogy say we
should do. These questions here, it seems to me, manifest education—to draw out
possibilities for realization and action in public life – understanding,
reading for the discourses that construct our understanding of public life, and
the rhetoricality of texts.
Critical pedagogy, pedagogy that reads against
the master narrative to recognize unjust
and repressive systems in society, is certainly a worthwhile endeavor in that
it recognizes and resists unjust testing practices and discrepancies of funding
in schools; however, resistance to oppression in critical pedagogy is
insufficient. Critical pedagogue Ira Shor, in Critical Teaching and Everyday Life (1980), describes a liberatory
classroom as “a break from routines which offers a study of routines so that
the familiar shape of life is appreciated with criticism rather than acceptance”
(99). The goal is for students to be separated from the culture which has made
them into manipulable objects, into subjects re-entering society armed against
domination. And he goes on to explain that the person responsible for provoking
such separation and re-entry is the teacher:”By identifying, abstracting, and
problematizing the most important themes of student experience, the teacher
detaches students from their reality and then presents the material for their
systematic scrutiny” (100). “Re-entry,”
“detaches,” “systematic.” I read this as an iteration of measurement discourses,
as though students can separate or detach and that they can ever leave and
re-enter the public. I do not intend to minimize the important work of critical
pedagogues here. Paulo Freire, Michael Apple, and even Ira Shor inspired my own
teaching philosophy, and this dissertation’s argument also wants to trouble
schooling and representation of reality. Nevertheless, I do not want to replace
one measurement discourse for another, one pedagogical stance for another, or one
reading practice for another. Instead, or in addition, reading for and/or against the rhetorical and aesthetic features of texts admits the
social and ideological nature of texts and recognizes and invites students’
subjectivities into the transactional space of making meaning. Both rhetorical
and aesthetic ways of knowing are valued and seen as complementary. We cannot
be content with skill-based, legible forms of education any more than we can be
content analyzing and describing the rhetoric of discourses. Reimagining the English classroom as a
transactional space illuminates democratic thought systems. And I mean
“democratic” as Dewey sees democracy and
as the modern, measurement-based democracy precisely because a “reading for” or
“thick interpretation” approach encourages students to participate
intellectually in an ever-changing and evolving world situated dialectically.
Discourses in Narrative
It seems to me that the English classroom is the setting
for these intense debates and a site for intervening in the coloniality of
current school reform. Narratives serve as an access point for young learners
to read for political and historic
discourses that comment on tradition and modernity. The discourses in a narratives
represent the social discourses of public life; the language of narratives work
to artistically represent that which cannot be captured in a single-voiced
genre. Narratives produce a sort of aesthetic
enlightenment as they draw us into sympathetic involvement with the characters
as individuals, perhaps imagining what it might be like to be or be with these
imaginary individuals. This is not to say that informational texts cannot
elicit our sympathy; however, a narrative is designed to tell or advance a
narrative. Narratives offer what Rosenblatt would call a “living through,” not
simply knowledge. After all, artists of various kinds have known for a long
time that human beings are sufficiently complex that we are informed and
motivated by much more than factual information. Nevertheless, the sympathy-
eliciting function of narrative can lead readers into the "wrong"
direction. If we consider Hesford's Spectacular Rhetorics, we might see how such narratives
enact a spectacle, an exploitation of victims, for example, to provoke
sympathy. While Nussbaum in Poetic
Justice encourages sympathy-based considerations, such a claim overlooks
non-sympathy-based considerations. Teachers and authors, however, can support
students in reading for both. Aesthetic “entails a creator, the work created,
and an audience” (Misson and Morgan 33). For young readers who are new
to political ideology, the author of a novel can take a character’s direct
discourse and infuse it with authorial intentions, a double-voiced discourse
that functions to speak indirectly to introduce expressive intentions that
might not come through in an informational genre. There is something deceptive
in this, I think, but for this reason, we can see the novel as the beginning of
our inquiry, for the narrative structure exposes gaps and fissures in social
discourse. These are spaces were students will ask questions and do inquiry. In other words, English is a discipline that
can subvert discourse of measurement, intervene in the logic of coloniality, and
cultivate the practice of thick democracy and understanding.
