Supporting the professional development of graduate teaching assistants (GTAs) is a strategic necessity for both English studies and higher education. At many academic institutions, GTAs represent a significant proportion of instructional staff for first-year composition courses (Young and Bippus 116). These courses serve a crucial institutional mission as an academic entry point for the majority of undergraduate students and have been closely linked with student retention, graduation rates, and academic performance (Garrett, Bridgewater, and Feinstein; Holmes and Busser). Based on a recent national study, Amy Cicchino found most rhetoric and composition programs offer intensive, but condensed, GTA training programs that typically include a preservice orientation, semester-long teaching proseminar, and peer or faculty mentorship (93). Yet, time is a significant constraint—most programs take place over a single semester or academic year and end just as GTAs gain enough teaching experience and confidence to become more interested in composition theory and professional development (Obermark, Brewer, and Halasek; Reid).

Preview this article: Making Space for the Misfit: Disability and Access in Graduate Education in English, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/82/2/collegeenglish30634-1.gif

Intended to contextualize and elaborate on the Two-Year College English Association's 2016 Guidelines for Preparing Teachers of English in the Two-Year College, this article examines the history, current status, and possible futures of graduate preparation for two-year-college English professionals. It traces the five-decade history of efforts among two-year-college English faculty to articulate the distinct demands and opportunities of their profession and to hold university-based graduate programs accountable for providing meaningful preparation for future two-year- college teacher-scholars. Based on our survey of this history and the current landscape of graduate education in English studies, we argue that transforming graduate programs to meet the needs of the teaching majority will require embracing the four principles articulated in TYCA's 2016 Guidelines: develop curricula relevant to two-year-college teaching; collaborate with two-year-college colleagues; prepare future two-year-college faculty to be engaged professionals; and make two-year colleges visible to all graduate students.

The author proposes three ways that engagement with religious rhetorics in undergraduate writing courses might enable teachers of rhetoric to cultivate writers’ civic capacities. To give readers a sense of what courses on religious rhetorics that aim to improve writers’ civic capacities look like in practice, DePalma discusses three undergraduate writing courses recently taught in different kinds of institutional settings and the kinds of learning that occurred as a result of students’ engagement with religious rhetorics in those courses.

This essay advances a new pedagogical approach to engaging with archives in undergraduate courses. Through this approach, students not only examine traditional archival materials from the past, but also create new online archives of present-day sources they identify as related. Rather than training undergraduate students to become archival specialists, this pedagogy invites them to inquire into the relevance of archival materials to their own everyday lives and composing practices in digital spaces.

Contributors to this symposium reflect on the role of the journal editor, noting the experiences of graduate student editors, the contributions of journal editors, and the tension that may exist between the roles of editor as gatekeeper and editor as facilitator.

This article draws from ethnographic research to explore the interplay between Western capital (both monetary and cultural), the English language, and Indonesian religious identity at the Indonesian Consortium for Religious Studies, an “inter-religious, international Ph.D. program” in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. After discussing research methodology and positioning the program’s local-global religious identity within the larger Indonesian geopolitical context—which highlights English’s complicated role as both the language of Western imperialism and the language of global academic connection—this article explores how two Muslim PhD students negotiate this contact zone as they write. These student portraits, in turn, highlight the importance of acknowledging (1) religious identities as resources in our increasingly global US classrooms; (2) that identity negotiation occurs both textually and extratextually as multilingual writers reformulate and circulate information they draw from English publications to foment social change in their local communities; and (3) the contributions that non-Western voices can make in academic conversations long dominated by the West.

Books reviewed: The Activist WPA: Changing Stories about Writing and Writers by Linda Adler-Kassner The Managerial Unconscious in the History of Composition Studies by Donna Strickland GenAdmin: Theorizing WPA Identities in the Twenty-First Century by Colin Charlton, JonikkaCharlton, Tarez Samra Graban, Kathleen J. Ryan, and Amy Ferdinandt Stolley

Many graduate creative writing programs depend on “star” faculty who have been hired more because of their professional reputation as writers than because of their commitment to teaching. As a result, such programs often fail to provide reflection on teaching that would truly serve their students. One step toward alleviating this problem is to offer undergraduate courses that enable creative writing graduate students to team-teach with regular faculty.

