Final Reflections

It's the end of the semester again, and I've realized that I am the type of person who has an extremely short memory. At the end of the year, I suddenly feel a twinge of sadness leaving the classes that drove me crazy a few weeks ago, and a sense of fondness for the idiosyncrasies of an acquaintance who had annoyed me earlier. It is even more bittersweet packing to leave this week with the knowledge that I will not be returning to Richmond until next January because I will be studying in Senegal in the fall. While I am now certain that I want a break from the UR way of life and need to experience another world, it is a little saddening to think that I will not be joining my classmates in their first semester as writing consultants.

Amid the finals and projects of this last week, the end of the year is a time of reflection for me. For me, much of this semester was characterized by what I have learned in the process of training to become a consultant. Even before I have actually held my own consultations formally, I have realized that my ability to help my friends has increased exponentially. Before English 383, I was extremely cautious in giving my advice on their paper in the fear I would be wrong and hurt their paper. Now, I freely do so, but only with the caveat that it is just that, advice, not a command on what to do or what not to do. As David Fuller terms it, I have moved from a "teller" to a "shower" (Straub 224). And I really like this change. I actually enjoy showing people what their paper "says" to an outsider; I can help my writers to discover their paper's overall characteristics, its merits, its weaknesses. This is much more rewarding to me than telling them what to do, as if I was some all-knowing writing power, which I am clearly not and cannot be.

I've found that a successful consultation hinges on trust. The writer must trust the consultant, clearly, but the consultant must also trust the writer. Every writer that I have encountered in my consultations observed and held has something extremely valuable to offer to their paper that is not present yet; it just is sometimes hidden from view. Thus, I feel that Straub's comparison of a consultant as a "fellow explorer" (225) is a very apt one. While at some times I must guide my reader through the jungle thickets of essay-writing, at other times, they must lead me where they wish to go.

And here, although my mind is bursting with interwoven and often conflicting theories of writing center strategies and principles, I can rest. With a respect for the action and thoughts of the individual to lead me in my endeavors as a consultant, and, come to think of it, an American studying in Africa, I will be on the right path. I am extremely grateful for what I have learned during the semester, as I believe it has made me a better scholar in every aspect of my academic life. I look forward to my time next spring putting these theories into practice as a University of Richmond writing consultant.

Deciphering the Prompt

I consider myself a bit of a master at interpreting the often complex communication forms of the Liberal Arts professor. I am able to create meaning from the most circular exam question, find the central question in a sea of text, translate academic jargon into plain English. However, I must admit that this semester, I have found my skills on this front challenged by the phenomenon of the Monster Prompt.

This prompt is probably the most intimidating looking creation I have ever seen during my time at Richmond, and can be spotted by the presence of a few characteristics.
1) It is disproportionately long for the size of the assignment. Example: A 500-word for an assignment that is expected to be no more than 1000.
2) It poses at least five questions or ideas when clearly there is only enough room in the paper to elaborate on one.
3) It utilizes terms like "consider," "think about," "examine," "suggest."
4) It leaves the reader with a feeling of confusion, frustration, helplessness, or a combination of all three.

A recent prompt from a professor contained (note: this was just a section of the overall prompt) the following chain of commands. I've broken the prompt down down and left out the details to display them most effectively.
- "Consider what the author of your source puts forward, and also whether their evidence seems to fit into that model."
- "Your finished paper should have a clear thesis, providing the paper’s central argument. It should be organized to lead your reader effectively through your points."
- "It should go beyond simple summary to analyze and explore the evidence using specific examples (with page refs) and reaching conclusions about the implications of that evidence."
- "It should identify your chosen source as a particular genre, from a particular time."
- "And it should contextualize and assess it using at least two other readings/work."

Even though I have written for this professor a half a dozen times previously, I still was overwhelmed when first seeing this prompt. I think that my concern particularly stemmed from the structure, a block of text with one command after another. But counterintuitively, even with all of these tasks to complete within the paper, the assignment is still fairly ambiguous. I was not sure how to approach the topic, what elements I should focus on, and the extent to which I needed to focus on it. As a student studying writing theory, if I felt lost when reading the prompt, I cannot imagine how a first-year struggling writer would feel.

Kendall in "The Assignment Sheet Mystery," writes that an "assignment sheet is an important text within the university; the assignment sheet is a text written by instructors and affects the rhetorical situations within which students must compose" (2). I think this is an important mindset from which to approach the topic. By breaking down and analyzing the type of commands my professor included, the word choice, and even her tone, I was able to better gauge what kind of paper she was expecting. For example, in the prompt that I highlighted earlier, the professor gave active verb commands like "consider," "contextualize," "analyze," and "assess". While she did not give a lot of direction in the prompt, by asking the writer to complete these tasks through their writing, I could tell that the assignment was reflective in nature, and that she would value specific, critical observations over the proclamation of a universal truth. Similarly, the professor's tone in the prompt was almost conversational when discussing the subject at hand. By combining my previous experience with her and the provisions of the prompt, I could infer that the paper did not have rigid structural guidelines that I had to follow to do well.

I think it was this freedom contained, ironically, in the page-long prompt, that made it so difficult for me to begin the paper. As a consultant, I can help students "de-code," as Kendall says, the assignment sheet in front of them as I did myself. However, in these types of prompts, it is ultimately up to the student to make the final judgment call. In writing, there is always a risk. In papers such as these, where academic freedom is given to the student, the risk is much greater. It is our job as consultants to guide the students through what their possibilities are within the confines of the rhetorical structure of the prompt, but in the end, we can only hope that the risks they choose to take pay off.

