Tag Archives: CCCC

4C15: “No More ‘Moneypeople’: Politicizing Multimodality Through Zines”

Below is an approximation of the talk I gave at my CCCC panel in Tampa last week, called “Meaning Is In the Making: Three Responses to Shipka & Her Response”. You can view the slidedeck here. Special thanks for co-panelists Frank Farmer and Kristi Prins, and an extra special thanks to our respondent, Jody Shipka.

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[slides 1-2]

4Cs is a annual reminder that the most intriguing aspects of Jody’s work can be gleaned from her own composing practices, where she makes meaning by experimenting with [slides 3-6] forgotten technologies and alternative archives, purchased through dedicated Saturday afternoon visits to Maryland junk shops, flea markets, estate sales, garage sales, and thrift stores which then get reassembled in her house, then edited through film and circulated via social media, journals, workshops, and, of course, national conferences. Her work gives objects a memorable, visceral afterlife through accumulation, curation, resuscitation, and remediation. [slides 7-8] In her Inhabiting Dorothy project, for example, she [planning to ad lib briefly here based on your panel]. In this paper, I’d like to align myself with Jody’s gestures to reuse materials, but apply this as a communicative practice that is more political than has been discussed in her work.

The act of reusing materials seems powerful to me because it employs an aesthetic and politics that Adela Licona has called second order consumption — an oppositional process that “disrupts the capitalist imperative and circuits of production and consumption that rely on the individual to value the new, the first, the singular, and the latest, including planned obsolescence” (153n60). I realize Jody’s intention isn’t necessarily to promote second order consumption when she criticizes our tendency to equate multimodality with digital texts, tools and processes. After all, first order consumption is being showcased right now through this machine — and Jody herself uses programs like Adobe Premiere Pro, and equipment, like iPads to make her films. And yet, defining multimodality beyond the digital encourages an awareness of second order consumption — to look to our own embodied histories, experiences, and traversals, as well as to our search engines and applications for the available means. As she argues in a 2012 film for Enculturation, “research is a lived process.”

In short, Jody has both theorized and demonstrated throughout her work that all communicative practice is multimodal. That is, following Paul Prior and Jason Palmeri, she argues that multimodality is not a genre or a certain kind of text, but a “routine dimension of language in use.” In her essay “Including, but Not Limited to, the Digital” she echoes an emphasis originally laid out in her book, Toward a Composition Made Whole, that multimodality should call our attention to systems of activity that lead to meaning-making. She explains how multimodal production is a “complex and highly distributed process”  that accounts for “the role that texts, talk, people, perceptions, semiotic resources, motives, activities, institutions and so on play in the production, reception, circulation, and valuation of” things — whether they are printed texts, digital films, material objects, machines, or other hybrid forms not yet imagined (75). Hence, rather than ask students to respond to assignments with specific, genre-driven products, Jody’s courses emphasize a variety of possible rhetorical and performative multimodal accomplishments — “things” that are not restricted by representational systems that were denied or made available to them by their instructors. Time permits me from fully explicating some of the rich examples from her classroom, but in short, Jody’s students make a wide variety of things — objects like ballet shoes, garbage cans, and shirts [slides 11-13].

In the time I have left, I want to quickly offer a multimodal accomplishment of the public kind by looking at zines self-made, self-circulated, do-it-yourself print publications that obsess about something, whether that “thing” is punk music, anarchism, bisexuality, Thai food, dishwashing jobs, murder histories, or something else. Before I theorize a bit about the multimodality of zines, I thought I’d illustrate what zines are and what they can do through an example of my own zine, Hotdogz.

I’ve been waiting to make a zine about parenting for a while and so I began Hotdogz knowing that Cs would be a useful occasion to connect my complicated experiences with Florida to the state’s broader social history. But instead of beginning with my own writing, I started making issue 1 with “F 319” — the Library of Congress letter and number most relevant to Florida history. Because zines are a visual medium, I found the relevant shelves in our university library and sat and fumbled through the books, pulling titles off the shelf and marking intriguing passages and pictures [slides 18-22], which I then scanned using one of dozens of photocopy machines in the library. Meanwhile, I gathered family images from my computer files and Flickr account. Knowing that I would eventually make photocopies of my zine, I used Photoshop to adjust my images from color to halftone black and white [slides 23-31]. In between these processes, I read a few chapters from the edited collection, The History of Florida and took notes on the facts and stories from Floridian history that struck me; I also began to narrate my familial history as simply as possible. I then downloaded and imported a free comic book font into Pages and printed these with my images on my aging laser printer.

