International Conflict The Origins of Global Fury Afghanistan and the Origins of Global Fury - Spring 07 Afghanistan and the Origins of Global Fury - Fall 06 Cuba and Haiti Religious Revolutions and violence Haiti and the Caribbean Contemporary Issues in International Relations Introduction to International Relations South Asia in a Global and Historical Context Politics of the Third World

Seeing "War of the Worlds": Global politics through Popular films Music of the African Diaspora Worlds of Music Musical Meaning in a Global Context Politics and Literature

Global Political Economy of Oil Understanding Capitalism Foundations in the Political Economy

Ideas and Ideology Love, Hate and Sexual Desire Under Colonialism Junior Year Honors Seminar: Cultural Encounters, 1999-2000

Students are often bewildered that college professors ask them to write in various styles. We can make this less perplexing if we consider that writing styles are directed towards different purposes. My purpose is getting you to become more mindful of the overlap between writing well and living life well. This does not mean that I am unconcerned with technique, grammar, spelling, organization, clarity, and the logical structure of your presentation. As you will see, I focus sharply on just such details. However, I am interested in more than this. Too often writing is seen as if it were similar to learning how to type without errors. While writing is certainly a skill that requires a certain mastery of technique, I see it also as an engagement with the very fabric of life. Indeed, I have come to believe that developing a rich and meaningful life can be facilitated by an engagement with writing. How might this be so?

Learning to write can be as difficult and as rewarding as life itself. While in one sense it is merely one aspect of life, writing can address, simulate, and work out life’s central concerns. Let me provide two illustrations:

1. Consider one of the assumptions that logically precedes writing: I must have a need to say something. It follows that this something cannot already be explicit and obvious to me. If my need were clear to me, I would have already formulated it and the writing exercise would be little more than copying my already completed work. At the same time, that something that I need to write must be something that I think I can articulate. If it weren’t I would not waste my time by trying. So, writing lies in the tension between the need to say something that remains vague and unclear to me and the feeling that, if I try, I can clarify that something.

But does not this creative tension occupy the center of most other aspects of life? For example, if I have a need to create a specific type of music it must be that I am trying to create something I need to express but do not yet know how. I may not even know what it is that I am trying to express. And yet, my efforts to create that music suggest that I believe I can produce it. Or, for example, in an intense conversation, I am trying to articulate something that is trying to be born but has yet to come out in either form or content. But I keep trying even as my stumbling words both do and do not approach what I am trying to express.

If I am correct, then learning to write is not unlike learning how to do anything else in life; it’s a matter of struggling through a process that strives to turn the implicit into the explicit, the potential into the actual.

1. At first, as I try to say that something, I am almost exclusively focused on my need to say it. I am locked into the very difficult process of creating words that will help my thought to emerge. And as I find those words my thoughts do in fact begin to emerge. And yet, so often, what in that moment feels like a true and productive engagement with the process of articulation turns out later to be far less coherent to me. It’s as if I am split two people: the one who is caught up in exhilaration of creating the words and thoughts; and later the one who reads my own words and thinks, “What was I trying to say? I am not sure I understand my own writing!” This self-separation is crucial for it brings us to the logical difference between my self as creator and my self as my own audience. In a way, I am split into two: I am the writer and I am the reader. Having accepted my frustration, I return to the process of writing (re-writing) with aim of reformulating the prose so that the reader-me has some chance of understanding my earlier written work. I might be satisfied with the re-write just as I was before. Or, a day later I might find I am still having trouble understanding my re-written prose. And so the process of re-writing goes on as a chain of writing-editing-rewriting-reediting-… and so on. And perhaps it’s a chain that never ends.

Between the links of the chain my excitement at creating something “new” is matched by the frustration of feeling like I did not fully say what I meant. I often find this frustration to be overwhelming. But it needn’t be if we place it in the broader context of life. Consider one formulation of what is going on here: Before critical learning takes place each of us assumes that the world operates according to the categories we have been given or have created; we act as if the world works or should work exactly as we expect it to. Eventually though we come across others who challenge our view of the world. If we are lucky, we learn something about the world from their vision. We may even allow ourselves to consider the shallowness and narrowness of our own assumptions.

Is this not similar to the process of writing-editing-rewriting-reediting? With the help of critical others we re-write and re-edit our understanding of the world and of ourselves. We might think that the difference between life and writing is that we write alone whereas life requires us to be with and listen to others. Certainly, there is a way in which this statement is true. Yet, the differences are not as great as we might first imagine. As I said before, the editor is really a sort of an internal other. Indeed, my internal editor might be a composite of outside others – friends, family, teachers, and even other texts. If others are with us when we write perhaps we do not always need their physical presence to challenge us. Thus, we can reformulate our worldviews not merely through the challenge of outside others but also by allowing some part of our inner self to challenge other parts. In this way external others and internal others can come to represent each other. (And, as it turns out, this is nothing new for internal and external others do represent each other.)