Solitude in the Writing Process

I have been cursed with a propensity for laryngitis. When most people say that they lose their voice, they mean that when they speak, their words may be slightly raspy or they may sound a few octaves lower than usual. But when I lose my voice, I lose my ability to make a sound. It is a phenomenon I experience with irritating regularity and last weekend's particularly bad cold ensured that I was forced once again to live a game of charades for three days.

When you have experienced the problem of being unable to speak as often as I am, you realize the importance of human vocalization acutely. I consider myself a fairly quiet person, but after three hours of being unable to talk to anyone, I felt increasingly isolated and oddly useless. When I was alone with another person, they would lapse into silence, unable to continue a onesided conversation for more than a few minutes. I became more engrossed in written classwork than I normally would have; at least through writing I could express myself, and imagine that eventually my ideas would be "heard."

We often speak about writing as being an intimidating, and often lonely, process, a process where we are so engrossed in our own thoughts, our own ideas, that we isolate ourselves from others. This clearly can be true. A friend remarked to me recently that it made her more comfortable to work on a paper when there were others around her. Even though they had no idea what her paper was about or what she was thinking, their presence reminded her that there was a world going on outside of the ideas she struggled to engage with on her paper.

However, I believe that writing is an exercise in communication. This sounds like a statement so obvious that it is not worth typing. Yet, when I am writing something, whether it be this blog or an analysis on South African history, the sheer act of forming words, of forming sentences, of creating ideas, is a method of expressing my ideas. Even if there is no audience, by writing, I am clarifying my ideas. I have a feeling of building someone, to adding to some unknown collective pool of understanding.

I think the merging of these two concepts - of solidarity through sheer human presence and of silence for self-reflection - is why a writing center exists. Wingate says that a writing center is a place in which "tutors and writers grow accustomed to being treated with respect, to being listened to, and to having the opportunity to respond thoughtfully" (11). Part of giving respect is knowing that the writer needs, more than anything else, your presence as a sympathetic fellow writer. Telling the writer what she needs to do does not truly help her; instead, listening to the writer talk about her ideas release her from her isolation while also allowing her to reflect upon her own ideas.

Flexibility and Nontraditional Writers

After reading for weeks about the challenges that nontraditional students face, I finally observed the dynamics of such a consultation in action. The student who arrived at the Writing Center was from the School of Continuing Studies. It was clear when the consultation began that she was uncertain about what she would face at her consultation. She continually stressed that the work she had brought to the center - citations, paper, outline - was just a draft that needed to be changed. She apologized several times for having forgotten her paper's prompt although from her explanation, it was a straightforward assignment: an argumentative paper that needed support and citations. She was so concerned that her consultant see the exact prompt that she asked to access it on Blackboard to show him.

Even just from the first ten minutes of the consultation, a main theme of the hour emerged: flexibility. Watching the interaction between the consultant and the student, it struck me about that minor issues that may seem fixable to a traditionally-aged student can seem insurmountable to an older student who is adjusting to being back in the classroom. This student first explained to the consultant that her professor had commented on her lack of transitions in a previous paper. As he read this paper, it was clear that her transitions were fine, and he told her that. However, the student was skeptical. Although he tried to address other aspects of the paper, it was evident that her first concern was her transitions. After reading the topic sentences of each paragraph aloud, we realized that to this student, transitions meant transitional phrases. When she did not have these, she assumed that she did not have good transitions.

When the consultant recognized this, he commented that her natural writing style linked the ideas between paragraphs in a way that was effective and clear. The way she had organized her paper made her ideas link and flow gradually throughout the paper, building on each other without the need for superfluous transitional words. In this way, the consultant acted as an interpreter of the professor's comments and gave her much needed praise. The student was so distracted by what she thought was problematic that she was unable to concentrate on anything else on her paper. After the consultant was able to show her that this obstacle was easily overcome, she was able to see other aspects of her paper as fixable.

Similarly, the SCS student was much more concerned about following specific rules. When we read Hjortshoj earlier in the semester, we discussed how not every grammatical rule was set in stone. This student, not confident in her writing ability, was afraid to stray from the conventional rules of grammar: not ending a sentence in a preposition, starting a sentence with "because", etc. She feared taking academic risks, and doing things that were, in her words, "not academically appropriate." I believe this is a challenge for many SCS students. Because they are less comfortable in an academic setting, they are also less comfortable with the flexibility of the English language.

As writing consultants, we should be guides in helping students see possibilities in their writing. With nontraditional students, this task is even more crucial. By helping these students see that writing does not have to be a set of formal rules and convention, we allow them more freedom to expand their writing, and their ability as writers.

"Cultural and Linguistic Backgrounds": Insightful or Stereotypical?

The more I encounter ESL students, the more I admire them. Most Americans I know do not know enough of a foreign language to get around on vacation, let alone write a complex academic work. As I prepare to go abroad to West Africa in the fall, I envision myself in the shoes of the international students I encounter at Richmond, struggling to live and to learn in an environment that uses a language that is not native to me. It is the combination of both social and linguistic barriers that challenges both writing consultants and the students they intend to help. In Bouchra Moujtahid's essay, "Influence of cultural and linguistic backgrounds on the writing of Arabic and Japanese students of English," it becomes clear that writing consultants must take into consideration not only the linguistic limitations or strengths of an ESL student, but also their cultural context in order to best help them succeed.