The authors call for tying service learning to feminist agendas. In particular, they emphasize civic activism involving true collaboration with communities. They report on a graduate seminar at their own university that worked toward this goal by having students self-reflectively participate in local organizations.

Argues that the situation of adjunct instructors, particularly those who piece full-time employment from part-time appointments, is appalling and that there is responsibility to be meted out to all the various interests connected to the academy that benefit from it. Explores how adjunct instructors and graduate student can make decisions about their careers based on the prevailing conditions of employment.

gnes Varda's recent documentary Les Glaneurs et la glaneuse explores the modern parallels to the ancient practice of gleaning leftover produce from the fields in the wake of the harvesters. Among the most fascinating individuals Varda comes upon is a young man rescuing spilled fruit and vegetables after a farmers' market in Paris. The man is extremely knowledgeable about the nutritional content of each item; has, in fact, a master's degree in chemistry; makes his living distributing free papers and advertising flyers outside train stations; and as his avocation teaches French to the Senegalese immigrants who share the housing project he lives in. Varda shows one of his classes. He is in love with teaching, has drawn charts with a vast number of careful illustrations of words, has an enchanting rapport with his students. But he does not get paid for his teaching: he has organized his classes for free. He is a gleaner, a rescuer of those who have nothing wrong with them but have been passed over by the system. Varda admires him. Traveling across France like a migrant agricultural worker, making a documentary with a hand-held digital video camera, she is la glaneuse of the film's title. For all the usefulness of their work and the joy they have in it, undoubtedly these gleaners-Varda, the French teacher, and others in the film-exist at the margins of their professions and their society. But for all the marginality of their financial existence, the film makes clear that they have chosen their paths thoughtfully and are happy doing what they do. Ghosts in the Classroom, a recent book of essays by adjunct instructors, makes clear that there are many college teachers in the United States who glean the developmental and introductory classes, lead a marginal financial existence, and are not at J a me s Pa p p is associate director of MLA English Programs and the Association of Departments of English. Most of his writing focuses on issues of university teaching and administration, but he has also published on literature, folklore, and translation and has an article forthcoming on Hungarian revival architecture in communities inside and outside Hungary. He is currently editing a collection of papers on the research of teaching in language, literature, and rhetoric.

reative writers exist as a group both inside and outside the academic community. Inside academia, the pursuit of creative writing as a graduate degree specialization is typically associated with the M.FA. However, another option, the Ph.D., also exists. I am the recipient of a Ph.D. in English with emphasis in creative writing, alternatively called the Ph.D. in English with creative dissertation. Like many of my colleagues who hold this degree, I also have an M.FA. in creative writing. I entered graduate school as a master's student to become a better writer, and a better scholar. While I was there, I also developed the desire to become a teacher. Told that the M.EA. was not sufficient for a university teaching position (without the all-important multiple books that many positions require), and without significant training or opportunity from my M.EA. program in teaching, let alone in the teaching of creative writing, I entered into a Ph.D. program in English/creative writing with hopes that this program would teach me how to teach in my field. But as a graduate student who did not know which way she might turn (teacher or writer? could I be both?), I was puzzled by the lack of attention on the part of my university to the pedagogy of my field. I took seminars, completed language and oral and written comprehensive examinations, and defended my dissertation-a booklength collection of poems-but heard little about what it might mean to enter a university teaching position, or what teaching creative writing as a professional writer/ teacher might involve. I consider myself to be one of the lucky ones: I took a graduate course in the teaching of composition and then taught composition, feeling well-prepared; I then taught creative writing, feeling less prepared, as a graduate student and postgraduate lecturer. This valuable experience allowed me to recently secure a tenure-track position teaching composition and co-directing a composition

Gives an account in journal format of the author’s experiences teaching writing and literature at a missionary school in Nigeria. Describes difficulties and conflicts of beliefs encountered over a period of time with her colleagues. Presents a poem from one of her teaching assistants and discusses reactions and meanings involved in the different cultures.

Articulates “romantic intellectualism” of what graduate work in English might mean and be. Avoids giving a detailed description of a doctoral program. Intends to convey something that might best be called visioning or dreamwork, and offers it in the hope that it may be helpful to others in their individual and collective visioning and dreaming.

Calls for historians of rhetoric to return to the archives. Argues that it is the neglect of training graduate students in standard research methodologies that prevents the field from writing “better” histories of rhetoric. Argues for archival training similar to that given to graduate students in history departments, training tailored to recovering the history of rhetorical practices and instruction.

