At Semester's End

I found another media fearmongering article—this one about computers in the classroom ruining students’ handwriting. There is a hilarious disconnect between the title of the article—“Computers ‘Will Ruin Handwriting’”—and the actual content. The content discusses much of what our class has been looking at this semester, the need for computers in the classroom to provide digital literacy for students. The ruined handwriting concern makes a brief appearance at the start of the article, and then vaporizes. Readers are left quizzically wondering at the disjunction between headline and content; those familiar with Drew Curtis’ It’s Not News, It’s Fark: How Mass Media Tries to Pass Off Crap as News should be familiar with the ploy. If you’re in want of a laugh or a way to waste a few minutes, here is the link to the article:

http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/98202/Computers-will-ruin-handwriting-

The talking heads that the journalist cites to provide a counterview seem dangerously uninformed, but that is standard at this level of journalism it seems. Let’s move on to more interesting topics.

After writing my previous blog entry about MS Word’s “writing-level,” I began to wonder how the function might benefit my composition class next semester. It might provide some interesting insight into freshmen’s initial perceptions of writing. If I were to show them the function and, after having learned the algorithm that it uses, inform them what criteria it employs, I could question the students on some important aspects of composition. It could provide for a great discussion, or, should that fail, at least a solid segue.

The semester is nearly at an end and I wonder what will become of my blog. Part of me wants to keep writing in it; part of me thinks I will plan to keep writing in it and, after a sporadic entry or two, it will fade into disuse. Having discussed the potentials of blogs all semester, I know the benefits of continuing: blogging provides me with a creative outlet, the practice of continual writing, and a tentative tendril tickling the tubes, not to mention the fame, fortune, and female groupies—okay, maybe not the last three—but there are strong incentives to encourage me onward.

A colleague and I intend to start up a website similar to Dr. Barton’s Armchair Arcade (http://www.armchairarcade.com/). There, I will publish semi-formal, intelligent (though not always scholastic) articles on a variety of topics, many of which I’ve already dipped into on this blog. I will analyze popular machinima videos, internet memes/viral videos, Hollywood releases, video games, and the like. The URL for the site hasn’t been purchased yet, but I will keep any readers I have here informed.

Business Writing? Word.

The end of the academic year is a paradox of clichéd metaphors: things are winding down simultaneously with their ramping up. Students scurry to finish their portfolios; teachers exhaust themselves grading megabytes of paper; and we teaching assistants are stuck precariously in between: we scurry and exhaust, finish our work and grade that of our students. In the midst of all this whir and huff, the average conversation on campus consists of itemized lists: “All I have to do is X, Y, and Z before I am done.”

It was during one of these exchanges that I learned about Microsoft Word’s ability to evaluate the level of writing within a document (as in a grade-level akin to reading-level: 12th grade writing level, etc.). The information was coupled with the sigh that the business program at St. Cloud State relies heavily on Word’s writing-level evaluation in their paper grading. I was confused. I was aghast. Having freshly learned about Word’s ability to process data and determine a level of writing—and without having toyed with the software’s application myself—my knowledge of composition immediately made me confident there was something wrong with the business program’s practice.

Software is unable to identify clichés. Software is unable to recognize clever wordplay. Software is unable to appreciate rhetorical, literary, or poetic tropes. Software is unable to assess the accuracy of content. Software is an impractical tool for the grading of writing, even coupled with a business professor’s keen eyes. It can do a number of tasks though, to be sure; I imagine Word can at least recognize syntactic fluency, proper mechanics and spelling, and formatting. But to have any faith in the notion that these last items are all that composes a person’s “writing-level”? Absurdity. Malarkey. Blasphemy. That any business instructor places stock in the feature is disheartening.

Now, I confess the need to find the function and play around before my final assessment. Conversations at semester’s end tend to be brief, and, in the haste of the day, I did not learn or think to ask where the function is located; nor do I have time to dig around overmuch myself. I also confess the level of reliance the business program places on Word’s writing-level is anecdotal only. Nevertheless, the situation is provocative. If any readers want to comment with their experience or reactions, I’d love to read them.