The prospect of tutoring ESL students for a training writing consultant is a daunting one. While learning about the specific cultural influences that explain behavioral or linguistic patterns is helpful, it also indicates to me how complex these types of consultations can be, and how little I actually know. While I was familiar with the idea that Japanese students may be overly polite or less likely to verbalize problems they are having, some aspects of Arab culture were very surprising to me. For example, Moujtahid explains that Arab writing tends to make large, often unrealistic claims. While an English speaker may assume that they are boasting or making unsubstantiated claims, Moujtahid writes that "Arabs understand that such exaggerated statements are not intended to report on the state of reality, but rather to represent what the Arabs intend or hope to do, what they believe they are capable of doing" (3). Thus, the overstated or embellished sounding claim that an American consultant finds ridiculous may sound completely logical to an Arab student. Similarly, the repetition that Arab students use to indicate sincerity and emphasis, may seem overly redundant to an English speaker. Although these problems in the writing of an American student may indicate a lack of academic integrity or even laziness, in the essay of an Arabic speaker, they must be considered in their cultural context.

In contrast, Japanese students are much more restrained in their writing. According to Moujtahid, there is a "deep distrust of language in the Japanese culture, stemming, perhaps, from the Zen Buddhist conviction that language imposes its own organization upon reality and prevents us from seeing what truly is" (4). She goes on to say that "if an emotion is put into words...it is somehow trivialized, insincere" (4). Suddenly, a student's claim that seems ambiguous or unsupported is much more understandable. Before I began this course, I think I would not have realized this. In a rush, I would have just assumed that the student was unable or unwilling to create a logical argument. By understanding that in Japanese culture, intuition and "moments of truth" are valued more highly than the display of the argument's structure, I will better be able to spot problems and address them with sensitivity.

While I do think that Moujtahid exposes cultural aspects of ESL writing that are normally hidden to consultants, I felt that she was at times generalizing and even bordered on being stereotypical. Although I understand that these observations are meant to provide insight in a culture as a whole, the International Studies student in me fears that they will be considered by some readers as a universal rule for all Arab or Japanese students who enter the doors of the Writing Center. While I suppose this could be true of any article written about tutoring a specific sector of students, Moujtahid seemed unapologetic in her generalizations. Even the terms she used to refer to the students in questions made me wince. As she writes that "when trust is established, a Japanese will become quite relaxed and communicative" (5). I dislike the way she refers to "a Japanese" instead of a Japanese student or a Japanese speaker; to me, it sounds archaic and even offensive, as if the individual in question could be completely described by her ethnicity.

Despite these flaws, I believe that Moujtahid's findings are valuable to the peer consultant. They should be used not as a manual about ESL students, but instead as tools that can be used to help signal and solve problems in a consultation. When I find myself looking at a problem through the confines of an American viewpoint, I can remind myself of these cultural barriers. Although the act of tutoring an ESL student can see intimidating, the best way to truly become a better consultant for these students is not to read theories, but to practice.

Tutoring as...failure

Last week, I wrote about my exceptionally good consultation with a friend. After this consultation, I was on a high. After hours studying theory, observing appointments, and practicing my skills, it seemed as if I was actually succeeding on my first fledgling attempts at consulting. But just as I left the nest, wings outstretched with confidence, I fell.

Living in the farmlands of the Midwest, I learned to tell when a storm was coming. I could read it in the odd, greenish quality of the light, the stillness of the air, the sudden silence of even the birds. I wish I had this sense in a consultation. Looking back, there was nothing that indicated catastrophe, nothing that hinted at the possibility of failure. I was reading over a somewhat lengthy paper on cultural mulattos for a friend, T, that she had written the week prior. I knew that T was desperate to do well on this paper, as she had been unhappy with a previous grade in the class. I also knew that she had spent a substancial amount of time reworking the paper already, and she felt tentatively confident in what she had written.

Maybe these factors influenced how I read the paper. Maybe I was so expectant for the paper to be excellent that I saw it as excellent without REALLY concentrating on the merit of the content. In any case, I finished reading the paper with few concerns. My major concern regarded the thesis. After reading the prompt, and seeing comments on an earlier paper of T's, I knew the professor had very high expectations regarding the originality and depth of the argument. While I believed T had proved her point very well, I had a small nagging thought that this point might be too obvious, too surface level. But by saying this, when the student so clearly had given it thought, I was worried that I was overstepping a boundary. T had created this argument, it was HER idea, and if she proved it, who was I to say it was not right for the paper? The student had written 12 seemingly well-crafted pages about it. She believed in her argument, and I felt as if it would be too directive (and utterly frustrating) to tell her that she needed to rethink it.

I skirted around the issue, suggesting that she try to specify her thesis more pointedly. I asked her to try to say exactly what she was writing about in her thesis in order for it to be less general. But even with these changes, a nagging feeling of discomfort remained in the pit of my stomach. Had I done enough? Had I done too much? In "Apprenticed to Failure," Sherwood notes that the most worrisome failure of writing tutors is when students " go away apparently satisfied but leave us with a sort of crawly feeling—a suspicion that we've missed the real problem, neglected to say something that might have made a difference" (52). While I assured T of the strengths of her paper, as it really was very well-written, I wondered internally if it would be enough to get her the result she desired.

