“Crash” strives to show that just as culpability belongs equally to all racial groups, so, too, is redemption equally available. But that promissory note goes unpaid when it comes to the film’s Asian characters.

“Crash” is the worst kind of representation of what passes for multiculturalism today. A class will gain most from studying its construction of whiteness, including whiteness’s inextricable connections to “otherness(es).”

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Editor's Note: This article begins a semiregular feature in which contributors analyze "texts" that figure in the daily lives of college English teachers: e.g., syllabi, course descriptions, administrative decrees, departmental bylaws, college Web sites. Your proposals are invited. Here, Susanna Ashton describes how undergraduates in her class on representations of slavery studied the words, sounds, and images they encountered at a historical site on her campus: the former slave plantation of leading antebellum racist John C. Calhoun. She also analyzes how her school depicts this site on the

The author reads the essays in this issue from the perspective of work in rhetorical genre theory on the concept of “uptake” in order to examine some of the challenges and possibilities teachers as well as students face as they engage in the work of identifying and deploying multiple languages and discourses. He suggests that the essays allow us to see uptake both as a site for the operations of power and a site for intervening in those operations, as well as allowing us to see a number of such interventions underway.

Reviewed are Situating Composition: Composition Studies and the Politics of Location, by Lisa Ede; Self-Development and College Writing, by Nick Tingle; and The End of Composition Studies, by David W. Smit.

A response to Wayne Booth's essay in the same issue a "rhetoric of assent."

Focusing on the rhetorical work of definition in the writings of Maria Rentería, Sara Estela Ramírez, and Astrea, contributors in the early years of the twentieth century to the Spanish-language newspaper La Crónica, this essay argues that these writers redefined who the Mexican woman was and what her role in the borderlands of Texas and Mexico could be. Its exploration of their definitional claims historicizes Chicana feminist rhetoric, and examines how their work infuses rhetorics of/from color with concerns of gender and class.

n 1910 and 1911, Maria Renteria, Sara Estela Ramirez, and Astrea3 redefined who the woman4 was and what her role in the borderlands of Texas and Mexico could be. As contributors to La Crdnica, a Spanish-language newspaper based in Laredo, Texas, these three women called their female readers to refuse essentialist definitions that described women as second-class, subservient, and apolitical.5 The writings of Renteria, Ramirez, and Astrea stood in contrast to such constructions as they inscribed women as intelligent and honorable-as women who could, and indeed should, engage in and change the world around them. Renteria, Ramirez, and Astrea wrote to shift old and shape new definitions, but even as they shared this goal, each writer composed a different Mexican woman for her readers. Astrea persuaded her readers to reassess their education and their place outside the home in her two articles To the Woman Who

ella Larsen's Passing has become one of the most widely read New Negro Renaissance novels in recent years, but no one really knows how it ends. By this I do not mean critics have not determined how much guilt to assign Irene Redfield in Clare Kendry's fatal fall, or to what extent the narrative is actually a lesbian story as a racial one. I mean the ending is actually unknowable, because the original last paragraph disappeared from the first edition's third printing, and no extant evidence can explain this change. There is no conclusive answer to the question of presenting this textual crux correctly-despite assumptions to the contrary by Larsen's editors-but I argue this textual problem itself bears an important lesson: the best response to a gap in textual knowledge is to acknowledge the absence and its causes, not to produce editions and teach classes gloss over such gaps, thereby passing on the social and cultural elements of these textual histories. More generally, I argue students and teachers can always benefit from attention to textual scholarship, and minority texts particularly need such study for what it reveals of the social and cultural interactions between minority writers and predominantly white, male publishers. The unbalanced power dynamics of this relationship produce what Gilles Deleuze terms a literature: that which a minority constructs within a major language (152). By focusing on the production history of the texts themselves, we can study the material evidence of this minor language.