I see the discipline of English as a site of possibility
for “thick interpretation” that reads for
the rhetorical nature of aesthetic texts. Misson and Morgan write, “With
aesthetic texts, one is often conscious that the language is being used in
uncommon and uncommonly intense ways” (34). The “uncommon” is paradoxically and
precisely what education reform needs.
Aesthetics teach an awareness of the provisional nature of truth which
makes us examine more carefully the text or discourses which we are presented (121).
While “understanding” is indeed part of the goal of democratic, public life, I
will argue that the rhetoricality of discourses is also a site of possibility
for English, a site that will continue to include the now habitual discourses
of measurement, which I argue include critical literacy. Our reading practices
are culturally conditioned accounting for the politics of texts and making
generalizations about what reader does or should entail. Critical literacy
refuses the personal response and does not, according to Misson and Morgan,
account for the “particularities and peculiarities of an individual reader’s
negotiations with a text” (91). And so I see critical literacy and even critical
pedagogy as another discourse of measurement because it wants to restrict a
reading or a way of knowing. Thus, my
argument is not for a new way of reading or teaching English; I am not calling
for a “compliant” or “resistant” reading or even for both. Reading is not merely an intellectual
exercise – either one that prepares a student for a standardized test or one
that asks for a student to read through a psychological, feminist, or Marxist
lens. Reading is intellectual yet it is
also affective and personal. “The
cognitive and affective negotiations with texts are many layered, shifting,
ambivalent, or contradictory, simultaneously aligned with some aspects of a
text and resistant to others, or indeed the same aspects” (94).
When we consider how middle schoolers read complex texts,
it will be my story of their reading experiences, an account which can never be
the same as their experiences with the various texts. In teaching literature of
atrocities with eighth grade students, I noticed some complete affective and
cognitive satisfaction with the texts’ formal features (memoir, historical
fiction, poem) and its content. Some readers’ responses were aligned with the
content and ideologies yet dissatisfied with the form and some were much more
satisfied with the aesthetic and resisted the ideological aspects of the text,
and, for certain, students’ responses and understandings were sometimes
ambivalent or contradictory. Even though
the content is “sad” (as most eighth graders say), the students demonstrate a
sense of pleasure or satisfaction. Misson and Morgan explain it as such:
They find them themselves in sympathy with
the worldview being represented in it, or they find it enlarges their
worldview. Having consented to be managed by the text in this way, readers take
delight in all that it has to offer. And so they feel replete as readers who
have been enabled to have their desires evoked and satisfied, perhaps in new or
intensified ways, and who have been shown a world whose ideas resonate with or extend
their ideas of how things are or can be. As they sense the congruence of the
form that realises [sic] its world, their ideological alignment matches their
aesthetic engagement with the text. (97)
And so
we see that the reader trusts the form’s crafting of the content while in the
flow of reading and how the experience of the reading is a form of
recognition. After the reading, the
reader may have lingering questions of the content or the form. There may or
may not be an evaluation and the form may fail to move the reader affectively
or intellectually. In a classroom,
however, teachers and students can move beyond recognition by situating the
text in conversation with other literary and informational texts to make apparent
the rhetorical and aesthetic issues of the content and form. The English
classroom can work to make visible the “intersecting ideologies, visual
technologies, and rhetorics that fuse to create a reality (or interpretation of
reality) that reinforce certain dilemmas regarding the dominated and the
dominating” (Hesford).
The aim of education is not just to open students to the
spectacle of atrocities or the spectacle of others’ lives, but Hesford suggests,
in discussing Levinas, and I agree, the aim is closer to Dewey’s democracy when
we come responsible for the other (Hesford 198). Such a move cannot happen
when in the summative school
assessments, teachers and students still expect logical, evaluative statements
rather than their more “immediate, inchoate, and emotional responses”(Misson
and Morgan 108). However, getting teachers and students to “denaturalize”
correct compliant or resistant readings, to adopt a certain frame or lens for
reading, or to use certain analytic methods also gestures at an attempt to make
reading legible or measurable. The NCLB years of teaching and reading in very
measurable ways is, however, important to explicitly address in the
twenty-first century English classroom. I think teachers and students have to
be explicit about the sources of and reasons for one’s expectations and
preferences for reading. The work for the teachers is to develop ways to
recognize the affective, cognitive, aesthetic, and ideological grounds and the
interplay among these, and interplay that is quite qualitative.