Like life, writing requires submitting our unique vision of the world to others so that they can both challenge it and appreciate its value. Doing this, however, requires understanding and assessing the value of other’s visions. We are asked to see the world and also to envision how the world sees us; we are asked to be both subject and object to ourselves. As I formulate it, this coming to be both a subject and object to ourselves, that is, becoming self-conscious, may be seen as one of the deeper purposes of both life and of writing.

My Perspective on Reading:

In my years of teaching I have assumed that students come to my classes knowing how to read. I believed this despite the fact that, while I have known how to read words, sentences, paragraphs, and books since grade school, it was only in graduate school that I really learned how to read. So what did I learn?

Let's start with the writer. In my comments on writing I mentioned that writers write to fulfill needs. The first step then is to ask, "What needs motivate the writer and how does the text reveal or conceal those needs?" Already we have a problem: You might ask, as I did, "Hey, I have my own needs; what do I care about the needs of the author?" The author expresses needs in the writing, but we as readers bring our own needs to the text. The problem is that the two needs mostly likely differ; what the author searches for and offers might not be what you or I need. So what do we do about this problem? I suppose there are numerous potential solutions. I offer one.

Let me first talk around the problem by suggesting two postures that I suspect are unproductive of a full and rich encounter with text. One posture focuses almost exclusively on the authority of the text and author. Almost all of the reader's energy is focused on learning the text's message and on ascertaining the author's needs. This posture excels at summarizing but finds difficulty in responding to or critically assessing the text. Here the chance at a full encounter is lost because the reader grants too much ground to the authority of the text and not enough respect to his/her own vision. In my view this strategy evades the responsibility of learning.

Another posture tips the scale to the other side. Here the message and needs of the author are ignored. So focused is the reader's on her/his own needs that a sense of impatience with the text disallows a fruitful engagement. This method excels as responding but not necessarily to the text. Because the response is not based on a careful or generous reading, it often misses the point and the spirit of the text. This, in my view, is another strategy that evades the challenge of learning.

It cannot be surprising to you that I think that a balanced combination of these two postures allows for the best learning. But saying this is easy; doing it takes a lifetime. Even so, can I say more about how we can strike this balance? I can. But I need to first make a distinction that may not be easy to grasp. This distinction is between "moments" of logic and "moments" in time. I will come back to this. So what more can I say? Let us start this time with the reader's needs.

1. Each one of us approaches a text as a particular type of person with particular needs. While it's true that we change and that therefore our needs change, it's still the case that at a particular moment we are motivated by specific needs. So, the first step, if we can manage it, is to try to be conscious of what needs we bring to the text. Without some awareness of our needs we may accept or reject a text and learn nothing from it.

1. Now comes the hard part. With an awareness of our own needs we need to suspend those needs, bracket them, and place them in the background. This is because to read the text with care and generosity we have to do our best to accept the author's assumptions.

1. Having suspended our own needs, we want to surrender to text, give up our own needs, suspend our critical judgment, and read the prose as the author would want us to read it. Now I know from my own experience that this is very difficult, although one can come very close to this state of mind. So, as a gesture to the difficulty of this demand, we can do the following: whenever our needs or our impatience intrudes, we can stop and give ourselves a chance to speak to the author. We can do this by writing our response to a particular passage (or by throwing the book across the room). Our response having been noted, our energy released, we can continue with our generous reading.

1. Having given due respect to the author and the text, having read the text with care and generosity, it is now time to un-suspend, un-bracket, and foreground our own needs and criticism. We do not hesitate to be as critical as we can possibly be. All writers understand that after a fair reading, criticism is a sign of deep respect. They understand that while good criticism is hard to take, it is even harder to find. We also do not hesitate to include sincere praise with our criticism. After all, few things in life are utterly without value.

1. Having expressed our criticism (and commendation), we allow the author/text an opportunity to respond to our claims. Since neither the author nor the text can actually respond, we will have to respond on their behalf. We might even need more than one round of criticism and response. If so, we may need to extend the engagement to many rounds.

Because we provide both the criticism and the response, reading becomes what I think it really is--a dialogue with different parts of ourselves. The text serves the purpose of being catalysts and, when necessary, as a source for grounding the conversation.

Now I want to come back to the issue of "moments". I have offered the above five steps as "moments" in time. It may be instructive to separate out these moments, especially initially. Nevertheless, it occurs to me that these five moments usually occur simultaneously. That is, if and when I have become a good reader, then these five moments happen at the same time. That is just a way of saying that they are "logical moments", not necessarily moments in time. As you might have known, the act of reading is far more complex and far richer that we might have first thought.