One of the benefits of tutoring a friend, or at least someone you have contact with on a regular basis, is that you are present throughout the "life" of the paper, from the idea's inception to its final grade. However, this apparent benefit can quickly transform into a major drawback. The next week, I received a text shortly before class: "got a c. don't know what happened." As I stared blankly at the images of tanks and soliders on the foreign policy Powerpoint before me, I dealt with an internal battle. Despite my attempts at being objective, of denying responsibility and attachment to the paper, I felt deeply guilty. I was four weeks away from finishing my training. I was supposed to be able to see these problems. I should be able to help an excellent student get a decent grade on a paper. Maybe my abilities weren't as strong as I thought they were. Although I knew that it was not my fault, that it was not my paper, I couldn't help but feel like I had completely failed.

I take comfort from a statement that Sherwood makes when writing about tutoring and failure.

We feel anguish when we fail to help students because we invest ourselves in
and care deeply about our work. If the opposite were true, if we did not care and
did not strive for excellence, we would find neither safety nor satisfaction, because
surrendering to our sense of inadequacy would mean failing to realize our potential
and failing to help writers realize theirs. Meanwhile, if we ignore our shortcomings,
we risk perpetuating them. (52)

At some point, I have to accept that I cannot help every writer that I wish to help. Not only must I accept this, but I must be able to separate my sense of worth as a consultant from the individual successes or failures those whom I help. I can only be a good consultant when I am able to acknowledge my weaknesses and remain confident in spite of them.

Tutoring as Empowerment

As a potential writing consultant who has observed very few consultations in the past month, I have attempted to practice through holding informal consultations with friends. S is a biology major who arrived at the writing center with a bedraggled-looking copy of Jane Eyre, a prompt from her first college English class and little confidence in her own ability. Tutoring S was a unique experience for me because I was able to help her through all the stages of her writing. She explained to me that her usual method when beginning a paper was to sit and write down every quote applicable to her prompt. As we continued talking, she also admitted that it could take her a week to write a short paper, because she would be unsatisfied and would start over several times. At this point, I realized that S was so intimidated by what the professor was asking her to do that she was afraid to write what she really thought about the book.

With a bit of coaxing, I encouraged S to free-write for twenty minutes. When we compared what she had written previously, and what she wrote during her prewriting session. While her formal writing had been unengaging and rigid, her prewriting was clear, impassioned and highly insightful. When I pointed out the strengths of her prewriting, S said that she had discovered knowledge of Jane Eyre with her prewriting that she was unable to reconcile with the current argument of her paper. Although I did not see the problem of this, S was clearly torn. She had an argument that she believed "fit" the prompt of her professor, but that she clearly did not find interesting. As we discussed this, she admitted to me that she was most discouraged by her paper because she could not come up with a complete argument. While some aspects of her paper supported the fact that Jane Eyre was a passive object, others did not. She spoke so articulately about the inconsistencies and their purpose that I got a much clearer sense of her knowledge than what was contained in her first draft.

"You know," I told her tentatively, "sometimes, you can't make a conclusion that is free from all weaknesses. Sometimes the best thing to do is to acknowledge that you recognize them." From her expression, it was clear that she had not expected this answer. However, by allowing her the freedom to really think critically about her argument without pretending to be unaware of potential contradictions, I think she felt more confident in what she was doing. By discussing the plot and the characters in depth, S and I were able to focus on the text itself, and not on creating the foolproof argument she assumed her professor wanted. She evidently became more excited about what she was writing about, and when she believed in what she was saying, she took ownership of the paper. I simply was a sounding-board for her ideas.

Although I was happy for the fact she later got an A and was referred to study as a writing consultant herself, in the end, it was most rewarding to see her renewed interest in the subject and in writing. The informal session, she said, was "fun," and later added that we should "talk about things like that more often." I, as a representative of peer tutoring, had formalized a discussion about Jane Eyre. Tutoring was not simply sitting down at a desk and making judgments of her work, but helping her to access her own knowledge in a way that she found empowering. To me, this is clear proof of the Writing Center promoting a culture of academic seriousness and engagement.

Minimal Assistance and Maximum Frustration

It is rare occurrence when I step away from an article with a sense of complete annoyance. In general, I am cursed with a propensity to be swayed by most arguments. I have opinions, but they are generally influenced by a well-crafted argument or two. When reading Jeff Brooks' article Minimalist Tutoring, this was not the case. After putting down my book, I found that I was completely nonplussed and slightly disgusted. This is a reaction that is deeply instinctual, one that comes from emotions and experiences as both a tutor, but especially as a tutee. Although minimalist tutoring can be stimulating, I can also remember times where I asked questions of a professor and left 15 minutes later, with a muddled feeling of being more confused than when I entered. When a student knows there are answers, but is unable to access them, it can be an overwhelmingly frustrating experience.

While certain aspects of Brooks' argument are logical, even valuable, including the idea to treat student writing as texts, a process where "students learn to write, not craft perfect papers," (170) I find his guidelines for minimalist tutoring frustratingly limiting. At some level, the specific logistics of where to sit and how to write are useful for creating a comfortable atmosphere for consultants and students, I am highly skeptical of the claim that "if you follow these four steps, even if you will do nothing else, you will have served the student better than you would if you 'edited' his paper" (171). I find it interesting that "editing" seems to be a pejorative term in Brooks' eyes; while I do not approve of simply correcting a paper for a student, I think that it is a little excessive to dismiss editing as a tool that is inherently less helpful than positioning yourself to the right or left of the student.