Similar to Jody’s process for making films and her students’ processes for their projects, zines often take, borrow, and remediate from everyday materials. Mine came from the library and my own photos, but they could have just as easily come from printed matter found in junk shops, garage sales, or through Google Image. However, unlike the multimodal accomplishments articulated in Jody’s examples, the guiding force for making zines isn’t performance or interanimation but circulation; that is, although the epistemologies of our communicative practices are similar in our view of research as a lived process, success for a zine is determined by the rhetor’s ability to anticipate what happens after the prototype is built: how, where, and to whom the zine be distributed. This is facilitated by two critical encounters — one material, one cultural — that influence the goals and choices made in the production process: the copy machine and the stranger.

For example, in terms of materiality, not only did the copy machine dictate how my images would reproduce, but [slide 36] I chose to make my zine a fourth of the size of a letter sized sheet of paper since I could make 50 copies of a 24-page zine using only 150 sheets of doubled-sided paper. In other words, I could reach more people with less resources if I worked with less space. I then spent 3 late hours in my department’s copy room, printing, collating, cutting, folding, and stapling issue 1. And, of course, as a cultural encounter, Cs provided me with the temporal and spatial occasion to circulate a zine to you, strangers, all of whom will judge me on the appropriateness of the occasion, my awareness of kairos.

In their book The Available Means of Persuasion Sheridan, Ridolfo, and Michel suggest that “kairotic inventiveness” plays an essential role in public rhetoric since it not only requires an understanding of how composition anticipates circulation, but also how kairotic determinants — time, space, channels — are often beyond the rhetor’s control. This has particular importance for public pedagogies that make use of multimodal forms as the material and cultural contexts of those forms limit the available means for production and circulation. As Sheridan, Ridolfo, and Michel put it,  “rhetorical theory has yet to confront the full implications of taking circulation into account” (61) realizing that it is at least partially “constitutive of rhetorical composition” (67; emphasis in original); this gap in our theory is reflected in our multimodal pedagogies.

For example, when I ask students to make zines in my undergraduate classes they fully immerse themselves in the production process — [slides 40-43] cutting and pasting covers from old copies of Seventeen, remediating their nonfiction through comics or handwriting and type, scanning old children’s books from the library to use as backgrounds, and even sprinkling glitter throughout. But sometimes when I remind them that the photocopy is what’s really important for zines, they seem a bit disappointed. For some of them who are used to the ethos of professional magazines, black and white just isn’t what they envisioned; if they want a color cover or stitched binding, for instance, they have to find a way to reproduce that effect 20, 30, or even 50 times. Some students do vouch for color copies, but even then they have to significantly reduce their print runs if they want to stay within a reasonable budget. The printed copy is the reality that part of circulating one’s work means loosing control — that it means coming to terms with kairotic determinants that bring rhetorical agency in sharp relief. They learn that to publish is ultimately to commodify writing and that the available means of production and mediation are based on their own resourcefulness and capital.

While it is true that Facebook posts, retweets, blog entries, and wiki edits constitute other ways in which students engage textual reproduction (and they do this for me too), new media can sometimes obscure the material aspects of circulation. I can create a blog in no time, but who will read it? When it comes to distribution, zines don’t work through bots or analytics. They are either seen or they’re not. Hence, putting all those copies to public use is part of the multimodal work of zines. For this reason, I’ve pushed students to organize, curate, and publicize zine festivals hosted on campus where they can distributed copies of their work to strangers. On Tuesday, for instance, my students made the decision to [not sure what they decided yet — put I was pushing for a public festival like my Spring 2013 students did!]. When my students did this in the Spring 2013, they circulated their work for more than 30 strangers made of writing professors and the friends of their classmates.

As Sheridan, Ridolfo, and Michel argue in the introduction to their book, when the field brings multimodality and the public turn together, it can more clearly see the importance of who has — or does not have — the available means of production and mediation. In other words: “who owns culture” (xvi; emphasis in original) becomes a paramount concern.  This extends — but also politicizes — Jody’s arguments that multimodal frameworks should be “engineered to underscore the interconnectedness of systems of production, distribution, reception, circulation, and valuation” (77). DIY and zines have historically pushed the politics of this interconnectedness, always aiming to minimize or altogether eliminate “moneypeople” — what Mary Sheridan has dubbed “corporate intermediaries” — from their systems. Although their content isn’t always political, the anticipation of circulation in the material production of zines renders these intermediaries — human and nonhuman agents alike — more clearly.