Contends that the academy has forgotten the origin of the dissertation and has turned it from a substantive contribution of scholarship to an instrument of evaluation. Argues that continuing to treat the dissertation in this way maintains an unequal power hierarchy of “masters” and initiates–it should be seen as the first serious scholarly monograph a scholar produces.

ot so long ago we attended a meeting of our department's graduate committee, the body that sets the policies and procedures of our large graduate program in English. The typically tedious deliberations were abruptly interrupted when a senior colleague, setting aside the matters being discussed, complained vociferously about a year-old policy on doctoral dissertations. The objectionable policy encouraged dissertation directors to counsel students to think of their dissertations as scholarly books rather than as mere academic exercises. Our colleague insisted that students should not conceive of their dissertations as books because a dissertation, he claimed, is the last important exercise that students will do in their graduate careers. This colleague, an accomplished scholar himself, argued passionately that most graduate students are not yet mature enough to contribute substantively to the types of conversations that professionals engage in, that they in effect need to prove themselves before being allowed to operate on the same plane as professionals. The perspective expressed by this colleague is far from atypical; in fact, it may well be the majority opinion of the graduate faculty in most English departments. This widespread understanding of the function and purpose of the dissertation derives from a kind of collective amnesia in the academy. As we will demonstrate, the academy has forgotten the origin of the dissertation and over the years has turned it from a substantive contribution to one's field to an instrument of evaluation. We argue that continuing to treat the dissertation in this way maintains an unequal power hierarchy of masters and initiates-one that is self-serving at best and unethical at worst. We argue further that it is incumbent upon those of us who direct dissertations to return to the practice of treating the dissertation as the first serious scholarly monograph a scholar produces. Such a practice is especially impor-

t was not until I had embarked upon my coming out as a deaf person that I considered my rites of passage, and dwelled on my acts, both deliberate and unconscious, both past and present, of passing. Because my coming out was a mid-life event, I had much to reflect back on and much, too, to illuminate ahead of me. This through an identity crisis, as it were, and the rites of passage then involved in uncovering the paths of my lifelong passing as hearing, took place in a hall of mirrors. (Later I would come to know this place as the art and act of rhetoric.) I first saw myself mirrored in several students I met at Gallaudet University (the world's only liberal arts university for deaf and hard-of-hearing students). I was thirty-two and finishing my PhD, writing a dissertation-that quintessential act of literate passing. What's more, I was finishing it by doing an ethnographic sort of study on deaf student writers at Gallaudet University; thus I was using the guise of an academic grant and a PhD-producing project as a professional foil to make a personal journey to the center of Deaf culture. I was always good at finding a way to pass into places I shouldn't normally be. So, there I was, doing time as a teacher and researcher at Gallaudet, collecting data for my study, taking a sign language class, living with a Deaf woman and faculty member at Gallaudet, going to Deaf gatherings, tutoring some of the students. Mostly, I was trying to pass in ways that were both familiar and unfamiliar to me: to pass (unfamiliarly) as D/deaf-and doing a lousy job of it-and to

Describes a doctoral student’s experience of studying the deaf or hearing culture from the standpoint of her life and work as a hard-of-hearing person. Discusses the student’s (almost) passing in and among the “D/deaf and H/hearing” worlds.

ere is seldom mentioned but universally known fact of our profession, bluntly stated: the vast majority of our undergraduate students do not love or appreciate literature as we do. Indeed, the value of studying literature, the rewards of reading, are not immediately apparent to surprisingly large number of students, despite vaguely conceived (and externally imposed) notion that reading serious literature is somehow essential to becoming a wellrounded person. So we shake our heads in dismay, share our war stories in faculty lounges, rejoice in our occasional successes, and generally bemoan these students' lack of interest, spotty education, and limited life experiences; the sorry state of basic literacy in recent years; the dismal and misguided teaching conducted in high schools; and, eventually, the anti-intellectual strain in American culture itself, exacerbated by television, Danielle Steel, and Stephen King. Embedded in all this are unstated inklings that our entire enterprise may be suspect or indefensibly elitist. And it was ever so. Gerald Graff's Professing Literature: An Institutional History is replete with accounts of MLA addresses from the turn of the century onwards which express concern over students' indifference to literary studies and to the latest professional trends in literary theory. Even the decades-long debates over scholarship vs. criticism chronicled by Graff on occasion find it necessary to deal, somewhat reluctantly, with pedagogy and classroom applications. Not often enough, it has always seemed to me. This and other sweeping generalizations that follow, along with some radical observations-and few suggestions-are intended to refocus attention on what I take to be the principal function of college literature teachers, their primary raison d'etre: teaching undergraduates.