Composition's Reach: The Legitimization of a Discipline?

Some questions have been lurking in my brain for awhile now, ethereal and recurring; but before I raise them in this blog I want to issue a disclaimer. What follows is by no means an attempt to undermine, incite, or attack. What follows is an attempt to negotiate what, for me, and I think some of my fellow classmates, have been some difficult issues we’ve struggled with throughout the semester as we discussed the topics of technology and English pedagogy. In reading Wysocki’s Writing New Media, I cannot help but think about the distinction between disciplines.

At which point does English overstep its bounds in teaching technological composition? If a graphics design syllabus was submitted as an English syllabus, bound by ties to composition practices, wouldn’t somebody over in the comp-sci or art building (and I’m not sure which: this uncertainty may be an indication of a greater, underlying issue of obscurity in course/discipline relationships) get upset? I mean, some film studies courses are taught by English instructors: what’s the difference here? Is there one?

Dr. Dorn’s “Bibliographic Strategies” class last spring got me thinking about how others view the English field (how are the humanities valued? Why does our field matter?). Dr. Barton’s “Teaching College English” this past fall got me thinking about how English has tried to legitimize itself (cognitive theory, empirical research, scientific language, etc.). I see the connections between technology and composition; I see the value of teaching certain principles regarding technology; I understand the desire of some English instructors to defy tradition, upset hierarchies, and teach outside the norm; I understand all this, but still wonder.

How far can our discipline extend itself in the quest to teach composition? Does any creative act, when defined as composition, license us to seize the reins? Are there even such boundaries, borders, or bifurcation between fields? Does the academe have those types of politics? I cannot imagine it doesn’t. At what point does a friendly, scholarly interest in a field marginally (and this is a loaded adjective, I realize) related to English overreach? I’m interested to get some comments/replies/feedback/input from my readers. What do you think?

Utilitarianism in the Classroom

Last Friday I taught one of my favorite articles: Sirlin’s “Play to Win.” The class was learning arguments for position and had read the corresponding chapter in our Faigley rhetoric. The essay, which I found years ago, argues that when playing competitive games, players should be competitive. Sounds difficult, right? Well in gaming circles it can be difficult to convince players to “play to win” -- a lot more difficult than it sounds; but Sirlin handles the matter effectively. His article became so popular amongst the niche gaming culture that he was given a book deal. Before going further, here is the link to the first part of his argument (the only part we read in class):

http://www.sirlin.net/articles/playing-to-win-part-1.html

I preface the article with brief information on the world of competitive gaming (big LAN tournaments, cash prizes, team sponsors, etc.) and also show them this YouTube clip to get them whet:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7cW2nMf1gk

The clip shows a full parry (trust me, it is more impressive than most people realize) in a 2004 Street Fighter tournament. A packed crowd that erupts to the outcome of a video game helps alleviate any doubt about the veracity of my preface for students unfamiliar with the world of competitive gaming. Sirlin’s position is relevant even to non-gamers. I draw parallels to sports and board games; and because nearly everyone, at some point or another in their lives, has undertaken some competitive venture, they can relate.

Now, I could talk at length about why I like the article and how it matches suitably with teaching argument, but that is not what today’s particular blog entry is about. As the title indicates, utilitarianism is the focus here. My readers have probably gleaned my direction already: the article is not too popular amongst the females in the class. However, the males absolutely love it. I get more discussion out of the guys in the class period I teach this article than the entire rest of the year combined.

So that brings me to my question: Is it wise to practice utilitarianism in the classroom? Is alienating the females to entice the other gender to discuss the topic conscionable? Will men only participate when they’ve been given something they’re intimate with? Don’t misunderstand: in my mind, there is no reason for the women not to discuss Sirlin’s position; and this is not to say no females do discuss (or that males never discuss other topics), because they do; but rather, for the most part, the women remain silent while their counterparts come alive.

My female students are generally more talkative (in the interactive, discussion, good way) than my males, so I don’t feel too sore about serving a dish suited mainly to the menfolk once a semester. But I’m curious to hear feedback from my readers.