As a liberal first year composition teacher who, on better days, believes in the decency of mankind, I was terrified by an 18 year old girl on the first day of my first class. I don’t remember how we arrived at the conversation, but at some point after we tediously outlined the syllabus, she said it and I knew immediately that we were all doomed.

“Oh, I’m definitely voting for Donald Trump,” she offered. The rest of the class fell silent, all of their eyes darting toward me, somehow already knowing that I would be deeply troubled by this statement. Maybe my septum ring gave it away. Maybe they were filled with the same blend of terror and bewilderment at hearing such a sentiment from one of their own–our generation, after all, is known for being characteristically filled with glossy-eyed democrats. I traced her face for any cues of irony. I found none.

I don’t recall exactly how I reacted. I like to think that I played it cool, though, that I somehow assuaged the tension with a bipartisan-friendly joke that would have made Marco Rubio and Hilary Clinton both buckle with laughter; Rubio reaching across the aisle to pat Clinton on the back.

Chances are I wasn’t that suave. I wanted to scream, cry, and jump on the first flight to Switzerland all in the same instant.

I didn’t want to expose my bias to the class. Especially not that early on in the game. But I fear, knowing myself as well as I do, that whatever my response was, did not do much in the way of veiling. I wondered, though, later on: what is the real benefit in playing this hiding game with my students? Why should they not know where I fall on certain topics? The professional zeitgeist certainly seems to discourage such actions. From what I can gather, it is frowned upon for a teacher to let his or her bias show in topics like these. I can see why this is the case in theory (you don’t want to make any students feel shunned or like they can’t or shouldn’t vocalize their beliefs in class and on papers, of course), but is there not a way for a teacher to express his or her opinions in an inclusive way? With care and sensitivity, I think there is. And, what’s more, there is a way in which doing so can inspire better in-class discussions. None of my own teachers, regardless of how successful they believe they may have been in achieving this, have ever been able to truly mask their own biases.

Students are likely to feel less self-conscious in verbalizing their own beliefs if we, the teachers, also do not flinch in doing so. There are ways in which we can influence the culture of a given classroom and I think this is one of them. I am in no way, however, claiming that teachers should run rampant with their opinions, dashing down students left and right. Like I said before, it has to be done carefully. Perhaps simply addressing how your own opinions are bound to creep their way into your rhetoric on the first day of class could work–telling them that it in no way will affect your students’ grades nor your views of them as people. Remind them that we all arrive at the classroom from disparate backgrounds and constitutions and that this is not only the cornerstone of argument, democracy, and good discussion, but it is also (when the mind is open) the way that some of the best learning is achieved.

I’ve survived my first semester teaching freshman composition and I can’t help but think back to a question we explored early on in this class: can writing be taught? I’m recalling the New York Times article—the title of which is the aforementioned question, verbatim—written by Rivka Galchen and Zoe Heller. In this article, the writers ponder this question by comparing writing to the sciences and, ultimately, the biblical Word, implying that we hold writing to an impossible standard and that (the bible) is why we would even entertain such a question. “Is it somehow flattering to feel one’s endeavor is more gift than labor, and are writers more in need of such flattery than others” They wonder.

But I’ve seen the writing of many of my students improve dramatically over the course of but a few months. I’ve witnessed the answer to the central question materialize itself, firsthand. Yes, writing can be taught, but it requires a few crucial prerequisites in order for this to be accomplished: 1.) the student must care, must actually desire to improve; 2.) consistent practice; and 3.) the teacher must provide an environment in which the former 2 requirements can be fostered.

This leaves us with a new, more pertinent question as teachers of composition: how can we inspire our students to care about learning how to write and, furthermore, to do so with proficiency?

Creating an atmosphere of conversation and written reflection in the most balanced way possible allowed me to have my most effective classroom experience this semester. By first allowing the students to reflect on the readings and their personal reactions, not their in-depth discoveries and analyses, we were able to have conversations about the topics of sexuality and bullying. The students brought in their personal lives; one student mentioned her brother, who fell under the heteronormative definitions of masculinity, but who was also gay.

This personal experience created an atmosphere of open discussion and one where we were able to cite that real-life example, along with other students’ personal examples, to move towards a deeper discussion of gender identity, sexuality, and the reasons that bullying occurs and certain people are targeted.

After that class period, I felt rejuvenated, and I felt like the students were inspired to go and begin writing. Their papers were far more analytical, thoughtful, and personal. By creating a space where the personal could collide with the theoretical, we were able to focus more on the organization of their writing. The students were not so much worried about the content anymore; now they could move into their papers with a confidence that gave them room for a better understanding and a closer look at the composition itself.

Striking that balance of personal, analytical, and stylistic writing and conversation can be challenging, but I think it is the best way for students to grow as writers and thinkers.

Post-process theory can be enacted through community-based outreach classes. I work at the University Center for Excellence in Writing where I see this community outreach occurring on a tutoring-level. Non-FAU students or professionals work with the CCEW, an extension of the center, where they can get writing help and knowledge. I think this is vital to the community and to the act of composition because so much gets lost in grade schools, where the formula is so ridged and individual attention is rarely provided for the students, so when they go out into the professional world, they have minimal writing and communication skills.

Bringing this to the classroom would be a wonderful way to provide college students, most of whom are eighteen years old and still trapped in the ridged test-taking mentality. If they can see and understand how and why people who are not college students are using writing and communication in their personal and professional lives, then they can take those experiences and learn from them, broaden their perspectives, and try to make their writing reflect the world outside of standardized testing.

So often I see my students trying to fit all of their ideas into five paragraphs; when I would encourage them to build ideas and separate them into individual sections of the paper that can be made up by more than one paragraph, they either gave me blank stares or grew concerned and afraid to continue writing. Their writing was not reflecting their language, and their language was far more reflective of the outside world. If they can go out into the community and see how they can take the time to write about their experiences in an essay, they may be able to alter their perspectives on writing and communicating.