I suppose that my main problem with "minimalist tutoring" concerns the relationship between the tutor and the tutee. While Brooks' claims that by following his guidelines, the tutor will be a source of "support and encouragement" (169), his process of "defensive minimalist tutoring" seems to contradict this immediately. He seems to set up an antagonistic relationship between the tutor and the tutee. He implies that when students ask questions about what they should do in a section of the paper, the response should be either mocking, dismissive, or both. "I have found," he says, " this approach doesn't upset students as it might seem it would; they know what they are doing, and when you show that you know too, they accept this" (172). Uh, right. I'm not sure what type of students Jeff Brooks tutors, but I certainly would not be one of them.

I think that when students come asking for help at the writing center, most are not simply trying to get the consultant to write the paper for them. Asking questions like "what should I do here?" should not be a cause for hostility. Students come to writing centers to ask questions that they may be uncomfortable asking a professor, and they do not deserve to be shot down or mocked for asking them. I think that these broad questions from students stem from a sense of confusion about perhaps a specific aspect of their writing that they are not yet conscious of or unable to verbalize. It is our job as consultants to tease out what this specific issue is by asking targeted questions in return.

Overall, I think that students come to the writing center looking for clarification, and by participating in this type of highly minimalist (and sometimes defensive) tutoring can sometimes leave the student feeling more confused than they did before. While some students with a strong sense of the goal of the assignment and of their own ideas may benefit from a minimalist tutor, others need more direction. Brooks creates a list of guidelines that appear to be overarching and universal. To never engage in any type of directive tutoring is a mistake, just as to edit a paper for a student is a mistake. How the two styles of tutoring balance in a specific session must be based on the needs of the student being tutored. Minimalist tutoring should not imply minimal help.

Midterm

When I took my classmate's draft out of my bag, I felt an intense wave of apprehension crash over me. I had guarded it for the past days as if it was a precious jewel not to be misplaced or stained, and now as I looked down at its neatly ordered pages, my head was swimming. All the theories I had read during the semester were filed away in the recesses of my mind, and I worked frantically to find some sort of advice to help me through the session. My writer had told me that he had already met with his professor to discuss his ideas, that he had already had an appointment with his class consultant, and that he had already done some self-editing. In a moment of panic, I wondered if I was looking at the rare, nearly perfect paper that required my role to be one of an ultra-perfectionist, looking to make a tiny, nonessential suggestion here or there. While the principle that every paper can be improved nagged me, I skeptically wondered if this could be an exception. Perhaps as a novice consultant I wouldn't be able to pick up the improvements that those with more experience had not. What would I do?

As I closed my eyes, trying to locate any knowledge I possessed about tutoring strong writers, I was suddenly reminded of a reading from the beginning of the semester. In the article "My Teacher Hates Me," Valerie Perry refers to Kenneth Burkes' parlor metaphor. He talks about individual writing to be part of a never-ending conversation. "When you arrive," Burke says, "others have long preceded you." Yet after listening to the argument, you are able to add your input to this "interminable discussion." While Perry uses this metaphor to help students understand their role in the conversation through connecting audience, purpose, and voice (2), I think it is a applicable lesson for consultants as well. As a consultant, I am also in the parlor. I have been preceded by other writers, professors and even other consultants, but I am still a valuable part of the conversation. By simply having a different set of eyes and ideas, I represent to the the writer another potential member of the academic community. I have something to give to the writer, no matter how many others have already added to his paper.

While in theory I had understood this concept, it was not until I actually began to read over Erik's paper did I truly grasp my role as a member of the conversation. I tried to forget both my position as a consultant and my preconceived ideas of what his paper would be like and read it as who I truly am: a political science student eager to learn from an equal. After reading Straub's article, "The Concept of Control in Teacher Response," I was extremely aware of what I chose to say and in what manner I chose to say it in my commentary. Because I knew Erik was a strong writer, and he clearly had a strong understanding of his topic, I was even more careful to be non-directive in my feedback. I honestly did not think that he needed me to tell him "what is not working in the paper and what needs to be done" in his paper (Straub 226).

Instead, I tried to model Gere's style of response, one that "leaves the student room to make her own decisions and place greater responsibility on her as a writer than text-based advice" (Straub 242). I made comments that showed my own subjectivity as a reader like, "I feel" or "I'm not sure I understand" in order to distinction give the writer the OPTION of changing his work. I also tried to follow the concept of process-based response that Straub mentions. I asked Erik to consider his verb choice, to read certain sentences aloud in order to decide how to condense them. Keeping in mind my role as a reader, I asked questions about sentences I did not understand. While undeniably some of my questions were asked out of unfamiliarity with the topic, by asking them, I hoped that he would reconsider his audience and adjust the clarity of his ideas correspondingly. By being honest with my own uncertainties and thoughts about his work, I hoped to give an extremely strong writer the ability to see how his work would be perceived by an audience that included both experts and novices.

I am almost certain that I could have given Erik back his paper with absolutely no comments, and he would have received a good grade. But as a consultant-in-training, my goal is to make the student a better writer (North 38) and to make myself a better consultant. I started the consultation simply by asking Erik what aspects of the paper he was concerned about. Even after his two earlier consultations, he could identify areas that he felt may be weak. This confirmed the fact that he would be receptive to my comments, and was truly interested not only in improving his grade, but in improving his own understanding of how political science writing worked.

