Before We Reach for the Mute Button...

The recent shock and awe over Miley Cyrus's VMA performance has invoked a lot of strong opinions and vocal protests from a diverse audience. From the news to Twitter to Facebook and back, the reactions have been fast and furious: everything from "Miley can do whatever she wants. STOP TALKING ABOUT IT" to "Is this really what we should be focusing on right now?" to the idea that her scanty outfit and (arguably) outrageous twerking is one of the harbingers of the downfall of civilization.

What happened to our wholesome,
American family values?

Perhaps ironically, a large chunk of the commentary about the event is focusing on the reasons why we shouldn't talk about it. Jezebel had numerous articles speaking out against the slut-shaming* that was happening, defending Cyrus's right as a legal, consenting adult to express her sexuality however she damn well pleases. Meanwhile, enterprising bloggers created a tumblr account devoted to things we should have been paying attention to in Cyrus's stead. And with over 24 hours of non-stop media chatter over the event, more than a few individuals have just about had it. As Toula Foscolos wrote for Huffpost Canada, "Miley's not racist, not a whore, and not your punching bag." Isn't it embarrassing how easily we are caught up in the media hype of pop-culture and titillating, "shock-value" media ploys?

Actually, I'd like to argue that it isn't. At least, not all of it.

Yes, I would prefer it if we (in this case, being the assumed, generalized population of America) were more concerned with world news and the possible threat of a new war. But the fact that we, as an audience, are so obsessed with one twenty-something's performance has a lot to say. About our country. About what we value. And about how that conversation is developing in some fascinating and, I believe, vitally important ways.

For anyone who has been following the "War on Women" over the past few years (okay, centuries, but I'm talking recent legislation), the conversation about women's sexuality, agency, and a push against slut- and victim-shaming is crucial to how we respond to the world around us. As one of my fellow grad students pointed out, it's unlikely that the fallout would have been anything near as absolute if the offender had been, say, Drake or Kanye. Little has been said about Robin Thicke's participation in the duet, except in relation to Cyrus's agency. After all, boys will be boys.

The conversation has also raised up the voices of women of color, as in one black woman's response about how, in their rush to defend her right to her sexuality, white feminists completely ignored the blatant misappropriation of black culture, and the objectification of black, female bodies.

Cyrus's performance has also opened up conversations about any number of non-feminist topics, such as The Onion's bitingly comical summary of the interplay of publicity and "news," the objectification of child and teen stars, and a great deal of commentary and criticism about (what else) Americans' obsession with celebrity gossip.

I'll admit, I'm looking forward to waking up and seeing a stream of posts in my newsfeed that have nothing to do with VMAs, twerking, or the Cyrus family. But however much we want the conversation to change, I think it's important to note that it's these exact, uncomfortable, and seemingly-repetitive conversations that are the foundations of social change.

I doubt that Miley Cyrus's performance is going to bring about sweeping reforms in how we view celebrity, women, or race. But I do believe that, whether anyone intended it or not, she has become part of that discourse...and we do ourselves a disservice if we shut that down.

Searching for Clarity (or When Did Academic Writing Come to Mean "Confusing as Hell?")

There are times when I don't think I deserve to be an English major.

I enjoy literature. I get insanely thrilled over nerdy things like composition pedagogy and rhetoric. And I love to write. I'm even crazy enough that I'm starting my doctorate (which is a completely different, terrifying topic). But, however much I love my subject, I can't stand "academic" writing.

I say "academic," because I'm not actually convinced that the writing I hate should even qualify...or that, if anything, it should be classified as "bad" academic writing. Yet it's the kind of writing that we all know to expect. Hell, it's even the kind of writing our students "aspire" to, because those are the signposts they've come to recognize in "intelligent" writing. It's that article that is jargon-heavy and vague. The one that's so complex and hard to understand that you can't quite tell whether you're too stupid to understand it or if the author never actually said anything at all.

This isn't the first time terrible writing has wound me up into a fury, but normally it's because--as a student--I'm being forced to read it. This time, though, it's the teacher in me that wants to scream.

I've been reading Robert Connor's Composition-Rhetoric: Backgrounds, Theory, and Pedagogy for an Independent Study class. I know. It sounds like a snoozer, but Connors actually does a masterful job of keeping a potentially dry subject interesting. He's funny, he's conversational, and he's clear...all while staying true to the rigor you'd want in a research textbook. As far as texts go, it's pretty great.

What isn't great are the writers he's talking about. Going through the history of writing instruction, it becomes increasingly obvious that Composition-Rhetoric methods have been forced into formulaic, prescriptive, boring frames because that's what was "easy" to teach. Because that's what's easy to write. And that's what's easy to understand.

Prescriptive, formulaic scholars like Alexander Bain weren't the only ones out there, though. There were innovative scholars. Conscientious scholars. Scholars who realized that the process and student interaction and non-linear lessons would get better writing than five paragraph essays. Except, time and again, Connors points out that their textbooks and articles just wouldn't catch on. And why not?

Because they were too difficult to understand.

Never mind torturing those poor graduate students who are forced to study onerous textbooks for hours on end. These are decades and decades of prospective writers and learning minds who wasted years of writing instruction on formulas because academics couldn't learn to be clear.

I get it. Theory is complex. And, sometimes, the only way to discuss theory is in abstractions. Not everything can be put into practical, layman's terms. But if you truly believe that you've found a valuable, useful way of teaching... why wouldn't you make it accessible?

Obviously, the history of composition-rhetoric is more complex and relies on more than the writing quality of a few theorists...but it's not a problem that is stuck in the past. THIS is what we call academic writing. And these, truly, are the consequences we face.

As a teacher, I'm not sure I can think of anything more depressing than the idea that the tools are out there...they're just not being shared.