Theory and Practice

Little Moments:

A Not-So-Final Reflection

Laudable Larvae

As I wrap up my semester of shadowing English 1101 through Kennesaw State University's Teaching Assistantship program, I am thinking of fairy flies. Of their fragile wings, of their 1-millimeter bodies, of their little legs on a bed of roses or fly traps or something else that is grand enough to swallow them up but doesn't ("Fairy Fly: All You Need to Know About These Magical Insects"). Fairy flies are not going anywhere. In fact, they have such a profound environmental impact that humans use them as widespread pest-control; we let them populate, leave their eggs in myriad places and petals so they can kill off aphids. Even as some of the smallest insect larvae in the world, they make a surprising impact (Dray).

In my teaching philosophy, I mention that "meaningful learning consists of small-yet-significant 'ah-ha' moments." These minute "ah-ha" moments--the opportunity to for students to talk about their writing with their desk neighbors through "write-pair-share" activities; the chance to see humanized professors who are "transparent and open" about their own failures and writing processes--can all lead to connections that students make between course content and their own budding beliefs, identities, and worldviews. In other words, small moments within the classroom spread around, like little fairy fly eggs. They allow students to engage with new and useful knowledges. And sometimes, these newly gained knowledges can eat away at the pessimistic thoughts that munch on the blossoms of the brain.

The Buzz of New Knowledge

It's an interesting thought, though, that knowledge can spread and multiply and consume our old thoughts like bugs. It almost makes learning seem frightening. I've worried throughout the semester that even my care and passion for sharing knowledge and content with students could come on a little too strong. One day in class, when I was teaching about audience awareness and the importance viewing writing as a social act, I mentioned with joy and good intentions just how exciting it was for them, the students, to be given this grand opportunity to add their voices to a larger academic community. They were preparing to write a research paper on a topic of their choosing at the time, and I'll admit, my statement seemed to scare them. Maybe I was buzzing in their ear, building up a sonorous symphony of squirming terrors. All unintentionally of course. I almost wished I hadn't said it. 

That is, until I noticed them starting to write about things they really cared about. 

When questions of audience or readership considerations came up in class, the students grew more and more eager to answer. I kept helping them connect their writing back to the topics they were interested and the people they could share that with through my own deliberate words and questions. "Do you see how this relates back to audience?" I would ask them. And slowly, they did see. "Peer review critique is an expression of writer capabilities and reader encouragement," I would assure them. And slowly, they volunteered to share their writings. Little by little, they were not as afraid anymore.

Here's the thing about new knowledges: "[t]hey may ask learners to take on new identities that are uncomfortable" (Adler-Kassner and Wardle ix). My enthusiastic language during lessons and assignments relates back to two main Threshold Concepts: that Writing is a Social and Rhetorical Act (Concept 1.0) , and that All Writers Have More to Learn (Concept 4.0). Threshold Concepts, by nature, are "troublesome" and hard to accept at first (Adler-Kassner and Wardle ix). I feel that these two concepts are especially so because, as I express in my "Knowing Where Your Writing's Going" post, it can be hard for us to think of writing as something that we can never fully master or that we never have true privacy for. There's always other authors of the past or present--readers who maybe don't even know us--standing over our shoulder who we must at least try to communicate with, inform, or even please in some cases. For new students, those constant voices probably sound a lot like the threat of whirring bees. Bees that are out sting that old favorite image of a writer alone with their trusty quill pen and nothing else. Really, this image has never been the case, and yet it is a belief that shapes and informs many other aspects of student life and learning. To write for the satisfaction of yourself is to write well, is it not? What I watched my students realize, though, is that to share something is to be human. To write, and to learn through that writing, is to be human. Students open up and grow through that process, even if it changes their perspectives in an initially uneasy way.

Fairy flies may fly and hum like bees, and although they spread themselves by thousands around the globe, they do not swarm and hunt together ("Fairy Fly: All You Need to Know About These Magical Insects"). If one were fly right next to your ear (and it would have to be right next to your ear, considering their size), then you might jump for a second. But inevitably, that fairy fly would eat the harmful things from your garden, it would lay its powerful eggs, and it wouldn't actually sting you. And you--gardener, dear reader and writer--would shake off your tools and see something a little different in the flowers they touched. And finally, that would be okay.

As an educator, I want my voice to continue to spread these little knowledges and moments so that students can become more comfortable with aspects of writing (and with aspects of themselves) through such moments and knowledges. After all, "I hope that my lifelong learning" and passion "will ... give rise to other lifelong learners who eventually find their own way" through those new understandings they gain (taken from my "Teaching Philosophy" page).