As I have been arguing, one of the features of Western
modernity and thus education reform is its obsession with measurement. Not only
is this obsession a hegemonic mechanism valuing some knowledges and silencing
others, but it is failing to achieve the state’s goal of winning the academic
achievement race against other nation states as evidenced by failed reforms
such as A Nation at Risk and No Child Left Behind. In Seeing
like a State James Scott shows such “schemes” to improve the human
condition have failed. Ultimately, regimenting an expansive space, in fact,
kills the messiness of nature that gives the space life in the first place.
Making legible that which is inherently illegible is the aim of the state, but
I argue that illegibility is actually more valuable. Legiblity is the
antithesis of what the world in the twenty first century needs if we are to
protect natural resources and knowledges with potential to solve global
problems hidden in the dark side of modernity. Thus, this dissertation is about
the connection between genocide and modernity and why I think literature,
specifically literature of atrocities, is particularly useful in shifting
education from knowledge about to reading for understanding. Literature facilitates understanding that is
both rhetorical (Booth) and aesthetic (Nussbaum, Gallagher, Misson and Morgan).
Literary accounts of genocide help illuminate the discourses of modernity and
measurement precisely because the text draws attention to the construction and
artistic representation of ideas. Aesthetic texts such as a novel are “more
opposed than other genres to the reductive economic way of seeing the world,
more committed to qualitative distinctions” (Nussbaum 32). And aesthetic texts set up a dilemma for
exploration as in how the aesthetic works in the texts and readers in
ideological ways and so our intellectual beliefs and experiences are deeply
implicated. Wayne Booth reminds us that an author crafted the texts we read and
that we give to our students to read (since English teachers or “school”
controls what texts enter the classroom discourse). Every text “carves out from mankind those
readers for which its peculiar effects were designed”: “However impersonal he
may try to be, his readers will inevitably construct a picture of the official
scribe who writes in this manner – and of course that official scribe will
never be neutral toward all values. Our reaction to his various commitments,
secret or overt, will help determine our response to the work” (71).
Chapter Previews
In chapter one, “The
Rhetoric of a Mandate,” I will discuss the rhetorical situation that
prompted the 2005 Illinois mandate to require a unit of instruction about
genocide in all public schools. The list of genocides suggested in this
document, “Public Act 094-0478” – the Armenian Genocide, the Famine-Genocide in
Ukraine, and more recent atrocities in Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda, and Sudan
–privileges the knowledge of certain genocides while continuing to silence
others such as Guatemala, Argentina, East Timor, Iraqi Kurds and others that I
again silence here by not naming them. If we take a look at the reason for genocide above, we can see
that the document lists hatred (based on ethical/racial/religious identity) as
the sole reason. That in itself is simplistic and reductive. It covers up the
fact that there are complex social, economic, and political causes of
genocide. One of the goals of this
project is to help students uncover this kind of reductive discourse and gain a
greater understanding of such kinds of complexities. The language of the
mandate is a “discourse of measurement” (Cintron). This document is a text that
writes on teachers and students an interpretation of education, or more
precisely instructions for “schooling,” a Freirian term to indicate the
oppressive nature of public education. The House Bill writes: “One of the lessons of the Holocaust is that
national, ethnic, racial or religious hatred can overtake any nation or
society, leading to calamitous consequences.” Here, we see school reform is
entering a moral discourse not present in the language of standards;
furthermore, language of the mandate does not provide materials for teachers
nor dictate how to teach about genocide. Instead, the text asks teachers to do
inquiry in order to teach, and because the familiar, controlling order is
lacking, teachers, for the first time since before A Nation at Risk experienced a crisis of sorts.