General Writing Suggestions/Guidelines:

I hesitate to present a set of suggestions on writing essays because they may stifle your style. In addition you may be tempted to follow my suggestions to the letter thereby missing the larger point that has more to do with the attitude you bring to the writing and the tone you create. Nevertheless, I offer these suggestions because you may need and appreciate a certain amount of direction. Also, I wish to emphasize a particular style of writing that I hope you will add to your repertoire of skills - the style of an essay. Please take these instructions as “suggestive” and make your own decision on whether you wish to follow them. I would like to register a warning: while this style of writing may have great personal benefits it is not usually favored. The academy stresses a much more certain and assertive style.

I. Consideration I regard writing as an act of communication. It is a conversation - not only with me but also with your self (or selves). A necessary element in any act of communication is consideration of others. Will I be able to follow your thinking? More importantly, will you be able to follow your own thought a year from now? A considerate communication has many qualities off which, perhaps, the most important is regard for the reader.

This is why I consider your opening paragraph so important. It sets the tone. It lets the reader know what type of relationship you expect to establish with him/her. When I read, I appreciate the following elements immediately:

1) What problem leads you to put pen to paper on this particular issue? What makes this issue worth your writing and my reading? I refer to this as the motivation. Unmotivated discussions often seem to lack purpose. They give the impression that the writer has not given much thought to the presentation, and therefore, to the needs of the reader.

2) What is the point of the essay? I always feel grateful if in a sentence (or perhaps a paragraph) you provide me with the conclusion towards which your presentation will move. Knowing the point allows me to follow the argument more carefully. It also shows me that you value my time. Stating the point is often known as the “thesis” but I prefer to think of it as a summary of the argument. I am aware that people are sometimes uncomfortable “giving away” their argument at the beginning. However, if we think of the essay as something which the reader and writer “share” as opposed to something which the writer “reveals” to the reader, then “giving away” your argument at the beginning is an excellent way to set the tone of sharing.

3) I need one more element at the start and then I am ready to enjoy reading your essay. What I need is a sense of the overall organization - the plan. I am amazed at how difficult it is for me to follow my arguments two weeks or two months from when I write them. If I get lost in my own writing you might imagine how easily I may get lost in yours. A plan helps me anticipate the general directions of the argument and the terrain over which we will move.

Beginnings are often the hardest part of writing - they consume and deserve plenty of energy. I often write two beginnings: the first one gives me a sense of purpose and sets me writing a draft of the essay. Almost always, however, I do not write what I plan. Once I am happy with a draft, I write a second opening that is more consistent with what I have, in fact, written. I think of it as opening and closing a loop.

With a good opening the rest is often easy. In the body of your paper just do what said you would do in the introduction. Please make sure that I am able to follow you. Warn me of any difficult or tricky moves you are about to make. In the conclusion, summarize what you have done, draw your conclusion (again) and note possible weaknesses in your discussion. Arguments presented by even the greatest minds contain flaws - what makes them great is their ability to recognize and admit the limitations of the argument. You may close by drawing out the implications of your discussion or posing new questions that you leave for a future essay. Let me add that you need not present a strong definitive conclusion. If the issues leave you inconclusive then end with a note of honest ambiguity.

II. Respect for Ambiguity

I consider the issue of ambiguity both important and difficult. Allow me to use the term “voices” to explain the importance of ambiguity. Consider the claim that a topic worth discussion is an ambiguous topic. Abortion, the role of the state in society and in markets, the nature of poverty, intervention in other states and cultures, the net effect of colonialism - these issues create heated discussion. Because we are sensitive to these issues, we tend to present our positions in a polarized and definitive manner even when we know that, deep down, we are of many minds. In a sense we “purify” one internal voice and “obliterate” others, we turn up the volume on one and silence the other. While knowing how we feel on such issues is very important for practical purposes, polarizing the issues does not help us much in getting to know the full extent of our own thought. In an essay, rather than polarizing, silencing, or purifying I would like you to share and explore the various voices within you. Indeed, one way to think of an essay is to think that it is an open conversation shared by multiple internal voices.

The metaphor of “voices” need not imply, however, that all the voices are equal. We may well conclude that one voice deserves more credence than others. Indeed, I happen to think that one purpose of conversation is to move towards some such conclusion. However, a conclusion favoring one voice seems more compelling if we allow the reader to share our thinking process. Let me take as an example an issue that today does not make for a good essay, but may give you a sense of how to negotiate the tension between being open to all voices and giving credence to one.

