If within social-epistemic rhetoric we acknowledge that we cannot be free of ideology and try to incorporate it into our pedagogy, then one issue I foresee is that language will become the sticking point. If, as Berlin asserts, “[i]deology is. . .inscribed in language practices, entering all features of our experience” (479), then how are we as educators supposed to point out assumptions and attempt to overturn ideological frameworks as we ask the students to use an ideology-laden language in their writing? “Formal academic writing” is a term I’ve been using pretty willy-nilly recently on my student’s papers, because there has to be some sort of style presented that they can emulate, and yet how can I expect them to become meta-aware of that language’s limitations and assumptions when they are forced to learn to use because it is the only way I, as an “academic” and their teacher, will be able to tell that they “get it”?

I am inspired by the idea that social-epistemic rhetoric responds to the notion that “the observer, the discourse community, and the material conditions of existence are all verbal constructs” (488), yet I am at a loss as to how a foundational, formal, academic writing style can even begin to critique itself. This type of rhetoric is so appealing to me because it appears to democratize the writing process and allow students “the means for self-criticism and self-revision” (490). However, it is constructed within and by a specific, restrictive discourse that I believe does not allow for the level of self-reflexivity that Berlin claims. “Question, question, question,” I tell my students: “never take anything for granted, overturn your assumptions.” And yet I’m asking them to do so within a very defined framework, the arbitrary rules and boundaries of “good” academic writing. Berlin critiques expressivism because that approach has a huge blindspot regarding whether students are truly able to “[challenge] official versions of reality” while still being products of that reality (485); yet through expressivism, students are able to at least feel as if their voices and experiences matter outside of an academic context. They are able to utilize a language that does not necessarily mimic an academic one. With social-epistemic rhetoric, though, I worry that in practice it is hard to truly push students to question everything, while at the same time saying “Do not question this. This language is best, this format is best, this mindset is most advantageous to accurately and succinctly proving your points.”

In an attempt to answer/discuss one of the questions posed…

As I think I understand it, the issue here is why Bloom equates labelling of students with judging the worthiness of content. Isn’t there a “fundamental difference,” as Dr. Mason pointed out, between labelling a student “a B student” and labelling the content of a student’s paper “B content”?

I’m not sure I agree, but I’ll try to break down the point I think Bloom is making. I believe her point is that Dewayne wasn’t really arguing that his dog was so special and wonderful that he was an “A dog” (although that is one way to look at it). Instead, what Dewayne really wanted was the professor to acknowledge that Dewayne “deserve[d] more than a B”. I think Bloom is implying an unconscious (or at least unspoken) motivation on Dewayne’s part. Yes, Dewayne picked a subject that meant a lot to him and the issue of students’ emotional attachment to their content shouldn’t be overlooked. However, when put into conversation with Bloom’s later quote—“ ‘Love me love my paper’ “—I think it is easier to see how she is offering a student’s attachment to his writing as synonymous with that student belief about himself: “If my content deserves more recognition, then ultimately so do I. And if my writing is a representation of me, then labelling it “B” automatically makes me “B” too.” If Hero deserves more than a B, Dewayne is unaffected. If Dewayne deserves more than a B, though, that’s another issue entirely.

Though on almost all points I agree with Freire (indeed, my own liberal, dialogue-based education allows me no other choice), I find myself most frustrated by his argument that narrative is antithetical to a useful, productive educational experience. I understand, theoretically, that he means lecture-based teaching versus dialogue-based, and I agree that the former can be mind-numbing and the latter can be vibrant and engaging. Perhaps it is my own love of narrative and of narrating that makes that word the sticking point for me, but I can’t help wishing there was another term he could rail against. Narrative, though it can be all the things that Freire rails against, does not have to be soul-crushing dictation.

Narrative can be lively, entertaining, useful, and still invite feedback. I believe this can be true in all disciplines. In composition, and indeed in most of the humanities, I see how Freire’s point seems sound. If true knowledge “emerges only through invention and re-invention, through the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in the world, with the world, and with each other,” then how are students going to learn without being able to vocalize curiosity and take part in a dialogue (1)? Rote recitation of grammar rules and agreement on the One True Thesis™ do not invite interpretation. Yet, I could imagine a scenario where information was offered narratively, as a story, information offered in a more traditional lecture form leading to a later discussion. Perhaps it is disingenuous of me to question whether a dialogue is really the most appropriate format for teaching the hard sciences, but even though Freire himself is not speaking of that, I worry for the students in those classes as much as for those in my own introductory composition course. I remember too well the dull, plodding info-dumps of Astronomy 101—a subject I actually have a genuine interest in. That class remains the only class in college I ever fell asleep in, my head nodding as my professor droned, in the planetarium, under the beautiful shifting stars. If, instead of mindlessly spewing statistics, that professor had instead taken a page out of Bill Nye’s or Neil Degrasse Tyson’s book and engaged us with a story leading to, perhaps, some open-ended questions for discussion….I would have missed that five minute nap, to be sure, but I feel I would have learned something more lasting.

When I try to come up with an analogy for the type of narration I am imagining, the scenario that comes to mind is a role-playing game. In the bi-weekly Dragon Age game my friends and I play, our Game Master calls the shots. He is the teacher, the imparter of information, the one who “cognizes” and then “expounds” (Freire 5). Yet we, the players, are not the mindless receptacles that Freire is so concerned about. Instead, we are active participants in the expounding, because our imagined characters have a real investment in the consequences of the expounding. And, when decisions need to be made (let’s imagine that the professor has posed a question, or brought up a sticky paradox), we are invited to react, in character. We add to the narrative. We tell the teacher what happens next.

I’m not suggesting that students should create imaginary personas and integrate them into a fantasy scenario in the classroom; however, I think that narrative can be a hook, a carrot dangled in front of the bunny, that draws students into the discussion. In short, though dialogue is perhaps an ideal, I don’t know that I believe it is necessarily always an immediate possibility in a classroom environment. I wouldn’t invite a dialogue about MLA formatting, for instance; however, I would show them what I know, and then raise possible issues, inviting students (after the narrative, let’s say) to comment on and discuss the problems they foresee, or challenges they might face.