Skip to main content

A Thousand Times, Yes!

I begin my year trying to break habits. My students come to me having spent the last year writing rhetorical analysis and persuasive writing about authorial intent. They focus on nonfiction in AP Language and Composition, while my class focuses on fictional literature. I have to get them to stop thinking solely about the author and the moves they make and switch gears into thinking about the characters, theme, and poetic language. It is always a rough transition – for everyone involved.
Then I let them in on the magical secret of AP Literature. It’s still an argumentative paper. That really makes them mad.

You’ve just spent 3 weeks telling us NOT to do that! 


Sort of; they always miss the point. But that's ok. Our purpose has changed, I tell them. Our modes have shifted. But it is still an argument! Every paper you write has a thesis. Every paper you write is trying to prove a point. Whether that is about the importance of a symbol or the author’s use of emotional appeals for a given audience.

This is the time in the year where we really start talking about theme, too. Literature inherently has a driving message. The author is attempting to create an idea readers can take away. It’s not always a moral, or lesson, but there is a message. A statement for, and sometimes about, the world. And that statement is always argumentative– someone can agree or disagree at any point. 

To be sure, some texts are more explicit in their arguments than others. George Orwell’s 1984 is a much more obvious example of social commentary than Shakespeare’s The Tempest. But both make a claim about the roles of the upper class and the potentially harmful effects of government interference.

In week two of this class, we struggled with the concept of narrators. Narrators are not people! This complicated nonfiction for me, but when we got to the root that when we tell a story we create a persona of ourselves and edit how we want our audience to view us, things made a lot more sense. And it reinforced the idea that "All fiction can be profitably regarded as argument." I would suggest the addition of nonfiction to this statement as well. Even a nonfiction story like Born a Crime by Trevor Noah is argumentative. Yes, he is telling us the story of his early childhood and his rise into comedy, but he is also talking about racial tensions in South Africa and the need for economic and racial justice. The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace not only tells the heartbreaking life of a kid from inner-city Newark who makes it to Yale only to be killed in a drug deal gone bad but uses that story to comment on flaws in the education system and argue for class reform.

Argument is all around us. That doesn’t mean it is always persuasive, or effective, but it is there. Kirkwood discusses this when he says “although careful selection of narrative details can be used to disclose a specific possibility, this strategy cannot ensure that all listeners will recognize that possibility. This recognition requires careful reflection on the story, and not all listeners may engage in such reflection” (43). Kirkwood’s response serves as a “yes, but…” to Sukenick’s original claim. While everything can be found to have argumentative elements within it, it is the job of the reader to take the time and try to suss out claims being made.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"You don't look like your dad!" Tales of Legal Adoption

"You don't look like your dad. You must be the spitting image of your mother!" or "Your brothers look just like your dad! I bet you take after your momma." I heard these statements a lot growing up. And it's true. I don't look like my dad. And for a while, I didn't really look like my mom. I do now, but that isn't the point. You see, my dad adopted me when I was around six or seven years old. He had been a part of my life, for, well, all of it. When my mother and biological father (sometimes I refer to him as my sperm donor, because I think it's funny, but his name is Chris), got divorced, my dad, Kenny, married my mom resulting in a blended family of me, who was biologically my mom's, and my two brothers, who were biologically his. Suddenly I went from being the only child to being the middle child in a family dynamic that takes a lot of explaining to do. They say divorce and the things I supposedly went through in my early childhood...

I'm adopted and I have trust issues. Here's why:

I grew up knowing that I was adopted. I’m a fair-skinned freckled brunette who never grew past 4’10” so I fit in photographs just fine with my brunette mother and blonde father who adopted me at birth. When I was little, they told me stories about how God had sent me to their arms, how they had chosen me, how special I was because I was adopted. The story of Moses was especially prominent, as was Tarzan. I grew up in middle America where everybody still goes to church on Sundays and Wednesdays like clockwork and trusts Disney to raise their children during TV time. My mother was (and still is with my daughter now) a firm believer in keeping children innocent as long as possible. She adores small children and works with them exclusively at the church where she directs the children’s choir and runs the after-school program. My father always had a nonchalant attitude towards these things. He wouldn’t go out of his way to introduce us to things that might be a tad inappropriate, but he...

No Calling, No Problem

I have no calling in a world where we all wonder what we're meant to do, who we're supposed to be. My mom called me the other day to tell me one of my childhood friends would be moving to my hometown soon because her husband had accepted a job with the Baptist church next door to her Methodist church. I don’t know why she thinks I give a shit about small town gossip or any news that concerns the church seeing as how she’s very aware of how I feel about organized religion. Nevertheless, she has nothing else to tell me because her world is much smaller than mine. “He used to be an airplane pilot,” she says. “Then why is he going to be a youth minister? How will they survive? Where will the money come from?” I ask, appalled. I know from my instagram that his wife is a stay-at-home mom of three. “It doesn’t matter, they’ll figure it out,” she brushes it off. “He has a calling to work for the Lord.” A calling. A goddamn calling. Half of my life, I waited for some fucking ca...