Some Musings and Hauntings of a Teacher-Scholar
¶ 1 Leave a comment on paragraph 1 0 I did not grow up thinking I would ever become a teacher. It was not until I entered college, where I received several opportunities to become a writing tutor that I then began to seriously consider a teaching vocation, specifically in English. As an undergraduate, I ran English study groups for several areas of literature, and it was during these moments of shared learning that formed a small foundation for how I approach teaching in my English classrooms. When I began working on my Master’s, that foundation was even further broadened and strengthened, as I began to realize where I fit into the field as a scholar. One of my primary tasks in that program was to write a forty-page thesis, which was reflective of my theoretical approach and critical responses to a literary period. Much of my training has been in British literature, so I felt most comfortable in that particular time period, specifically exploring the ways in which Gilbert and Gubar examined nineteenth-century texts and the female writer. This research and study formed my own feminist perspective on texts I encounter both as a student and as an English instructor. This perspective on feminism was further heightened by reading Judith Butler’s “Subjects of Sex/Gender/Desire” because she asks a lot of questions, but does not always give us a solid answer. Too many times I feel like we are always on a journey, especially when reading critical theory, toward discovering some concrete definitions and answers to tough questions, like, for example this question of what it means to be or exist as a woman, or still further, what it means to be a woman writer. In some of my recent scholarship, I have moved beyond nineteenth-century feminine writing and into examining Arab American women’s fiction writing, which is distinctly different from so many other texts I have encountered. My theoretical approach to this body of work involves the texts of Homi Bhabha and his notions on “hybridity,” and on Gayatri Spivak’s theory of the “subaltern.” Fused together, all of these theoretical pieces form some of the ways in which I engage and experience texts, however, this is not to say that I want all of my students to read, analyze, and discuss in this same way.
¶ 2 Leave a comment on paragraph 2 0 At a recent conference, I presented a paper on teaching Arab-American women’s short story writing. The goal of this paper was to share my concerns with other scholars who feel a void of Arab American female writers within the literary archive. Looking at Halberstam’s “Introduction” to The Queer Art of Failure, she says something that is of the utmost importance to modern literary scholarship, which is that her book employs “low theory […] and popular knowledge to explore alternatives and to look for a way out of the usual traps and impasses of binary formulations” (2). In thinking about what “low theory” actually is, Arab American women’s literature definitely fits into this model Halberstam is proposing concerning low theory because this form of literature involves “eccentric texts and examples that refuse to confirm the hierarchies of knowing that maintain the high in high theory” (2). A really wonderful example I always like to use in my classroom of attempting to reach that goal of resisting the binaries comes from Jo Kadi’s introduction to the anthology, Food for our Grandmothers: Writings by Arab-American and Arab-Canadian Feminists where she offers an important attempt at a solution for Arab American feminists who want to get out of this maze of belonging and silencing. Kadi evokes the memory of her grandmother braiding her hair as a child, endeavoring to help these women find balance:
¶ 3 Leave a comment on paragraph 3 0 I know it is possible and I believe it is necessary to create maps that are alive, many-layered, multi-dimensional, open-ended, and braided. Take three strands—one that is Gram, one that is me, one that is the force of history—twist, turn, and curve; do not pull so tightly that it hurts; do not weave so loosely that strands escape. It is difficult finding that balance. (Kadi 14).
¶ 4 Leave a comment on paragraph 4 0 This image of a braid or the act of braiding seems to be an extremely unique way of assisting Arab American women writers to write out of the binaries they have found themselves in. The image of braiding can also be used as a tool for students to investigate ways in which their interpretations can move away from the binaries. In the case of Arab American women’s writing, we look at ways of avoiding binaries of the East vs. West, assimilation into culture vs. denial of culture, Arab American domineering men vs. Arab American exoticized/subjugated women, etc. To accomplish this task, I write about and practice close reading with my students.
¶ 5 Leave a comment on paragraph 5 0 One of the most interesting definitions I recently uncovered for close reading comes from Elizabeth Freeman where she says, “To close read is to linger, to dally, to take pleasure in tarrying, and to hold out that these activities can allow us to look both hard and askance at the norm […] close reading is a way into history, not a way out of it” (xvii). This explanation blends well with the historical situation of Arab American feminism I attempt to expose my students to within the short fiction of Arab American women writers. I think it is important to name a few of these short stories I have started teaching in my introductory literature courses: “Oh, Lebanon,” by Evelyn Shakir and “The Cat” by Layla Ba’labakki, both stories which question the binaries not only of cultural identity and belonging, but also the binary of parent/child, which speaks to any type of student who enters the classroom. My students respond very differently to these two Arab American texts than they do to canonical works like “The Yellow Wallpaper” and A Doll House primarily because the content of these stories tend to reflect on popular knowledge that we have regarding parent/child relationships, male/female relationships, and identity questions. We are able to place ourselves within the space of the text, whether we are Arab American or not, whereas there seems to be a large gap between being able to come to terms with what Nora does at the end of A Doll House and how that affects us personally, as close reading and feeling human individuals. This fissure is what ultimately gets in the way of students’ abilities to try and interpret out of the binary.
