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One doesn’t usually think of a college English class as transformative. After all, it is a language we are already familiar with, and most of us dig our heels into the dirt so deeply that we refuse to learn anything new at all. There is always something new to be learned though. Whether it’s how to change writing styles or give proper feedback. Or looking at our work more critically. Sometimes it’s through these classes that we can find what we are truly passionate about. That is because English is a mode of communication, and that’s big. Through it, we can communicate anything, which opens up a breadth of opportunities that we might not have noticed before.
When I entered my first college English class I was a poet, and I will leave a poet; as some things never change. That is not to say that my writing remained the same though. I had been avoiding English 1A for two years. I had written countless essays, and I had gotten prior professors to excuse my prerequisite, having convinced them that my writing was adequate for whatever class I was aiming to get into. That didn’t change the fact that I needed the credit though. I avoided the class because I thought I would be harshly judged, I thought that I might lie exposed and less than adequate for basic English. So I went in swinging, attempting to demonstrate all of the technical skills I had never formally been taught. It was the epitome of ‘weird flex, but okay.’ I was hiding behind my poetry, hoping like a selfish parent that it would protect me.
When I entered my first college English class I was a poet, and I will leave a poet; as some things never change.
My teacher Brian did not receive me as I thought, which was for the better. He said that I broke a lot of rules, and made it work. However, he wanted to teach me the rules in all of their completeness. That way, I could better beak them. I took the bribe of course, and he told me to do the grammar exercises, which at first I thought were tedious. Eventually, I came to enjoy them like word puzzles. I didn’t at first see how they would change my writing style, but I found myself better able to express abstract thoughts without running off into the sunset. I learned how to use punctuation better than before, varying my sentence structure to achieve flow more desireable to a reader in an academic setting. Along with that, he also allowed me to give him my writing, and he would give me feedback, showing me a problem and prompting me to fix it. He didn’t give me all the answers, but I wasn’t left hanging. By the last essay, I had done more editing work than I had ever before. That might sound like a negative, but it was not, I was very proud of myself for that. For once, I knew where my writing stood.
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In the process of getting Brian’s feedback, I learned how to give better feedback as well. In our final peer response, I went all out, giving a ton of feedback to the essay I was critiquing. On the day of the final, that person came up to me, thanking me warmly for all of my feedback. I don’t want to concentrate too much on how good it felt. More important than that, I want to express how at the beginning of the term I had written boastfully that I didn’t need to improve my own feedback skills. I was more worried about getting good feedback, I said, “I knew it would be this way. It is, in fact, always this way.” Meaning that the girl who had given me feedback hadn’t even read my essay, and I took great offense to that. I did not hold a grudge for her though, having learned ultimately that it was not about her giving me feedback. If I wanted actual feedback I was perfectly capable of seeking it out, to give feedback is something altogether different. I wasn’t mad that she panned my essay, not really at least, I was mad that I had put so much effort into giving feedback I was sure the system was broken. Getting feedback from Brian allowed me to mimic him-- honing my soft skills, practicing giving neutral feedback, and ultimately preparing myself to apply for the English tutoring program at the Teaching and Learning Center.
When I first came to this class I had no idea where I stood as a writer, which scared me because throughout my life that was something people complimented.
When I first came to this class I had no idea where I stood as a writer, which scared me because throughout my life that was something people complimented. I thought it was the only thing I was good at, and I had no idea if I was actually good at it because the people who told me I was good were not writers. The ultimate harvest from Brian’s assistance with editing was that I had a better idea of where I stood as a writer. I can now look at my own writing, not with an overly critical eye, and see what needs to be reworked. That is a valuable skill, one that I look forward to continuing to hone and practice. I don’t think that many writers get that opportunity to look at themselves, and if they do, they might feel that they are only defending themselves, which ultimately achieves nothing.
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More than anything else described in this essay, I’ve taken from this class something more abstract than any skill. When my boyfriend took this class I noticed something shift in him too. I saw him studying something that he was unquestionably good at, sociology. After plucking away at his prior major, he finally decided to switch to sociology for good. I think he has found something he is truly passionate about. We have both joined the Humanities Mellon Scholars, and he is now studying gender and race relations. This class gave him a sense of purpose in the world that before I could not provide for him. I have no doubt now that he will stick with this major. I have come away with the same sort of certainty brewing within me, being the same as him, but with language. While sitting in the TLC one day Brian said, “You’ve got to do more than fit into the cog. What you do has to have passion. Become the cog.” Which meant do something different that’s never been done before. It’s true we’re not born necessary, we make ourselves necessary-- so I wondered how I could make myself necessary. Rimbaud talked about Universal Language, which I’ve heard some poets talk about as the future of poetry. While writing an essay for the Mellon Scholars application I thought of a possibility, poetry to come out of many languages-- using archetypes, commonalities, and differences from those languages. It is a type of poetry I have never before seen, and certainly, I would have. This is evidence that in this class I have become more a poet, a sociologist, and a linguist than I was before.
I found the rules did not limit me, as much as they liberated me.
I used to think that a true artist should not take an art class because all it will do is limit the artist with rules and regulations. To turn my nose up at any communication-oriented class is a blasphemous thought to me now. It is the same thing as my father telling me I would never use French, which is to ultimately deny my future as a linguist or as a poet. As a fourteen-year-old, I could not see how I would change, but I saw that he would not change. I saw that anyone who denies communication would deny art, which denies humanity’s self-awareness. To deny humanity’s self-awareness is to be boastfully ignorant. I learned that in this class, where I learned rules I didn’t before know about, and honed skills I thought I was already good at. I found the rules did not limit me, as much as they liberated me.
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