Today the question “is slavery justifiable?” does not hold much interest because this issue is more or less settled. We may recognize, however, that at one point in our history this was a contested issue. We may think that in the nineteenth century the issue of slavery elicited two or more “voices.” Some voices tended to accept slavery while others found it unjust. If we were writing our essay in the nineteenth century we probably would need to consider both voices to fully understand our thinking. Now, over time the voices that thought of slavery as unjust became dominant. I think we came to the correct conclusion on this issue. However, I imagine that coming to this conclusion did not mean simply asserting that one voice. You cannot simply order people to think and feel differently. Instead, understanding that something is wrong or right requires exploring all voices generously, thoroughly, and honestly.

If instead of “sharing” and “voices” you prefer to think of arguing in terms of “debate” then perhaps the following restatement will make more sense to you. A good argument anticipates, respects, and responds to objections and counter arguments from positions other than those we prefer. Sometimes a second or third round of counter responses may be necessary. The tone is one of respect (but not necessarily acceptance) of alternative positions.

In my experience cultivating this tone of respectful difference towards internal and external others is the difficult, but also among the most important thing we can learn.

III. Arguments versus Opinions

Often we find it hard to distinguish between arguments and opinions. I think opinions are feelings we have which remain unsupported by reasoning. They simply remain feelings. When we are able (perhaps with the help of others) to support feelings and intuitions with “reasons,” a “narrative line,” a “plausible story,” or “an explanation,” we have created arguments. We may even think of the essay as a process of turning feelings into arguments. I suspect this may not be very helpful. I usually know the difference between an argument and an opinion when I see it but I find this difference difficult to express in written form. I am sorry I cannot be more helpful. It may console you to know that understanding the distinction between arguments and opinions has been a lifelong task for me. I suspect it is no less for anyone else.

IV. (Possible) Helpful Hints

In preparing for these essays, I have some additional suggestions that may be of use to you. 1) Study with others. It is amazing how much more we learn when we study together - providing we study with those whom we respect. 2) If we create an attitude that imagines writing the essay as a creative learning experience, then the writing process often turns into just that. Many of the results we achieve we create with the attitude we bring. Enjoy the ideas and other things follow. 3) Think of the grade as an evaluation within a specific feedback loop. The information that our evaluation provides may or may not be valuable to you or significant to your future. It says nothing about your intrinsic worth as a human being. 4) I have nothing against writing in the first person. In fact, if this is what it takes to help you avoid the formalism and jargon usually associated with “social science” so much the better. Write in whatever style you wish, but for my benefit please avoid jargon and pretension.

The Evaluation Process and the Meaning of Grades

I design my courses to respond to the content and form of your writing. I hope to comment both on the strengths and weaknesses of your writing. In turn, I would like you to respond to these comments either on paper or in conversation during my office hours. The written comments and the oral conversation will help you to know what I expect and will help me to find out your needs and concerns. Evaluators always respond best to your needs if you show a concern for the ideas, an awareness of their criticism, and an appreciation for their efforts. Concentrate on these aspects of the conversational process and the grades will take care of themselves. (You are always welcome to my office hours for other reasons or for no reason at all).

I formulate grades by on bringing together two criteria. The first is absolute and external; the second is relative and internal. On the one hand, I will assess your work by the norms of clarity, organization, coherence, logical flow, creativity, depth, and intensity. Many, many years in the practice of teaching during which I have read thousands of papers gives me confidence in making such judgments. On the other hand, I will evaluate each of you according to your specific development. That is, because each person is in a different situation in her/his educational process, my assessment of your work will be based partly on your progress relative to your starting point in the course.

While evaluation can be a rewarding process, no one I know likes to assign grades. For me, grades serve merely as shorthand for characterizing the evaluation process. They say nothing about your general capacity or your intrinsic worth as a human being. Nor do they forecast your ability to grow and learn in the future. Keeping this in mind, here is what I may mean by assigning the following grades. “C” means that a barely adequate amount of effort is noticeable, or that effort is somewhat miss-focused or miss-targeted. “B” means that good effort is coupled with a fairly good understanding of what is being asked. “A” reveals both intense effort and remarkable achievement. At the other end of the scale, “D” means either that an inadequate amount of effort is being put forth or that strong effort seems to have been miss-targeted. That is, there is little overlap between my expectations and the student’s efforts. “F” means I notice little or no effort or that there is a complete misunderstanding about expectations. Receiving a “D” or an “F” requires you to me as soon as possible.

Finally, keep in mind that the evaluation and grading process is reciprocal. You will always be evaluating my performance. I am very grateful for daily and weekly criticism and I hope that you will make your assessment of my work part of a regular process. You should know that your formal evaluation at the end of the term is significant in two ways. First, it affects my standing within the department and the College both socially and financially. Second, and more important, I consider it as the best indicator of the effectiveness of my efforts. Student evaluations directly influence how I design and instruct future courses.