¶ 6 Leave a comment on paragraph 6 0 So why do I still teach A Doll House and not focus solely on the Arab American women’s literature I see as worthy of classroom discussion, debate, and interpretation? The answer is complex, but it reflects a type of respect I have for the actual literary canon that makes up anthologies. Had I myself not been exposed to A Doll House or “The Yellow Wallpaper” as a student, I would not have been able to find my own way to the Arab American literary tradition. My hopes in merging both canonical and non-canonical archives in the classroom is an attempt at doing what Halberstam expresses as “a basic desire to live life otherwise” (2) and to call my students to this action as well. As instructors, we need to reach our students on a different level and not be afraid to try inventive ways of learning that are not typically integrated within the context of an English course. Can Shakespeare teach us all a thing or two about the nature of humanity? Certainly, but we must remember that not all of our students are English majors like we were at their ages. The majority of students in my classrooms want to be nurses, physicians, technologists, and business women and men, but that does not devalue what we have in our powers to teach them.
¶ 7 Leave a comment on paragraph 7 0 As an instructor of literature, I am highly responsible for exposure. Some of the students who enter my classroom do not even know who half the authors are on the syllabus, while others enter the class thinking they know who an author is and what a certain text means. One of my duties as a teacher-scholar is to invite and encourage conversations and dialogue in the classroom that expands the students’ knowledge and process of critical thinking. One of the ways I accomplish this is by asking students to bring in questions regarding the texts we are reading. I want them to know that there is value in not fully understanding all that goes on within the margins of a text. For example, in my Introduction to Literature course last week, we were reading “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” which is a long poem that usually puzzles and petrifies most students, but after going through their questions, and attempting to come to terms with some of the content and meanings in the poem, students seemed to pick up on and discuss issues even beyond the questions they had originally brought in. Will all of my students fully understand or enjoy every text I expose them to? Certainly not, but they will come to the realization that literature and the study of it is not something that is beyond their reach or scope of intellect. This is what I am responsible for as a teacher-scholar and strive toward achieving in my classrooms, both as a leader in the front of the class, and on the other end as a student.
¶ 8 Leave a comment on paragraph 8 0 The first class I took here at IUP as a PhD candidate was a “History of Theory” course where we read The Republic in a different sort of way. We talked about why Plato would have wanted to kick the poets out of the republic, and how our own obsession with western metaphysics blinded us to certain knowledge regarding the nature and place of the Platonic poet. While reading Le Guin’s “The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas,” I could not help thinking of Plato’s allegorical cave for some reason, and while I have not developed this idea fully yet, there does seem to be some sort of connection between these two allegories. I see Le Guin’s story as an allegory because of the lack of specificity in terms of plot, its narrative structure and tense, as well as its utopian mood. The people in this tale mirror the shadowy images that appear within Plato’s cave, and they are not necessarily responsible for much of anything, with the exception of those characters who choose to walk away from this “utopia.” If we look at the natives of Omelas who do leave, they can be equated to those who leave Plato’s cave, despite their fear and pain. When the cave dwellers finally realize that there is something more real beyond the confines of the cave, they are considered free, similar to those who leave Omelas. The true utopia for both the cave dwellers and the disappearing people of Omelas is to abandon the cave and move toward a higher knowledge. In both instances, these peoples are taking a stand, but in Plato’s allegory, those who have achieved their new knowledge are given the responsibility of going back into the cave to pull out other occupants. This does not seem to be evident in Le Guin’s allegory into knowledge and resistance formation. The people who walk away from Omelas “walk ahead into the darkness and they do not come back” (259). Why is it that this allegory explicitly mentions their lack of a return when it is vague about so many other details, like the gender of the closeted child? It would seem like this is actually the reversed experience of the cave dwellers, who, upon exiting the cave, are met with bright light, as symbolic of goodness and virtue, but did not the cave dwellers also have to experience darkness and pain before reaching that light of virtue? The troubling feeling with Le Guin’s narrative is that we leave the deserters of Omelas before we are able to see what new journey they are embarking on, but there does seem to be a rather optimistic ending that these activists are moving toward because even the inhabitants of this “city of happiness” are unable to imagine or describe what this new destination could even be like; like the perfection of Omelas, the realm of the renegades is that which is difficult, to a near impossibility for expression. For me, this place is the true utopia, made up of those who are able to think for themselves and take a stand against a society, like Omelas, that is built upon oppression. People like Ahmed’s “feminist killjoys” are probably among the Omelas deserters, and I would rather be among this group than among those who stay behind in Omelas. From Le Guin’s allegory, those who do walk away could be considered teachers; those who will venture forth to lead and learn with others.
