Write acrostic this______

Willingness to get on the big scary ride at the carnival, no fear, no whining, all guts.

Righteous fists raised to convey the dazzling power we grab through learning.

It only makes sense that the commons we create, creates us back.

Teaching. It happens even when we don’t know it or understand it.

I‘m a teacher. I teach. I’m into teaching thinking and stretching and breathing.

Not making connections across academic boundaries–that sucks.

Good to know I’m not alone–I got my commons, and my commons has got my back.

 

Alone no more because I have no borders; I’m surrounded by no seas; I feel no disconnection; I am no island.

Commons-base peer production. I’m into it.

Reading across the curriculum is as important as writing across the curriculum. I mean it.

One. Singular sensation. Every little step she takes. One. Thrilling combination. Every move that she makes. One smile and suddenly nobody else will do. You know you’ll never be lonely with you know who. One moment in her presence, and you can forget the rest, for the girl is second best to none, son. Oooh. Sigh. Give her your attention. Do I really have to mention? She’s the one. Elizabeth Gilbert.

Students.

Students.

 

Taking our words and freely letting go of our hold of them so they may see their true potentials.

Helping bridge disciplinary gaps–oh yeah–that’s what we’re all about: dancing smoothly around in every discipline we can imagine–just to spread the word, and the word is an acronym: WAC.

Exhausted by working too much, too long, too hard trying to see how everything is connected; maybe, perhaps, occasionally, once in awhile, sometimes fission is better than fusion.

 

Communicating across the curriculum. That matters, too.

Uhriah Heep is the best worst villain ever. (Sorry, you know how I feel about Dickens.)

Reiterative processes happen a lot, in writing, in decision-making, in learning.

Right. I mean: write.

Inquiry across disciplines–what couldn’t be done weaving through disciplines?

Crossing borders, boundaries, disciplinary lines.

Under pressure always, but we can dream of being graceful despite that, right?

Like this. (Or is it wrong to like one’s own text?!)

Unusual growth happened to me this summer because I was part of this course on writing across the curriculum–8 weeks of insane growth–mind imploding, soul soaring, spirit stirring, attitude adjusting.

My gratitude knows no bounds–thank you, students and friends, all of you who made this one of the best eight weeks of teaching/learning I’ve ever had.

One mega-great class

One mega-great class

makes me want to write until

I keel over.

Argue with me, I dare you

As usual, I’m deeply inspired by what my students are doing. Please visit their blogs (see blogroll to the right). They are watching Ted videos on nurturing creativity, innovation in education, reading essays from Writing Spaces–the open educational resource we love to love, and tripping off into the realms of their prior knowledge making connections to what they knew, thought they knew, what they’ve just learned, and how that matters.

I always had a hard time arguing because I was trained to be such a sweet and quiet child–be seen, not heard, don’t whine, don’t beg, don’t annoy, hush, chew with your mouth closed, be polite, no cussing, walk–don’t run, hurry up, sit still, quit fidgeting, pay attention, don’t talk, talk up–I can’t hear you when you mumble. And so on. NEVER argue with an adult–that was essentially the message. That meant never be sassy and do what I was told, always. (I’m not saying the training worked; I’m just saying it happened.)

What I didn’t know when I was younger was that arguments could be reasonably constructed conversations that acknowledge multiple perspectives that might actually lead both parties (or more) into a new land of discovery and enlightenment. I thought they were screaming matches that happened when one couldn’t repress emotions anymore and happened once or twice a year when parents planned family vacations.

I still don’t like to argue or even consciously construct arguments. I like thinking in patterns, not always in a linear manner, to get to a point, but I don’t always think of my writing as argument. But let’s face it: everything is an argument, including the gaudy Hawaiian shirt I put on this morning.

But frankly, I want to pontificate: “Here is this knowledge–yes, this is it–ta da!–please accept this awfully fab gift from me to you.” Because pronouncement is easy (blush and grin). It is. And I can do it pretty easily because that’s what I learned how to do as a teacher by watching most of my teachers work out on me. I had a lot of classes where I wasn’t allowed to ask questions–only allowed to take notes. And it’s easy to “just say,” did I say that? Just state what is and be done with it. (See instructions for how I was supposed to behave as a child.)