By taking Erik and his work seriously, I did not have to search through his paper looking for superfluous corrections as I feared. Instead, I allowed myself to completely embrace Molly Wingate's notion that writing centers are a source of shaping academic culture. I completely ignored the fact that this paper would be good enough to get the writer an A and instead thought about it solely in terms of the exchange and clarification of an idea. I wanted to understand, and I wanted Erik to communicate the ideas included in his thesis in the most clear way possible. I wanted him to show his proficiency as a writer, and I wanted the audience to appreciate his ideas. This act of mutual respect and willingness to improve is a key component of academic culture. "Writing Centers," Wingate states, "support the academic culture; at their best, they model elements of what academic culture could be" (8). I believe that both Erik and I share an interest in modeling the possibilities of peer academic discussion. By taking part in this discussion, we are reshaping, perhaps in a subtle, minute way, the overall Richmond academic culture. In the rush of day-to-day activities and pressures, rarely do students simply sit down to discuss the ideas they are writing about. I hope that the discussion we shared over this FYS essay was as exciting and beneficial for Erik as it was to me.

The Value of Feedback

I am not sure if teachers really understand the impact of their feedback.I think some professors assume, perhaps frustratedly, that after receiving a paper, the student flips hurriedly past all the red lines and circles and arrows . This hypothetical student fails to translate the odd littleabbreviations into understandable English, she does not even glance at an entire sentence. With little appreciation of the hours of work that the professor has taken to comment on her paper, this unappreciative, grade-driven student has eyes only for the small red letter on the last page. She throws the paper haphazardly in a folder, leaves the class, and never thinks about the subject again.

Okay, I must admit, I have been the hypothetical student, I have scanned for the grade, breathed a sigh of relief (or confusion), and stowed the paper away in my bag....but only in the classroom. Sometimes, I need to distance myself from the emotional response that only a grade can bestow on a serious student. When I have digested this arbitrary little indication of my worth as a student, I can go back and read the feedback fully.

I remember that in the Harvard writing video, a student remarked that professor feedback was so meaningful because you knew that for a few minutes, the professor was thinking about and interacting with your own ideas. Even if this professor had hundreds of students, for that one moment, your minds met. I absolutely love this idea. Even at a small school like Richmond, I know that when my professor reads my paper, they understand a little more about what I am thinking in a way that is impossible to understand when they see me in class. And by commenting about my ideas, criticizing or praising my thoughts, and telling me theirs in return, I know a little more about them.

I really cannot stress enough how much of an influence a professor's words on their writing can mean. I can remember the exact moment when I stood outside Ryland, fall of my freshman year, heart beating rapidly, reading the comments on an essay. On the page, a professor who I admired and feared equally had simply written, "brilliant commentary, analysis excellent." Knowing that the work and thought I had put into my writing was acknowledged by someone like this professor was an indescribable feeling. I was inspired to work harder.

However, as illustrated in the teacher's comment - "This is a redneck argument!" - condemned by Gorkemli, poor teacher feedback can also make an negative effect on a writer. A friend and new English major recently told me of a comment given on her final term paper for her first 300 level English class. The professor, who she liked and admired very much, had written at the end, "good ideas, but your writing style is just not sophisticated enough for a major." Certainly, this comment is not quite as blunt as Gorkemli's situation, but equally harmful toward the student. My friend told me all of this, not emotionally, but disturbingly resigned to her fate as a poor writer who just couldn't cut it. In her eyes, she couldn't improve; her inherent style was inadequate. The professor's criticism became a universal condemnation, something that no amount of reassurance from friends can make right. Any time she talks about writing a new essay, she quietly refers to this professor's comment as something she would have to compensate for, but couldn't alter.

In starting this blog post, I asked several students I was studying with if they remembered feedback from teachers on previous papers. Like my friend and I, all of them were able to tell me the exact wording of specific, influential comments - positive or negative - that they had written months and even years ago. Clearly, this is a valuable part of a college experience. We as tutors have the ability to harness the power of the teacher comment, to clarify, to emphasize, or to put into perspective.

consult, v.

After the readings we've had in the past couple of weeks, I have been thinking more about what it means to actually help a writer. My favorite definition of the verb consult, especially in regard to the Writing Center, is the following:

consult, v. To confer about, deliberate upon, debate, discuss, consider - OED

It's interesting the way words that may, at first glance, seem interchangeable have such different connotations. From the time I started university, I told my parents I wanted to be a writing tutor. Although I knew that at the Writing Center tutors were actually consultants, I thought that consultant was just a nicer, if a slightly more pretentious, title. Everyone knows what a tutor does, but who really understands what the work of a consultant entails? I certainly didn't, even in the weeks leading up to the beginning of this course.

I was always the student who thought editing papers was a rather enjoyable puzzle. I liked the act of carefully selecting and changing words, smoothing out punctuation, and assembling the phrases in a manner so sentences flowed gracefully into paragraphs, and paragraphs flowed into arguments. It was a game that I often played with my own papers, or the papers of my writing-apprehensive friends. I would offer, nonchalantly, to look over their papers, as if it was a service I was willing to provide simply because I was such an amazing friend. There was no such sacrifice.

But in these little acts of correction and advice - I cannot say they were really consultations - I was really only giving my opinion on what I would do to make the words written "sound better." I thought myself pretty skilled with that sort of assistance. Now I see that what I was doing was only surface level, like trying to drain a lake by taking handfuls of water. Scooping each handful of grammatical errors, of misplaced commas, of awkward phrases does not change the lake's depth, its underlying problems. It's a one-sided act which tires the tutor and overwhelms the tutee.