Preview this article: Graduate Students, Professionals, Intellectuals, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/52/3/collegeenglish9658-1.gif

The role of the reader in how the meaning of a text is formed has been a nearly obsessive concern of recent critical thought. Books and articles abound taking one stand or the other on the question of where meaning lies: in the text, in the reader, in the intentions of the author, in the intertext, in the practices of interpretive communities, and so on. For the most part, such talk tends to be seen as a kind of elegant diversion-the stuff of graduate seminars and doctoral thesessomewhat removed from the more practical tasks of teaching our students to read intelligently and to write with conviction. And certainly things seem to go on pretty much as they always have in most classes on literature-that is, texts get assigned to be read and papers to be written, students plow more or less dutifully through both, some haggling over meanings and grades takes place, and students and teachers alike go home at the end of the term, having done Shakespeare, or the Seventeenth Century, or the Modern Novel, or even Literary Theory. The writings of Jacques Derrida and Wolfgang Iser and Stanley Fish haven't changed that, and I doubt that any theory of reading ever will. But while theories of reader-response or deconstruction may seem to have had little effect on the practice of teaching literature, they do hold much in common with how many of us try to teach writing. The reasons for this are fairly plain. The meanings of most texts read in literature classes really are pretty stable-not because they hold some sort of intrinsic fixed messages, but simply because they are familiar texts that we, as a community of readers at the university, have long agreed on how to go about interpreting. This isn't the case, though, when we read student writing. Then we are faced with texts that are both new to us and whose meanings have often not yet been fixed even in the minds of their authors. In a freshman writing class the instability of meaning is a fact of life, not a point of critical debate. Nowhere else is the importance of a reader's expectations, of interpretive codes, shown more clearly. Where we look for analysis, our students often appeal to emotion; where we expect example, they call on popular sentiment, what everybody knows. The problem is not that our students are dumb, but that they're not yet members of the club-they don't know the sorts of things we as academics look for when we read. And so one way of looking at our task as teachers of writing is to see it as helping our students to confront the kinds of talk that go on at the university, to think about the values and assumptions that underlie such discourse. Joseph Harris teaches writing at Temple University.

Preview this article: Opinion: The Graduate Student, Forty-five Years Later, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/47/8/collegeenglish13241-1.gif

Like all second editions, the new version of Richard Graves' Rhetoric and Composition: A Sourcebook for Teachers implies the success of the first edition. But that success itself also radiates questions about the nature and purposes of the courses that might use the book, about the texts with which it competes in the marketplace, about what prompts a second edition, and about the relationship of such textbooks and courses graduate education in English. All these questions frame the larger issue of the continuing emergence of composition studies. Any course using the Graves book (or one of its competitors) is a relatively new one because composition instructors have had rely, until recently, on an informal curriculum for their training. To be sure, there have been exceptions such as Fred Newton Scott, who in the early decades of this century trained graduate students at the University of Michigan in what might today be described as composition studies. And Herbert Cheek reports in his retrospective Forty Years of Composition Teaching (College Composition and Communication, 6 [1955], 4-10) that some universities began by 1940 to have distinguished specialists in linguistics, in semantics, and in logic who were graduate students how apply what they could learn about these subjects composition teaching (p. 9). Most instructors of writing have, however, learned through the informal curriculum of ideas gleaned from self-sponsored reading, orientation sessions, and conversations with other instructors, rather than in graduate classes. When Harold Allen made his 1951-52 tour of forty-seven composition programs, he found only five graduate courses on composition, and not all of the five were offered regularly (Preparing the Teachers of Composition and Communication-A Report, CCC, 3 [1952], 3-13).