This is one specific and concrete example of how
education is “reined in” by the discourses discussed in the introduction. I
will show how the legislative process was an example of what Hesford calls
“spectacular rhetorics,” and how the discourse of the mandate caused 1) a
crisis for teachers who were trained to teach with a more standards-based and data-driven
curriculum and 2) an opportunity to re-imagine what English teachers can do in
the classroom. How does a mandate to teach about genocide fit with the mandate
to get students to score well on standardized tests and be “college and career
ready”? What is the job of a teacher in this century? What is the purpose of
education? Thus, we see, hopefully, that I am using this specific issue of
teaching an understanding of “genocide” as an example of or a metaphor for the
much broader tension between standardization and experience.
Mignolo argues that decolonial thinking emerged and
unfolded as responses to the ideals projected to and enacted in the
non-European world, so to counter the logic of coloniality or measurement in
education, we, as teachers and policy makers, must intervene with the logic of
decoloniality. Indeed, Mignolo’s
language is one of social justice, yet the work I am or will propose is the
practice of critical thinking and understanding about the rhetoric and fiction
of transnationalism for public life. Democracy, as understood in “Democracy and
Its Limitations” by Ralph Cintron, has competing meanings and is as a “thought
system,” it is “yet to arrive.” The English classroom is just the space to
“call out the shortcomings of democracy.”
In chapter two, “Reading
for Modernity in English,” I will discuss how teachers of English can
re-imagine the English classroom by first considering the aesthetics and rhetoricality
of the texts we read with our students. I present several paradigms of English
that show how narratives about genocide already problematized modernity and
make a case for the discipline of English in middle and secondary schools to be
less about skills and knowledge and more about reading for and understanding discourses
and the rhetorical nature of all texts, specifically aesthetic works, as a
project of public participation.
I argue that English as a discipline needs to read for modernity and can do so through
the political and literary writing that emerged from transnational, genocidal
events. Inherent in these texts is the paradox of modernity: the poverty of
accumulation, for example. Thus, in this chapter, I present several paradigms
of English that show how narratives about genocide already problematize
modernity because of the aesthetic and rhetorical discourses; such texts that
critique schemes to improve the human condition have, in fact, failed (Scott) . (I will consider
James Scott’s arguments in Seeing Like a
State to elucidate failed schemes.) First, the complexity of genocide is retrievable
in narrative, and English teachers and students can expose the dialectical
aspects of the context of genocide and the public use of the language of
genocide. Informational texts or modernist documents are insufficient, as are
narrative texts, to gain a thorough understanding of genocide. We need all kinds of documents that speak to
the various ways in which we as humans come to understanding things, and
artistic textual representations are particularly important as I argue.
Hesford’s work in Spectacular Rhetorics
will be useful here for a discussion of interpreting the world as already
transforming or reconfiguring it and her argument that “no genre is immune to
the spectacular and that spectacle is at the core of human rights narratology”
(20). Next, English is concerned with
the transactional space of reading (Rosenblatt); the discipline understands
that “truth” is always constructed by language, symbols of exchange, and that
in language the symbols of exchange are only truly communicated when the beings
exchanging these symbols in spaces of public discourse, such as the classroom.
In the classroom discussion, the point is not to achieve a truth through
communication but to communicate in various ways so that we can come to
understand and asses multiple truths, understanding the provisional and partial
nature of truth. Finally, I assert that in the English classroom, there is no
one authority, yet all texts seek to construct authority while at the same time
considering the fact that the empirical link between experience and narrative
will be lost in literary construction.
In chapter three, “The
Rhetoricality of the Word,” I will concentrate on the argument Walter D.
Mignolo makes in The Darker Side of
Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options. I acknowledge that his work may be
characterizes as a social justice project, I do not appropriate it here for
that purpose. I am suggesting that
certain kinds of teaching and learning can contribute to positive
social/political consequences. I think Mignolo’s work is particularly valuable
to this dissertation about reading because he sees modernity as a complex
narrative. Therefore, this chapter is a rhetorical analysis of how the word
“genocide” has been appropriated for different political purposes, which
demonstrates modernity as a complex narrative. The evidence presented in this
chapter demonstrates human rights atrocities as the darker side of Western
modernity. This argument illustrates my
claim that state measurement discourses attempt to make legible that which is by
nature complex and resistant to legibility.