I guess it all comes down to the idea in North's work that we are trying to create a better writer, not a better paper. I'm still trying to grasp this idea, which may explain the reason why it seems to appear in so many of my blog post. I think it is a concept which works, if not better, than at least more smoothly, in theory than actual practice, especially since so many of my peers at the University are unaware of the true purpose of a writing center. When a student comes to the Writing Center wanting a better paper, it is can be difficult to avoid the temptation of an easy correction session. After all, to consult - to confer about, to deliberate upon, to debate, to discuss, to consider - takes time and conscious, active effort, both on the part of the consultant and the student. However, the tips given in the Bedford Guide about how to use tools both on paper and on word formatting are concrete methods that I can use to shape a consultation that is beneficial to the student and more rewarding for me. The more methods I discover for creating an appointment that is not a proof-reading session, but is an active, dynamic consultation, the more I can actually envision myself as a writing consultant.

Place of Discussion or Fix-it Shop?

Going into my appointment, I had extremely high hopes for the observation. I had been reading about the noble duty of writing centers for the past three weeks. I had begun to consider a writing consultant to be a sort of crusader furthering academic integrity and discussion on campus, as Wingate and North had suggested. Maybe my expectations were too high, my ideals too lofty, but in any case, today's appointment left me feeling extremely disillusioned and frustrated.

I entered the Writing Center, and the consultant on duty swiveled around on his chair from his computer, glanced at me and asked why I was there. I answered brightly that I was to observe his consultation. Looking fixedly at the screen in front of him, he replied that he had one appointment during this slot, and he went back to his email. This was the most interaction that I had with him in the next hour. As a potential consultant, I wanted to ask questions about what I was about to see in the appointment, where I should sit, or simply what he liked about being a consultant. But as I sat uncomfortably on the sofa, it was clear that he would rather pretend I wasn't there.

After what seemed like an hour, the student knocked on the door rather uncertainly. He explained to the consultant that he had brought his study abroad essay and prompt with him, and he wanted some feedback about its content. The consultant, turning back to the computer, asked what class the essay was for. It was as if he hadn't heard the student's explanation of the assignment at all. I think that right away this made for an unwelcoming environment for a student who may be initially apprehensive about having his work "criticized". When you take your paper to the Writing Center, you are automatically taking a risk about exposing your personal thoughts for censure. The consultant did not seem particularly encouraging or even interested in the student's work, and this made the student visibly uncomfortable. I watched the student, seated at the table, tapping his foot anxiously with his hands in his lap.

I hoped the appointment would get better. I expected the consultant to read through the student's paper, asking him questions about his meaning, providing insight into what would be best for a persuasive essay. But instead, he sat next to the student, simply editing the paper for grammatical correctness. He pointed out rules of grammar, of capitalization, and of verb tenses as he read through the paper. Most of the time was spent doing a lot of the "proofreading" that we discussed in class as not the main focus of the appointment. When the student asked how he could shorten his paper, the consultant replied shortly, "I'm trying to cut it down." I feel like that was the point at which the student lost control of his own paper, and visibly withdrew.

There was so little of the discussion that had been illustrated in the readings that I began to wonder if the consultant had taken the same course I had. I absolutely hate to criticize someone doing their job, and I must say that if the Writing Center was the "fix-it" shop referred to in the North article, than the consultant did a great job. He obviously had an excellent command of the English language and provided the student with good alterations to his work. He recommended ways that the student could change the content of the essay and suggested that he focus on specific reasons the student wanted to study abroad. All of this advice was completely valid and would probably make the student's essay better. However, the appointment was not a place of discussion, not a place of creating a better writer. It was a one-sided correction session.

I feel like the student, although he walked out with a proofread version of his essay, was cheated. No teacher forced him to come to the Writing Center, and the essay he brought with him was not even going to be graded. He simply wanted to create a persuasive essay that would best help him get into the program of his choosing. This individual was one of the "serious students" that would further academic culture on campus. Yet, as the appointment went on, the student seemed less and less comfortable asking questions. Clearly, he did not feel like he was the equal of the consultant. He was less likely to speak freely about why he chose to write something, and simply accept the consultant's corrections.

After 35 minutes of this, the student left, and the consultant returned to his computer, telling me the time he generally left for the day. In hindsight, I know that I should have probably been more assertive in trying to ask questions about the appointment that had just taken place, but I was simply too dumbstruck and uncomfortable with the situation. The consultant, his back turned to me and engrossed in whatever he was doing on his computer, was visibly closed off to me. Frankly, I was as intimidated as the student. I finished up my notes, thanked the consultant, who made eye contact with me for the first time in the hour, and left.

Overall, I don't think experience exemplifies the Writing Center and perhaps, it doesn't exemplify the consultant either. Everyone has bad days. But it made me think that even one bad appointment could change whether or not a student returns to the Writing Center again. If I was this student, with his study abroad essay, would I return? I'm not sure.

The "Mythical College"

When reading Hjortshoj's writing on the "mythical college," I could not help but feel a little triumphant. Maybe it was my natural cautiousness or the warnings of my two older sisters, but for some reason, I arrived my first year properly humbled. Although in high school I was the straight-A student, in college, I had no such expectations. I knew that coming from a rural public school that was mediocre at best, I had very few of the opportunities that my future classmates had enjoyed. While the prospect of college academics were in fact mysterious, I, unlike the students described by Hjortshoj, had little expectation of them being a continuation of high school coursework. The skills I had learned in high school had allowed me to do well there, but I doubted very much that they would be everything I needed to succeed in college.