Preview this article: Research Paper Instruction in the Undergraduate Writing Program, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/44/8/collegeenglish13670-1.gif

IN THE SPRING SEMESTER OF 1978 I taught a seminar on contemporary women's fiction to twelve women graduate students. Taught is really the wrong word. Officially, I was responsible for the course, for grades, for leading discussion; actually it was that rare experience, a class that ran itself. This was partly because the students had designed the course-a course in which some of their own unpublished work would be discussed in the same way as already published fiction-and therefore felt responsible for it. But it was also because a real sense of community developed as our established critical methods failed us and we groped towards formulating new ones. The words with which one of the students, Marilyn Johnson, introduced her project for the course suggest the atmosphere that developed:

LAST SPRING I VOLUNTEERED to teach an English graduate course entitled Teaching of Writing to Speakers of Dialect. Of course everyone speaks a dialect, but the graduate students were no fools. They knew that this verbose title was a euphemism for teaching students in remedial courses to write. After consenting to do the course, I panicked. I am and therefore thought by my department to know something about dialect problems. Of course I felt just about as much in the dark (forgive the racist imagery) on this matter as most of my colleagues, though I regularly taught the remedial, freshman English course which enrolls mostly and Spanish-speaking students. Now I was going to be unmasked as being as unenlightened and unexotic as my white colleagues. Heaven forbid! I scurried around to the graduate students who might take such a course and made them promise that they would not pre-register, hoping that the course would fold for lack of enrollment. But, alas, it didn't. So on the first day of class, I went to the assigned room, met my ten white English graduate students, confessed my ignorance, and began to teach what proved to be a fairly useful course, i.e., I learned a lot by teaching it. We began the course as all good graduate courses begin and end, with the students doing most of the work. We tried to make a complete annotated bibliography from 1964-77 on black dialect and from four journals which publish in this area: English Journal, College English, College Composition and Communication, and Florida Foreign Language Reporter. We dittoed our bibliographical finds each week and also starred and commented on the most interesting articles. The students murmured about the amount of time our comments took each week, but I found the practical ideas for teaching writing which came from these articles and the students' comments most helpful. The articles were also helpful, especially when compared with the readings in our three texts,' in eradicating the naivete with which some of the students began the course: they wanted me as a teacher of remedial composition to tell them how to teach dialect writers in twenty-five words or less, and if not in so few

IN A RECENT ARTICLE IN College and Communication, a graduate student just through a doctoral examination in History and Theories in describes his need keep myself in one theoretical piece. . ., to get my future in composition straight, get it to take on some shape or direction (Stephen North, Composition Now: Standing on One's Head, 29 [1978], 178). One of his examiners called his synthesis of history, theory, pedagogy a mishmash; he is now laboring to find sensible relations between theory and the teaching of freshman composition. In spite of a dutifully upbeat conclusion, the article conveys frustration and insecurity-a nagging fear that the whole enterprise has been in some fashion hollow and suspect: it's rather like lying on your back in the backyard on a clear summer night and calling that astronomy (180). The anxiety described and dramatized here strikes me as largely justified and likely to become common as graduate programs in the theory and teaching of composition proliferate. What composition studies now offer is a potpourri of theory, research, speculation, some of it close to pedagogy, some far removed, some of it speculative and contemplative, some scientifically and experimentally oriented, some of it jargon-ridden and pretentious, enough of it so provoking and stimulating that the pervading sense of excitement and challenge seems justified. What composition research does not offer is a shapely coherence that makes it definable as a discipline. On the contrary, the spirit of the moment calls for ranging across multiple

RECENTLY I WRAPPED UP a lecture on a modern American novel with the statement, underlying theme of the book, then, is that in a universe shorn of transcendental values, of codes divinely ordained, each person must necessarily work out his own destiny. When one of the graduate students in my class raised his hand, I prepared either to repeat or to amplify my somewhat grandiloquent assertion. But the student proved less perplexed than querulous. He said, That's about all I got out of it, too. What it took this author four-hundred pages to get across, a good philosopher could convey, and less ambiguously, in a chapter. I think novels are basically a waste of time. It was the kind of challenge that the English professor is trained to meet, and indeed my first impulse was to let loose traditional arguments that must at last pummel the young iconoclast into an admission of the inimitable sweetness and light of belles-lettres. The hovering presences of Sidney, Shelley, Arnold, and a host of descendent apologists beckoned me to verify my professional mettle by exonerating darling poesy (using the word in its broad Aristotelian sense) from the charge of inessentiality. Instead, I sided with the heretic. With something of a guilty thing surprised, I dismissed the imagined importunities of my venerable judges, and to the student said, You may have a point. The student's plaint crystallized my own vague yet persistent dissatisfaction with fiction. Years before, I had been an avid consumer of novels of all sorts-an enthusiasm that partially accounted for my decision to pursue studies in language and literature-but as time wore on I became progressively less attached to fiction, the whole of belles-lettres in fact, and simultaneously more oriented to philosophy, psychology, and anthropology. The evolution in taste finally reached a stage where the time I spent on such disciplines was tenfold what I devoted to fiction. The disparity of attention was significative not merely of an English professor's attempt to balance his knowledge of genres, but reflected instead an intrinsic preference for analytical writing. Though I do not maintain that novels are a waste of time for everybody-each person must arbitrate his or her own tastes-they do seem virtually so for me. Given my occupational affiliation with belles-lettres, I flinch at the admission, for my fancy teems with visions of colleagues and students disdaining one so foul as to besmirch what he teaches. While my academic training and associations increase the difficulty of appraising in a disinterested fashion the bases for my literary prefer-