Now I sort of futz around with ideas in public, throw some out there, suggest readings in a certain order, comment here and there, make some connections, hope everyone else makes connections. With this blog, I am sort of replacing the traditional lecture form–but not really.  I’d never say all this in class–or I hope not! I really love that we have this form of communication. I’m still thinking and sharing with students, but it’s at their convenience, not mine, and questions can be asked anytime, any place: here, in email, through our CMS on campus (Blackboard), in the f2f portion of our class, and if I ever answered my phone in my office, there, too. And the best part is that I can learn as I go.

Even though, I find that talking on and on about one topic for a whole class period can even bore me, I occasionally still do it, I must confess… particularly in a class where I need to introduce a lot in a hurry, but I have to have visuals or charts or something; without some markers, even I can get lost. I need more road signs than spoken words, to lay out the path to possible arguments.

That’s where I’m at now: I see possible arguments and want to just show them to visitors. Sort of like giving a tour of argumentative methods at the Argument Zoo: “Here on your right, you’ll see the Toulmin method–don’t get too close, you might get the willies. Over on your left, and just down a bit, you’ll find Rogerian argument taking full advantage of its proximity to the Fallacy House. As we pass the cafe, you’ll notice on the right, the Socratic method–it’s a little scary–DO NOT throw peanuts. Sit down, please, and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle.” In a content class, I feel the same way: “Check out the WAC over here and the WID just behind it. This is a rare moment, folks, you’ll want to have your cameras ready because these aren’t always in the same place and don’t always play well together.” Or: “Welcome to the Victorian Literature Tour. Today, we’ll be looking at _________. Please don’t touch the art, thank you. Notice ________. Check out ________.”

It’s about me pointing the way, and students going down the path, but then forging their own paths. Not so easy to do in a jungle without a machete. But in my world, writing is the big, nasty sword that cuts the path to understanding. Maybe I should make that part of the prerequisites for my classes: must have own metaphorical machete.

What I get now about argument, so nicely pointed out here in, “An Argument is Not a War,” and here, “Great Argument, Thanks!” is that argument is knowledge-making. And I’m all about that.

Here is my haiku for today:

Students make me think

of the possibilities

for a questing soul.

Thanks for all the great arguments you’ve been making in your blogs and on Bb. It’s all making me happy. Arguing with me and with others is the way you are creating new knowledge that we can all share. As Captain Pike says in the latest Star Trek movie (2009), while making an argument to James T. Kirk that Kirk should join the Federation, enlist in Starfleet, and go to the Academy: “You can settle for an ordinary life… I dare you to do better.” Every class you take, every writing task you undertake is a kind of dare you give yourself: “I can settle for average, but I dare myself to do better.”

Does a dare that is accepted at the end of an argument mean that it was an effective argument? Not sure I care. I just really love that part of the movie and, I’m 100% sure I don’t mind that the whole thing is all about the pathos… a little bit of ethos, but it’s not much. Pike pushes all the right emotional buttons, and Kirk goes on to the save the universe 100 times over. Well, a fictional universe, but you know what I mean.

Argument is not only creative, it can save the universe.

(Or is that just another pathetic argument?)

Monster advice about WAC blogging

Blogging about WAC can be something you do for every class you are taking… right?

Use your blog to write about what you’re learning in other classes, draft papers here, think through issues, practice thinking about other subjects. Use your blog to write about our WAC class and your readings and when you are assigned blog posts, sure, but also use the blog to think through whatever else you are learning or reading. Do you write poetry? I write haiku. Like this:

Watched Kick-Ass today.

Appalled by the violence.

My new favorite film.

Use your blog to write anything. (Now what I want to learn is how to eliminate the open lines between the haiku lines–it looks awful like this.)

Do you want to muse about a song that makes you think? Do it in your blog. What does music have to do with writing? Compositions… composing. Listening, reading, rhythm, rhyme, pacing, control, intonation, inflection, so on. Be open to the WAC connections, and the WAC connections will come to you.

WAC is the first love

Of my academic life,

But it’s not the last.

If I could choose anything I might do for a few years, with no consequences and all expenses paid, I’d go to Japan and study haiku. I even think in haiku sometimes, though you’d never know it from most of my writing life… I can really ramble, no limits, no censors, on and on and on. Perhaps this is why I love the six-word memoir genre so much–I only get six words to say something.

I teach writing; students teach me.