This chapter, then, moves to a review (more in depth than the previous
chapter) of Hesford’s Spectacular
Rhetorics for what a reading of an image can do to help us understand the narratives
at work when we witness representations of human rights violations. “A task that consists of not—of no
longer—treating discourses as groups of signs (signifying elements referring to
contents or representations) but practices that systematically form the objects
of which they speak. Of course, discourses are composed of signs; but
what they do is more than use these signs to designate things. It is this more that renders them
irreducible to the language (langue) and to speech. It is this
‘more’ that we must reveal and describe” (Foucault, 49). Hesford’s work calls
attention to how human rights internationalism gets translated into cultural
forms that target American audiences. She considers the rescue narrative and
how human rights law is depoliticized into humanitarian intervention discourse,
which turns human rights into a spectacle. Spectacular rhetorics is the
appropriation of human suffering to deflect nationalist issues. This book
considers intercontextuality or how arguments travel across contexts and thinks
in terms of transnational rather than global because Hesford wants to call
attention to how nation states impact others, specifically through presenting
images. Distribution of the visible is part of the configuration of domination
and subjection; emancipation starts when we realize that looking is also an
action that confirms or monetizes that distribution (16). In other words,
interpreting the world is already a means of transforming it or reconfiguring
it. Education in America, then, can be
seen as doing this sort of distribution or work toward a thought system that
troubles the spectacle. Rather than as a narcotic we need to understand, it can
be taught as a” heterogeneous and rhetorically dialogic process that is
nevertheless subsumed within repetitive forms” (19). Hesford asks: How do deployments of the
spectacular rhetoric advance political, cultural, and moral agendas? How do
truth telling genres and the contexts they generate support the spectacular and
increasingly panoptic culture of U.S. internationalism and its regulation of
human rights subjects? She demonstrates that no genre is immune to the
spectacular in human rights narratology and deliberates the potential of a
differentiated politics of recognition that move beyond recognition, and so,
again, the English classroom is an ideal site for investigating this
phenomenon.
In chapter four, “Learning as Disorder, Learning though Crisis,” In this chapter, I will argue that what is at
stake for teachers and students in reimagining the English classroom is a
citizenry more adequately prepared to intervene in the most destructive aspects
of modernity, challenge the virtue of democracy to understand the competing
motives behind it. Delinking (Mignolo)
or recognizing Cintron’s “oligarchic democracy” will cause a crisis for
teachers and students, but it is a crisis that is necessary for bringing forth
thick democratic principles and stimulating global consciousness. What texts
are most resistant to measurement? What texts will help students see the living
and competing social discourses of the public? The discourses of measurement
seek to transmit information and ideas. Standardization is a neat way of
dictating what knowledge is valuable and how to know if you have it. There is comfort in the predicable nature of
this apparatus. Learning, however, is unpredictable, strange, messy, and
uncomfortable; experience is fluid, evolving: disorder. There must be a moment
of crisis or disequilibrium in for there to be growth or discovery, that is until
the next moment of crisis. Piaget calls this the equilibration, and it is the
nature of learning.
I will then attempt to trace how literature of atrocities
can be a sort of aesthetic experience and cognitive intervention in schooling.
Aesthetic texts make visible the spectacle and the logic of coloniality that I
discuss in chapter three, and the literary approach is a viable means of
engaging in the sort of democratic thought that might lead to action against
human rights violations by the state and action for a more just public life,
which would make what we do in the classroom more like education than schooling
(Hesford 21). Teaching reading for the
aesthetic and rhetorical nature of
texts enacts a sort “democratic thought system” and a way of being in the
world. As an example, I will discuss
Shoshana Felman’s “Story of a Class” from Testimony
as she asks, “Is the testimony, therefore, simply a medium of historical
transmission, or is it, in obscure ways, the unsuspected medium of healing? If
history has clinical dimensions, how can testimony intervene, pragmatically and efficaciously, at once historically
(politically and rhetorically) and
clinically (aesthetically)” (9)? She
explains how her class in learning about the Holocaust “broke out into a
crisis” (47). What was unusual, however, was that the experience did not end in
silence; instead, it fermented into endless and relentless talking in the days
and weeks to come and outside the walls of the classroom. She says that
students felt alone and suddenly “deprived of their bonding to the world and to
one another” (48).