Even as zines limit the available “representational system” to printed objects, the ecology of their multimodality — their original obsessions, their remediated scraps, their changing of hands — are worth exploring, not in spite of the late age of print, but because of it.

4C14: “DIY Publishing and Pedagogies of Experiential Circulation”

Below is an approximation of the talk I gave at CCCC in Indianapolis. You can view the slidedeck here. Co-panelists Jana Rosinski and Becky Morrison and I also distributed this zine to attendees.


Practices: DIY Publishing 

[Slide 1] I’m going to discuss zines in the context of a 200-level course I taught at Syracuse University last spring called DIY Publishing. This was an open-enrollment pilot offered to all undergrads at Syracuse University — students ranged from mostly freshmen to a handful of upperclassmen. The course was initially set up so that students would experience and experiment with various approaches to publishing on their own throughout the 15 weeks — whether it was through informal print networks or online with WordPress, Twitter, Kickstarter, etc. Our work with zines occurred in the first unit as I sought to work with students to define and historicize the idea of DIY.

Alongside readings about zine histories these students visited the University Library’s Special Collection Research Center, which houses several old publications that qualify as DIY: abolitionist newspapers, Dada booklets, Tijuana bibles, various underground newspapers from the Sixties, and hundreds more. With the help of a talented archivist and our subject-specialist librarian, students got to handle these items from the Collection, research their histories, and teach the class about one of the items they pulled during a special class we held in the Collection [Slide 2]. Specifically, students had to show off their publication and discuss it in terms of its origins, significance, audience, materiality, and circulation. [Slides 3-4] This was meant to serve as a text that would inspire their own zine, leaving them to interpret “inspiration” broadly: it could mimic the artifact in terms of form or content, take a more reflexive approach by making a zine about the artifact, re-interpreting the research process, or by doing something else entirely [Slide 5].

Meanwhile students also brought in contemporary zines they ordered from several outlets, including distros like Sweet Candy or Nieves, online underground bookstores like Atomic or Quimbys [Slides 6-7], or directly from the writers through metazines like Broken Pencil. We used these to speculate on the variety of tools and processes necessary for making them: their covers, colors, sizes, bindings, and arrangements. Students also attended a bookbinding workshop hosted by a book-arts scholar at SU.

Distribution is a fundamental aspect to any zine experience and so this unit culminated in Syracuse’s first-ever zine festival, where students peddled multiple copies of their zines in a rented room down the hall from the Special Collections [Slides 8-10]. Although I imagined this event to occur within the confines of our classroom, perhaps inviting our librarian allies, the class decided as a group to invite anyone we could via our social networks [Slide 11]. This produced a pretty good turn out of 20+ strangers. Special Collections also blogged about it.

Toronto’s Broken Pencil [Slide 12], one of the few contemporary publications dedicated to zine culture, recently ran a thoughtful story about using zines in the classroom. Author Lindsay Gibb cites several academics who argue that the issue of grades is one of the main challenges when adopting zines for school. As U Iowa librarian Kelly McElroy says: “What makes an ‘A’ zine, and who the hell are you to decide that?” In both classes, then, I relied on process texts — proposals, contracts, emails, and reflections — to help me make sense of the rhetorical goals of each author’s zine. [Slide 13] First, students had to draft a proposal that asked them to pitch an idea for their zine that included details about its format, materials, content, circulation, and connection to the course. After meeting with me to discuss it, they revised these into more solid “contracts.” Scare quotes seem necessary because as any crafter will tell you, nothing was really set in stone; students made important discoveries through the acts of making. For that reason, and others, the contracts were more or less used as a starting point; students then completed the project by composing a reflective statement on the entire process. You can see some of their reflective questions in your zine [Slide 14]. I’ll talk more about some of the affordances and limitations of this unit, but next…

Theorizing the limits of protopublics

[Slide 15] The experience of leading students to curate their own festival was a first for me. Although I had used blogs in my classes, led peer tutors in our community, and even advised a student paper as a high school teacher, there was something different about the way students were putting themselves out there. And this led me to a series of questions about the nature of DIY and the publics my students might have imagined. Certainly the unit was compatible with prior scholarship on circulation pedagogies. Although there are several texts to evoke here, especially Kathy Yancey’s call at this conference 10 years ago, in the interest of time, I’ll discuss two that have appeared in CCC in the last five years — two texts I admire quite a lot: Mathieu and George’s 2009 article, “Not Going It Alone,” and Rivers and Weber’s 2011 article, “Ecological, Pedagogical, Public Rhetoric.”