THE CURRENT back to the basics hue and cry reminds me of the story in Honey in the Horn where an oldtimer, working at the local sawmill, cut his own pay from $1.50 to $1.00 a day. When asked why he would do such a fool thing, the old man replied, Fractions make my head hurt. The profession's reaction to the public outrage that students can't write reminds me of that old-timer. We, too, seem to be attempting to avoid complication by reverting to a simpler number. To illustrate what I mean: In 1974 the Carnegie Foundation for the Improvement of Teaching gave the Modern Language Association a modest grant to finance a study of the state of the English undergraduate curriculum. Primarily, the officers of the foundation wished to know the answer to this question: How is the English profession responding to the students who are now going to college? One of the activities in the study was a national survey of the teaching of freshman composition. Four hundred thirty-six college and university teachers, directors of writing, and department chairmen from forty-nine states and Puerto Rico responded to MLA's inquiry and answered such questions as, What do you consider the main purpose of the course you teach? What is the average size of your freshman composition classes? How are the texts selected for the course?2 Quotations from this survey illustrate the divergent opinions and philosophies held about the college freshman English course.

Preview this article: Final Excerpts from A Handbook for Teaching Assistants, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/36/6/collegeenglish16978-1.gif

Preview this article: Excerpts from A Handbook for Teaching Assistants, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/36/1/collegeenglish17354-1.gif

WHEN I FIRST HEARD Bette Midler sing, the most prestigious place she had ever appeared was the Continental Baths on W. 74th Street. Friends only barely tolerated my rave reviews and insistent suggestions that she would become a major star. So when, during the same week last December, the Divine Miss M appeared both in sold-out performances at the Palace and on the cover of Newsweek, I merely smiled. Those community college leaders who for many years have crusaded for reform in graduate education based on the realities of life in two-year colleges must feel a similar sense of satisfaction when they read the recently published report of the Panel on Alternate Approaches to Graduate Education, Scholarship for Society.' Although the criticisms of graduate education have often been uneven, oversimplified, perhaps more hostile than constructive, teachers in community colleges have had opportunity to know sooner than most the inadequacies of their graduate training and can argue from an indisputable position of authority-their collective personal experience. It must be gratifying now to hear their arguments echoed in the words of a major document written by a blue-ribbon commission of scholars, graduate deans, and other university administrators under the auspices of the Council of Graduate Schools and the Graduate Record Examinations Board.2

IF ANY ONE DOUBTS that we are living in changing, even revolutionary, times, then I suggest that he read the latest cure for the woes of Freshman English, that most universally taught college course in the United States. As expressed by Louis Kampf, next president of the Modern Language Association, the new cure-all is a socialist revolution.1 And a socialist revolution which will compel English teachers to stop preventing the rise of lower class students by dubious grading systems. But the winds of change are not only blowing in the colleges. Fredson Bowers, speaking of graduate education at the Brown University Commencement (June 1, 1970), though not so sure as Louis Kampf about the coming revolution, conceded that Involvement with life, not isolation in the pursuit of knowledge, is the current watchword.2

Preview this article: A New Doctoral Program in English, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/32/3/collegeenglish19232-1.gif

Preview this article: The Humanities in American Undergraduate Education, Page 1 of 1 < Previous page | Next page > /docserver/preview/fulltext/ce/27/2/collegeenglish24058-1.gif