In learning about
atrocities and in bearing witness to events through political and literary
writings, students can delink from coloniality (Mignolo) or break free of s “common
sense thinking” (Kumashiro), and move
beyond recognition (Hesford). I want to
call attention to the inadequacy of representation and the limits of
narratability and public reproduction. It is this delinking from common sense
notions of progress, development, and even democracy that is a requirement of
“thick” democratic practice.
In chapter five, “Spectacular
Fictionality,” I will discuss benefits of a literary education that values
experience. I will attempt to show
literary genres, specifically novels, are aesthetic and rhetorical in nature. And then suggest that because of complex
narrative in novels, students actually “live through” (Rosenblatt) experiences
that support understanding of public life while ultimately shaping students’
social and political ideologies. I argue
through Gallagher’s “The Rise of Fictionality” that fiction considers the
position of the reader as external to the fiction, which positions the reader
as capable of speculating on the action. Because the novel’s fictionality seeks
to suspend disbelief, fictionality is about believability or plausibility
rather than reality. According to Gallagher, fiction is not wanting to trick
the reader into thinking that he or she “knows” something. It seems that
Gallagher is wanting to explore fictionality as features that satisfy some sort
of wanting in readers, a wanting that is specific to modernity. And so the
question Gallagher asks is this: What was it about early modernity in the first
capitalist nation that propagated not just realist
fiction but realist fiction? What does it mean to read a narrative as
credible while thinking it affirms nothing?” (346). However, Nussbaum in Poetic Justice seems to wants the literary experience to be of
“use” or about knowing. Nussbaum compares what one reads to one’s own unfolding
experience, and her use of the word “experience” in this texts resonates with
Dewey’s concept of democracy as unfolding. If we think of reading in this way,
s combining one’s own absorbed imagining with periods of more detached critical
scrutiny, we can begin to see why we might find in reading an activity
well-suited for public reasoning and public life (Nussbaum 9). Fiction,
according to Nussbaum, helps people become “judicious spectators” of life and
ways of being. Here we see not just a view of
reading as a moral education to help us make sense of our personal
experience, but one that we can defend to others and support along with others,
with whom we wish to live (84).
I will consider the rhetorical nature of Gallagher and
Nussbaum’s arguments about fiction. Here,
I will introduce the problem of fiction, specifically with young readers, using
Hesford’s argument in Spectacular Rhetorics
that no genre is immune to the spectacular. Fiction calls attention to the spectacles
of life; it asks readers to recognize it, whatever it may be in the narrative.
However important recognition of humanity is, it is not, as Hesford argues, “a
narcotic” and “we need to understand it as heterogeneous and as a rhetorically
dialogic process that is nevertheless subsumed within repetitive forms (19). We
know how the state is implicated in how they organize schools, but I want to
draw attention to how English teachers are implicated in what and how they
teach reading. Is it enough to recognize
stories and consider arguments, or
are the texts asking for something beyond recognition?
In chapter six, “Reading Beyond Recognition,”
I will discuss the aesthetics and rhetoricality of a genre named by Lawrence
Langer as “literature of atrocities” in The
Literary Imagination “because its literary expression is rooted in a
historical reality that haunts the reader, we cannot dismiss it as we might
some more extravagant passages (22).” I will consider the features of this
genre that have the potential to perpetuate, intervene, and/or trouble features
of the master narrative of modernity. This genre, I argue, calls attention to
and might even answer Hesford’s questions: How do deployments of spectacular
rhetoric advance political, cultural, and moral agendas? How do truth telling
genres and the contexts they generate support the spectacular and increasing
panoptic culture of United States internationalism and its regulation of human
rights subjects?