[Slide 16] Mathieu and George argue that because “public writing can be an agent of social advocacy and of political action … it is important that any class focused on public rhetoric or public writing examine independent media texts in the contexts of their histories as social agents” (133). These histories are powerful because they teach students that social change occurs through networked relationships that move together to circulate texts. Students in DIY Publishing who looked at Diane diPrima’s Floating Bear, for example, saw she coordinated with other Beat writers like Frank O’Hara, Allen Ginsberg, and William Boroughs; those who looked at the abolitionist newspaper The Liberator saw Garrison’s paper had an impact that went well beyond its circulation of 3,000; and Karen Funk’s Trek fanzine, 2-5YM, was coordinated through the Trekie club, STAR. In nearly every case, such historical work shifted our definition of DIY as something more like what Ian Reilly has recently suggested as do-it-yourselves, where the “DIY ethic is only truly effective when actions take on a cohesive collaborative bent” (128).

[Slide 17] Rivers and Weber also see collaboration as a key tenet to teaching circulation. They imagine using an ecological framework so students see rhetorical action “as emergent and enacted through a complex ecology of texts, writers, readers, institutions, objects, and history” (188-89) where “change often happens when publics are generated by … multiple texts and individuals” (190). While my DIY Publishing students did not work with mundane documents as their students did, the ordering of zines and the coordination of the zine fest were important components of the course as students saw how DIY ecologies, group decision making, microcapitalist tools like Etsy or Paypal, social media, and our combined presence is what helps carry individual work to larger publics.

And yet there are essential differences between this scholarship and what I witnessed. Primarily, much of the research on pedagogies of circulation either implicitly or explicitly imagine their classrooms not as publics so much as “protopublics” — what Rosa Eberly [Slide 18] calls spaces where we consider (among other things) “the different subjectivities students might try out for different publics at different points in their formation or disintegration” (175; emphasis mine).

For example, Mathieu and George end their essay describing an advocacy project where a student addressed her boyfriend and his friends’ harassment of the homeless. In a footnote, they confess: “If one were to follow Michael Warner’s definition of a public, this example would not count as public writing, because, according to Warner, a public relies on an address to strangers (74–87). But we agree with Rosa Eberly that writing classrooms constitute ‘protopublic spaces,’ and as such, we believe that addresses to other students can constitute effective protopublic discourse” (147).

Warner is an important source here as he’s been widely cited in conversations on rhetorical circulation. For Warner, the reflexive circulation of discourse “among strangers” is constitutive — that is, there no thing that comes before it, which is why it’s different from terms like “communities” or “cultures.”  Rivers and Weber concede to this constitutive public, and raise the question “of whether or how our pedagogy might enact the ‘concatenation of texts through time’ within the rhetorical laboratory of the classroom (194). Within the lab, students develop a robust, comprehensive — but imaginary — local campaign using mundane texts, similarly developed out of Eberly’s protopublic, “which allows students to practice the skills of public advocacy and safely produce texts that could become public” (207; emphasis mine). The unit is meant to replicate a public using genres necessary for everyday civic action, but Rivers and Weber hold back from actual advocacy since as first-year writers, “they are not all ready for the messy and risky engagement that advocacy often entails” (206).

Importantly, these aren’t the only two texts that imagine circulation operating within a protopublic classroom. In less explicit examples, students translate scientific discourse to journalistic discourse (such as in Trimbur’s “Composition and the Circulation of Writing”) or study press releases and practice writing them to anticipate re-circulation (as in Ridolfo and DeVoss’s “Composing For Recomposition”).