¶ 9 Leave a comment on paragraph 9 1 When faced with this question: “Why am I here?” I am sent into a spiraling array of angles. I am here at IUP working on my PhD in English because I enjoy the collegial classroom discussion and environment; I would one day like to hold a full-time faculty position at a college or university; I cannot stop my drive toward learning more about literature; the more I learn, the better teacher I ultimately will be; to practice the performative act of academic, scholarly writing. This list is in no particular order because I hold them all in the same regard and all encompass the many wonderful reasons why I am here. When considering another, slightly different question: “Why have I chosen to be an intellectual?” however, the answer becomes quite simple: I would not be happy or content doing anything else. But the question of what an intellectual exactly is becomes much more problematized after reading Gramsci’s theories on intellectuals. The intellectual binaries Gramsci is most concerned with are the traditional/organic intellectuals. Gramsci calls for those in charge of knowledge to become organic intellectuals, who are responsible for creating “subaltern groups who will be capable of opposing and transforming the existing social order” (300). While I do understand the need for an organic approach to those who function as intellects within any given society, I am not necessarily sure that it can always work on a massive scale as Gramsci would have wanted. I am reminded of Azar Nafisi’s attempt to teach about women in her literature courses at the University of Tehran in Iran, but then leaves because of the scrutiny she received. What she does after leaving the university seems indicative of the organic intellectual Gramsci is seeking because she still continues to teach the controversial literature to female students, but on a much smaller scale. In a sense, this is an example of an organic intellectual who is attempting to challenge the authority of the ruling social structure. One of the important things to remember, as a teacher in academia, is that colleges and universities can sometimes operate as the vehicle driving the values of a certain social system.
¶ 10 Leave a comment on paragraph 10 0 Currently, the major system that is propelling institutions of higher education is the adjunct system of teaching labor. As a participant in this operation, many adjuncts do what Moten and Harney call “teaching for food” (102). When I read these words, I became somewhat horrified by the reality that attempting to obtain a full-time teaching position within higher ed can sometimes start at exactly this stage of “teaching for food.” Universities and colleges unquestionably need teaching labor, but for me, the question of how colleges go about creating that teaching labor force is ethical in nature. For example, I typically teach nine courses (on-line and in-seat) each semester, and make close to $40,000 annually doing that, while a full-time, tenure-track professor makes much more teaching a much smaller course load. As a result, we arrive at an ethical dilemma of being overworked and underpaid as adjunct instructors. While this is something I did not realize would be reality when I began teaching, I feel as though the opportunities for adjunct teaching have not always been wholly negative or oppressive. Yes, some institutions of higher ed are not as intellectually freeing as others are, but the students I have encountered along these three years have well been worth the upward climb. My students teach me on a regular basis about their own experiences of living in the world. Their worlds sometimes are even foreign to myself, and I welcome the knowledge they can bestow upon me as a way to reach beyond the confines and boundaries of my own world, both as an intellectual and as a natural, living, breathing human individual. I do not even consider teaching college level English as academic labor necessarily, but view it more as a mental vocation; it is a calling to actively participate in higher education and to become aware of both the values and flaws of the institution and attempt to help repair and strengthen the mission and goals of higher ed. And how can one accomplish this? This course has taught me that the answer does not solely lie within itself, but lies in the copious ways we can look at and read an object for meaning. This object may be a piece of literature, a Thomas the Tank Engine toy, depression, rejection, and (un) happiness. Whatever this object might be, it has the potential to create new and complex ways of understanding, which are always changing, always telling a different narrative.
¶ 11 Leave a comment on paragraph 11 0 The end product created by the study of the humanities is supposed to be a force that leads to respect and equality of others; it does not propagate a cyborg of capital. The humanities discipline is a fragile field and as an active participant, I no longer want its name devalued because it does not breed more revenue. Toward the very end of his life, Socrates speaks one of my favorite lines: “the unexamined life is not worth living” (Plato Last Days 38a). As educators, we can extend that adage by inserting the idea that by not examining the cultural moment of our discipline and course content, we will only be adding to this crisis instead of attempting to remedy it. Teaching introductory literature courses has made me aware that a change definitely needs to be made to keep students tuned into study in the humanities, particularly in English. Maybe I cannot be “all things” to all students, but I can certainly give my all in affecting some.
Gramsci’s idea of the organic intellectual is of one who is part of the subaltern group committed to opposing and transforming the social order first; intellectual work is developed with and for the group, rather than in an institution outside of it. So Nafisi’s commitment to the interests of women, which goes beyond her institutional role, might be a kind of organic intellectual work. The distinction between organic and traditional intellectual often doesn’t fit neatly onto the real world, though…