In college, I expected that I would be rather average. Not the best, perhaps, but by working hard, I would certainly not be the worst. I strived to adapt and to ignore preconceptions of what college writing "should be." When I got a B or B+ on a paper I was certainly not disappointed, and I was pleasantly surprised by an A. By relieving myself of the pressures of being that perfect student of high school, I was able to focus on learning not only the subject matter of my courses, but the strategies needed to succeed in them. Friends were not quite so satisfied; they agonized over Bs and Cs on their Core essays when they had been accustomed to getting As in high school English classes. They wanted to do well in college simply from prior experience, and skip the transitional process. And it is a process - a process of observing and trying new tactics and making mistakes in order to eventually succeed.

This attitude of openness and willingness to change is the key to writing (or doing anything) well. I think that Hjortshoj exaggerates the negative impact of AP English courses. While I do believe that students mistake the 5-paragraph essay as a mold for all college writing, for me, AP Language and Composition was the course that prepared me best for college. Some teachers undoubtedly teach for the test only, however, I feel that my ability to analyze a text and create a complete, detailed response were, if not totally developed, at least formed by the teaching in this class. Because of this course, I could better deal with difficult questions, and the stress of a college workload.

For so many of the students at the University, I am certain that the mythical college exists, constructed in part by AP standards and high school preparation. However, as long as students see the limitations of their high school knowledge and are willing to adapt their to meet challenges, there is no reason that their previous academic experiences cannot be assets in their collegiate life.

The Invisible Barrier

After reading this week's topic of reflection, I considered my recent experiences with writing in college and in high school. I found that I have had experiences that were both really positive, and quite negative with teacher feedback. Although most professors here have been very fair in their comments and grading, the worst experience in writing came not in an English class, but a French class. It had nothing to do with the difficulty of conjugating verbs or picking the correct noun. Instead, my difficulty came from what I have come to call an "invisible barrier."

In this course, we spent nearly all semester reading a novel that was highly philosophical. At certain points throughout the book, we were told to writing an "explication du texte", or an explanation of a certain idea presented briefly in class. While I do not remember the details of my response, I do remember that I chose to talk about the solitude of the egotistical individual, and her separation from truly understanding others when she only understands herself. I was pretty happy with what I had done. I had that moment of pride, that fleeting second of elation when I reveled in the thought that I could write sophisticated philosophical commentary in a language that was not my own. I finally thought that I had turned the corner, that I had been successful in both following the directions and tone of the professor and expressing my own thoughts. It was a good week.

That is, it was a good week until I received my graded paper. I had been hoping for an A or an A- because of the trivial errors in grammar that are inevitable in an advanced French course. And though I had not received a truly terrible grade, I was, to say the least, disappointed. I had fallen from the high that springs from a sense of extreme confidence. Looking for the cause of my downfall, I was shocked to read a comment that suggested I hadn't really understood the assignment. I had attended the classes in which we discussed the assignment, I had read the rubric at least ten times, I had asked questions; how was it possible that I didn't understand the assignment? I skimmed my essay hurriedly, and finally found the word, the condemnation, the judgement that reduced my paper to nothing but an elementary attempt at textual analysis. "Opinion!"

"Opinion"? I had supported my claims with text. I had explained them thoroughly in the context of the novel. I asked my professor what she meant. "Well," she explained in French, "you are not ONLY using the text. You are putting your own meanings in the words of the author. What you say is not said in the text." Thoroughly perplexed, I did my best to explain (the combination of not trying to offend her and not being completely fluent made my explanation somewhat less convincing than usual). "When I read, I saw what I now write. How am I to distinguish my own thoughts from this universal truth you see?" She repeated her original statement - "you are putting your own meanings in the text" - with the attitude of someone explaining how to tie a shoelace to a particularly slow toddler.

Although I made it through the class, I never really understood the "l'explication du texte." I completed my work, but I stopped striving for originality. It was simply impossible to give her the specific answer she sought, and I didn't see the point in working at the highest level if I was always going to be wrong. My professor and I were separated by a invisible barrier, constructed by a lack of understanding. I didn't understand how I could ever give her the answer she wanted, she didn't understand why I couldn't extract "the" answer. Where she saw a manipulation of the text, I saw a fact.

How can a individual not infuse her own opinion into what she writes? I cannot simply lock my personal viewpoint into a box and finish the assignment as a perfect prototype of Female Richmond Student. I have a way of looking at the world that differs from my French professor. It is no more right or wrong than hers, but it is still relevant. I don't want to give the impression that simply stating your opinion is worth a good grade. It's not. But, as we briefly discussed in class, I do feel like the emphasis on being "objective," of finding a "Truth" which is untainted by personal experiences makes it very difficult for students and teachers to see eye-to-eye. It was extremely frustrating to know that no matter what I did, because my mind does not exactly match my professor's, I couldn't succeed in the class. The feedback I received on that paper made me question myself as a writer on the most basic level. The problem couldn't be solved by reordering some paragraphs, or by refining a thesis statement.

"Opinion." This one dangerous little word, lurking at the margin in deliberately bold letters, suggests that there is something fundamentally wrong with the writer. It suggests a certain amount of egotism, hinting that the writer is so blinded by her own thoughts that she cannot see anything else. It implies that the writer's point of view is worthless. As a writing consultant, I think that it is crucial to acknowledge that the truth has no clear boundaries. Recognizing this variability encourages a higher quality of thought, and a more confident writer. Ironically, the subject that I wrote about in my doomed paper was correct: when you only understand yourself, you do not understand others.