My thinking is that although these essays provide rich ideas for approaching circulation in the classroom, by envisioning students acting within a protopublic I wonder if, when it comes to teaching circulation, we’ve gone far enough as a discipline to frame rhetoric as what Laurie Gries calls a “a distributed network of becomings in which divergent consequences are actualized with time and space” (346). What the Syracuse Zine Fest afforded is a real, material experience worth reflecting on — it is, per Warner, a circulation that has the potential to encounter strangers who produce “divergent consequences … actualized with time and space.” That isn’t to dismiss these other approaches to circulation, only to think upon the opportunities we have as teachers to make circulation more real for our students — to have them experience it. Of course a more experiential approach also begs additional questions: what would are these approaches ethical? Or what other forms of public writing might strike a balance between the risker real writing of zines or activism and the safer replicated scenes of Habermasian rational-critical discourse? Ultimately which discourse do we believe leads to social change? Which in the short-term versus the long? Which give students more agency?

Concurrent session titles as ideographs?

Just getting back into the week after being at my 4th CCCC last week in Las Vegas. This was my first time actually presenting and I’m pleased to say that it went pretty well, despite having gone dead last (#N.08). I’m intending to post something more extensive on our talk sometime soon, but in the meantime I want to reflect briefly on some of the common terms that were used, explored, critiqued this year by way of a tag cloud of the titles of concurrent sessions.

Yes, the methodology is crude, can’t touch the depth of the individual panels, and lacks any sort of comparison, but here’s what’s revealed when I dump the titles into TagCrowd and limit the frequency to ten.

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Nothing too surprising here. “Writing” and “composition” makes sense given the field’s teleos, and “public” is up there because of the conference theme (“The Public Work of Composition”). But as we read Michael Calvin McGee’s “The ‘Ideograph’: A Link Between Rhetoric and Ideology” this week in Contemporary Rhetorical Theory, I wonder if I can consider these terms as ideographs, “the basic structural elements, the building blocks, of ideology” (428). Ideographs are assuming, abstract terms like “liberty” or “rule of law,” “representing collective commitment to a particular but equivocal and ill-defined normative goal” that “guides behavior and beliefs into channels easily recognized by a community as acceptable and laudable” (435). Ideographs are necessary, argues McGee, because of the materiality they may provide for the symbolist critique that overly relies on myth to explain hegemony. In short, McGee borrows a symbolic unit of analysis in order to develop a Marxist critique that goes beyond materialism.

In treating the above words as ideographs, we might understand the use of “public” or “literacy” or “community” or even “student” as givens for our work that require more critical reflection. As Raymie McKerrow notes in “Critical Rhetoric,” a “permanent criticism” might be our only means to understanding freedom in the context of social movements. That is, by using ideographs to understand common terms at CCCC, it might reveal assumption, or what McGee calls the “interpenetrating systems or ‘structures’ of [our] public motives” (427). In short, ideographs hold vast symbolic ideals of consensus, where community members will “inflict penalties on those who use ideographs in heretical ways and on those who refuse to respond appropriately to claims on their behavior warranted through the agency of ideographs  (436).

Of course while those heretics and refusers have likely already been denied access to the program by one of two stages of readers, McGee tells us we can read the words from the tag cloud as developing via two different ideologies: one diachronically and one synchronically. Ideographs develop diachronically, “expanding and contracting” throughout a term’s history; by understanding its subsequent applications, we begin to understand a particular grammar or logic to the term. At the same time, the ideology can be viewed as synchronic , as horizontal, rhetorical and context-bound. A synchronic structure allows us to consider how certain ideographs clash to create what McGee calls “synchronic confrontations” (433). Moreover, “[n]o ideology can be divorced from past commitments, if only because the very words used to express present dislocations have a history that establishes the category of their meaning” (434).  Kathi Yancey’s keynote at Qualitative Research Network Forum last Wednesday provided an interesting example of such dislocations as she traced the uses of “transfer” throughout the last 10 or so years. She didn’t, however, appear to expose any ideology embedded in the term; I wonder, then, what we’d understand of “transfer” if she treated like an ideograph.

Perhaps the most relevant ideograph for my work, however, is “digital,” especially, if I follow up on the last post, when we think of it in opposition to print. A quick search of the CCCC program app this year reveals that while “digital” received 30 hits, “print” received none. At the same time, print might be receiving a revival in  the term “multimodality,” but one has to wonder how that term gets conflated. As Jody Shipka and Jason Palmeri can attest, there is a gross equivocality given to “digital” and “multimodal” composition. And as Chris Anson noted in his chair’s address this years, MOOCs might also complicate ideographs like “access” or “public.” This post is too brief to experiment with the use of McGee’s framework, but I do wonder how a diachronic and synchronic view of any one of these terms might help reveal some of the ideologies that circulated last week in Vegas.