In literature of atrocity, according to Langer, there are
“insiders” and “outsiders,” and in questioning the need for an “outsider” to
write about the atrocity when there are so many “insiders” is to ask who can
tell the or a truth. Perhaps only those
who had not part can focus on them rationally and imaginatively. Perhaps “it
has become a problem for the writer to relate the small circle of his private
experience to the immense circumference of contemporary human violence and
suffering” (23). While Langer’s argument
specifically sites Holocaust literature (e.g., the literary nonfiction of The
Diary of Anne Frank, Elie Wiesel’s Night,
Primo Levi’s If This is a Man and the literary fiction of Pierre Gascar’s The Season of the Dead, Jerzy Kosinski’s The Painted Bird and William Styron’s Sophie’s Choice), I will extend the genre to include literature
from the genocide of Armenians and Cambodians, literature from the genocide in
Guatemala, Bosnia, Kosovo, and Rwanda (although there is much more to
consider). Such literature exposes the difficulty of
reality and representation, and this genre, as I intend to demonstrate,
appropriately troubles that which we should consider in all genres and all the
ways we read the world: literary and informational and textual as well as
visual.
I argue that English teachers are best suited to teach
about modernity because they can select literary writing that captures the
complexity of history discarding or complicating the overtly didactic texts and
considering nuanced, ethically ambiguous texts that problematized representation.
I provide examples of young adult literature of atrocities that I see as
successful in devising an idiom and style for the unspeakable that is indeed
nuanced, complex, and ethically ambiguous (and perhaps some texts that are not).
I review several texts that contextualize the effects of modernity and construct
what Baer calls a “framework of consciousness” from which students can analyze
the rhetoric of modernity and “uncover” the logic of coloniality (Calder). I
will critique this framework again considering Hesford’s Spectacular Rhetorics considering the spectacular nature of the
imagery in these texts and the narratives- rescue narrative, human rights law is depoliticized into a
humanitarian intervention discourse, appropriation of human suffering, how
truth telling genres achieve political effect and manipulate affect because of
the witnessing.
In chapter seven,
“Citizen[2]
Readers,” I ask: What is the impact of reading literature of atrocities on
eighth grade students? What happens when we ask our students to recognize and
consider our responsibility for understanding transnationalism? What happens
when we follow the form of literature in our classes and teach through an
inquiry based method, a process of uncovering the aesthetic qualities and
rhetorical nature of texts on a student’s identity as a reader and citizen?
What is the impact of an English classroom that resists measurement methods
(e.g., test prep, skills focused, multiple choice assessment,
scientifically-proven curriculum, data-driven instruction) on NCLB-schooled
students? This chapter explores how
students reason about being a student and the consequences their thought system has for their thinking about reading
and their place in the world. This chapter
attempts to denaturalize normalized (the result of a lifetime of NCLB for these
students) discourses about being a student – discourses that help to perpetuate
narrow ways of understanding our identity as citizens and thus narrow ways
of reading the world that are incompatible
with objectives for education in a democratic, globalized society.
I will do a study of several eighth grade students who,
in their eighth grade 2012-13 English class, read a variety of literary and
informational texts that perhaps once seemed discrete and unrelated but
together constitute a coherent genre identified at the Literature of Atrocity
(which I might call darker side of modernity). This school year, I did not ask
whether this curriculum should be done; the texts had been written. Our task was
to evaluate how it has been done,
judge its effectiveness, and, as Langer suggests, analyze its implications for
literature and for society. Students read literature that represented 1) the
Maya during the Guatemalan genocide in the early 1980’s; 2) the Cambodian
genocide in the mid 1970’s considering “truth telling genres” and “bearing
witness”; 3) the Armenian genocide in the early 1900’s and did inquiry into fictionalizing aspects of historical fiction and the ongoing veracity of the term “genocide”
in Turkey; 3) read for the social, political, and economic causes and consequences
of a variety of cultural intersections; and 4) considered the sort of errors
teachers make when teaching about the Holocaust analyzing several
representations of Anne Frank’s diary and Elie Wiesel’s continued efforts to
move citizens beyond recognition. We read with attention to the rhetorical and
aesthetic nature of narrative and informational texts – with no test prep,
textbooks, or pre-packaged curriculum except to draw attention to how such
methods ask for different reading practices. This will be a qualitative study
using transcripts from semi-structured interviews (individual and small group),
a demographic survey, and written artifacts of student work to shed light on
variance during the data collection process. I intend to select students whom I
perceive to have had different responses to the pedagogy and to use textual
analysis of the interviews and artifacts to code and interpret the data.