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t the close of the twentieth century, College English published a special issue of essays subtitled Symposium: English 1999. As the title indicates, the collected articles address contemporary English departments. Although most articles focus on the specific pedagogical or professional exigencies of English studies, the last essay of this issue, Jeffrey Williams's Brave New University, raises a more general concern about the shift in university focus from scholarship to salesmanship (742). Williams argues that the increasingly privatized structure of the university significantly redefines the goals of higher education. Rather than characterizing universities and their faculty as places where experts work for the common good, popular discourse-from films to news media-reinforces the corporate image by depicting the university within a commercial profit rationale (745). Because a supposedly new profit motive impinges on the traditional mission of the university, Williams asks that academics critique this corporatized form of higher education, distinguish the university as a not-for-profit institution, and develop representations of the university that reclaim its foundations in the public good (749-50). At the same time that I appreciate Williams's indictment of the privatized university system, I am troubled by the prevailing sentiment-among conservative and liberal thinkers alike-that the university has strayed from its civic-minded origins and transformed itself into a site of corporate demagoguery. Recent discussion surrounding the contemporary university system suggests that an altruistic, even philanthropic, ethos overwhelmingly defines our understanding of higher education's original mission. Consider, for instance, the plethora of books that emerged in the 1990s detailing the failure of higher education. While these

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ing logic of the market is intricately, if silently, bound to theories of autonomous creativity, the writer is surely caught in a bind. Considering the trials of Coleridge and Wordsworth is enough to drive one into the arms of Trollope, abjuring forever the cycle of hypomania and depression, inspiration and silence. If the market is inescapable, turn its discipline to good effect. Such is Trollope's response to Romanticism: There are those [...] who think that the man who works with his imagination should allow himself to wait till-inspiration moves him. When I have heard such a doctrine preached, I have hardly been able to repress my scorn. To me it would not be more absurd if the shoemaker were to wait for inspiration, or the tallow-chandler for the divine moment of melting (102). Trollope scorns those who wait for inspiration, and embraces the analogy of novel writing to shoe making, pointedly refusing the Romantic separation of Art from craft: A shoemaker when he has finished one pair of shoes does not sit down and contemplate his work in idle satisfaction [...]. The shoemaker who so indulged himself would be without wages half his time. It is the same with a professional writer of books [.. .]. I had now quite accustomed myself to begin a second pair as soon as the first was out of my hands (265). God is on the side not so much of the angels, as of the man who settles down to do his work here on earth, for idleness is a vice, industriousness a virtue. This content downloaded from 157.55.39.211 on Sat, 25 Jun 2016 05:12:48 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms Writer's Block, Merit, and the Market 637 Just do it. This familiar marketing slogan is applicable to all walks of life, it seems. Donald Murray, in The Craft of Revision, echoes Trollope and Boice, too, when he urges writers to [make] writing a habit [ . .]. The writing becomes expected in the way you are expected to wait on tables, show up for your job in the emergency room, deliver papers. Roger Simon of the Baltimore Sun explained, 'There's no such thing as writer's block. My father drove a truck for 40 years. And never once did he wake up in the morning and say: 'I have truck driver's block today. I am not going to work' (17). There's something bracing about this. Murray appeals to the complex network of social relations any worker must enter into, which carry obligations that must be honored. The market makes us all interdependent and we are all expected to work, indeed, required to work if we need to earn our incomes. So Murray, like Trollope, urges one to internalize these obligations, which are both ethical and economic, and thus take advantage of the support this network can provide. Replace the Romantic agonies of inspiration with an ethic of work and you will be rewarded. You will have your writing, your copyright, your income, and your peace of mind. Yet the work ethic is by no means our salvation, as Max Weber's magisterial study, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, makes clear. Weber argues that Protestants developed in the seventeenth century an ethic that he calls worldly asceticism (120). This ethic is motivated first by religious belief and later, in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, by the force of capitalist accumulation. For Calvin, the purposeful organization and arrangement of the cosmos is evidence of a divine plan, even if the will of God is mysterious. Obvious in the order of the natural world, this organization extends to the order of society as well, in which every person has a calling, a job to do. Those who are in a state of grace glorify God by fulfilling his commandments, which providentially organize social relations. Each individual Christian must therefore work in his or her calling, regardless of his or her desires, and must work methodically, honestly, prudently, steadfastly, all for the glory of God. As Weber observes, Labor in a calling was [.. .] the ascetic activitypar excellence (133). Alone in an individual relation with God, quit of priestly mediation and Roman Catholic acts of penance, the Protestant went to work and prospered. Such labor is endless since it is not a goal in itself; done conscientiously, it will yield riches on earth that represent prospectively (given the grace of God) the Protestant's reward in heaven. I sketch the theological dimensions of the Protestant ethic to stress the fact that it is predicated on deeply felt belief, and to recall how inextricable this belief is from the discourse of political economy. Weber argues that the logic of utilitarian political economy is an effect of Protestant theology and religious belief. Calvinism holds that This content downloaded from 157.55.39.211 on Sat, 25 Jun 2016 05:12:48 UTC All use subject to http://about.jstor.org/terms