NITE, the New Left, and the NCTE/CCCC Caucuses

In the first few weeks of Studies in Writing Pedagogy, Steve is trying to establish a context for the current problems in the field by having us dip back into the late 50s/early 60s to see what tensions were mounting composition studies. It’s an interesting an unexpected choice (for me, anyway) and led to a great discussion last week in class about how the field positions itself among its own members, to the academy, and to its students.

We started by reading “The National Interest and the Teaching of English” (NITE), a report from NCTE in 1961 that articulates a crisis in English pedagogy including:

  • a major shortage of English teachers (as much as a 27% deficit),
  • a lack of properly trained teachers (25% of elementary teachers were not college grads and 40-60% of English teachers didn’t major in the subject in college),
  • a lack of state or national standards necessary for an improvement in student writing

The paper argues that since high school students were in enrolled in English more than any other subject (92.9%, as compared to 55% in math), there was much at stake in the report’s findings.

As we discussed in class, the Cold War, specifically the launch of Sputnik in 1957, fueled much of the underlying anxiety in the report. Take statements like the following for example: “…simple literacy is not enough. Today industrial firms are spending millions of dollars each year for men, modern counterparts of the ancient scribes, who can rewrite the repots of research engineers into clear and grammatical English. Business are employing the graduates of liberal arts colleges in order to secure executives who can bing a sense of human values to the transactions of the marketplace.” In other words, literacy was a fundamental economic utility and we the field of English wasn’t taking that seriously enough (J. Elspeth Stuckey  provides an interesting counterpoint 30 years later).

Alongside the NITE document, Steve paired readings from first SDS president Al Haber, C Wright Mills‘s seminal letter to the New Left, a recently edited collection called Listening to Our Elders, which chronicles a (mostly) oral history of the caucuses in NCTE/CCC, as well as Marianna White Davis’s history of the Black Caucus, in order to show the kinds of responses the NITE document got from the radical left at the time — and ever since.

Haber and Haber’s piece is particularly interesting as it summarized the Radicals in the Professions Conference, held in 1967 in Ann Arbor, a conference that brought together leftist professionals who struggled with their ideals outside of their schooling, where they became increasingly isolated, alienated, and professionalized or conformed. The frustration became a “shared, articulated experience” at the Conference and identified two barriers living professional, radical lives: (1) the language of the movement and (2) the strategies of the movement. In a sense the conference asked “how do you be a professional and a radical?” In class this led us back into the caucus readings, but also into discussions of basic comp pedagogy. Should we teach ESWE or academic writing, for example, when it subverts and undermines some of the values that radicals/critical pedagogues espouse?

This week we’re continuing our explorations of the 50s/60s by reading David Fleming’s recent book From Form to Meaning, a history of composition in UW-Madison in that era. His case study connects the events at Madison to the larger national trends and problems in composition at the time. We’re also reading selections from The Black Panthers Speak and some primary sources from the New University Conference, a radical organization based in Chicago and mid-west.


Blackmon, Samantha, Cristina Kirklighter, and Steve Parks, eds. Listening to Our Elders: Working and Writing for Change. Utah State University Press, 2011. Print.

Davis, Marianna White. History of the Black Caucus. Urbana, Ill: NCTE, 1994. Print.

Haber, Barbara, and Alan Haber. “Getting By With a Little Help From Our Friends.” The New Left: A Collection of Essays. Ed. Priscilla Long. Porter Sargent Publishers, 1969. 289-309. Print.

Kampf, Louis. “Notes Toward a Radical Culture.” The New Left: A Collection of Essays. Ed. Priscilla Long. Porter Sargent Publishers, 1969. 420-434. Print.

Mills, C Wright. “Letter to the New Left.” The New Left: A Collection of Essays. Ed. Priscilla Long. Porter Sargent Publishers, 1969. 14-25. Print.

National Council of Teachers of English. The National Interest and the Teaching of English; a Report on the Status of the Profession. Campaign, Ill: National Council of Teachers of English, 1961. Print.

Stuckey, J. Elspeth. The Violence of Literacy. Boynton/Cook, 1990. Print.