In the final chapter, “Preparing for a Democratic Public Life,” this
chapter suggests ways English teachers and English teacher educators might
create spaces for teachers to rethink how their reading practices and
experiences with curriculum are always mediated and produced by discourses that
reflect perspectives, experiences, and values of Western states. I will
acknowledge the possible resistance teachers may have to pedagogy that does not
lend itself to clean measurement, specifically how teacher evaluations are tied
to students test scores. I want to come back to the idea of democracy as a
system of thought rather than a static form of governing. As Cintron argues in
“Democracy and Its Limitations,” and as Mignolo argues in The Darker Side of Modernity, democracy as competing meanings.
Democracy is a thought system that has yet to arrive, and education in the
English classroom (not schooling) is just the place to call attention to the
shortcomings and possibilities of democracy. First, I consider our work in
English education, where we education future English teachers, as politically implicated;
what we include or exclude in our pedagogy already has ethical and political
implications. Next, I suggest that we read with our teacher candidates, that we
read for social and political understanding of the discourse of measurement
that is so pervasive in schooling. I also suggest that we prepare teacher
candidates to be comfortable with discomfort as Kumashiro would say so that
they might trouble their past experiences in schooling and reimagine the
English classroom as space to not ignore, not just subvert, but a space to
recognize and “understanding of the movement and direction of social forces”
and then move beyond to “an understanding of the social needs and of the
resources that may be used to satisfy them” (Dewey 183).
Conclusion
I
think we can agree that as a modern nation, we celebrate development and
knowledges that can be measured and counted, yet I hope I have shown that development
comes at the cost of oppressing other knowledges that might enlighten and
uncover current and long term problems implicated in development (e.g., social,
economic, and ecological). This cost, hidden in education reform rhetoric, can
be uncovered in the field of English. And the “thick” reading practices that I advocate
can prepare our students to be citizens in a transnational public. Nevertheless,
schooling reform has English teachers living in the discourses of measurement
and teaching about and for information and skills. Because we are at the beginning of another
trend, I am suggesting that the reform should come by way of re-imagining the
discipline of English as a discipline of reading for discourses, reading for understanding of the social forces that
shape society. I argue that reading for and experiencing discourses in aesthetic
genres like atrocity narratives will actually reveal the paradox of
understanding (and I think this may be the most important point). A paradox is the simultaneous existence of
two apparently incompatible things such as schooling and education, democracy and
democracy, modernity and modernity. In literature, the representational tactics
make a character seemingly knowable, but, as Gallagher suggests, “peculiarly
delimited” because the character is a textual being. Literature draws attention
to this paradox of knowing; it draws attention to the problem of representation.
Discourses of measurement do not want to draw attention to the impossibility of
quantifying learning, yet in literature of atrocity there is a danger in
responding to trauma that indulges in the illusion that we might somehow be
able to assimilate atrocities fully into our understanding that that trauma is legible
or quantifiable. While this is a paradox of understanding, it is precisely what
learning is – already and always partial and unquantifiable.
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[1] This prospectus employs Hesford’s “transnational” rather than “global” to draw
attention to “the ongoing relevance of nation-states and nationalisms,” how
“subjects are constituted and connected through technologies and
rationalities,” and how “relations between individuals and nation-states,
between corporations and the state, and between state and nonstate actors are
negotiated” (Hesford 14). “Trans” means across, beyond, through, and change,
which indicates the dynamism of the public imaginary.
[2]
an allusion to Todd Destigter’s Reflections
of a Citizen Teacher: Literacy, Democracy, and the Forgotten Students of Addison High (2001)
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