The role of writing in building community is an important topic. This book moves us through that process by describing the journey into the fold of a particular writing community. While it may be helpful to describe community membership as a typical journ

Writing in a Community of Practice: Composing Membership in Inkshed

By Miriam E. Horne

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2012 Miriam E. Horne
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-4192-2

Contents

Acknowledgements.................................................viiIntroduction.....................................................ix1. Writing and Community: Making Connections.....................12. Identity: Parts That Make the Whole...........................223. Writing Tentatively: Into the Periphery.......................504. Sharing Texts: Moving Beyond the Edges........................855. Full Participation: A Public Presence.........................1156. Membership: Lessons Learned...................................147References.......................................................165Appendix A Inkshed Timeline......................................175Appendix B Inkshed Conferences...................................177Appendix C Design................................................179

Chapter One

Writing and Community: Making Connections

It's already dark outside on this chilly October day. I watch my classmates struggle in the door wet with the rain that darkens Montreal's skies. I sit at a table near the back of what serves as a dining room during the day. I pretend to be busy reading, hoping that I look more in place than I actually feel. Monday evenings, my first semester as a graduate student in McGill's Faculty of Education, I attend Anthony Paré's course on Writing Across the Curriculum. Fresh out of my undergraduate program I am surrounded by people who are older than me, have been teaching for years, and seem to know exactly why they're here and what they want to do. I, on the other hand, feel like an interloper. As other students join my table, I smile and say hello, but I don't engage any further than that. If I open my mouth too much, the other graduate students might find out how much I don't know. They might realize that I'm not really good enough to join the academic community.

After three weeks of this course, I have, I think, perfected my façade. I do the readings for the class well ahead of time. I read each assigned article with a critical eye, finding any weakness, finding whatever the author may have left out, finding the problems. When I arrive in class, as I have this evening, I pretend to be reading something scholarly—something that will make me look smart. When we start our small group discussions, I contribute as little as possible, and limit myself to specific criticisms of the text itself—I don't dare stretch ideas beyond that. In the large class discussions that Anthony brings together for the last part of class, I listen, but I stay silent.

Finally, Anthony arrives, shakes the rain off his jacket, and prepares to get the class started. He has decided that since we're a large class, we will be more comfortable meeting at Thomson House—the graduate student building. We sit in the basement where the restaurant is, and make ourselves comfortable around the large dining room tables. Of course, feeling as insecure as I do as a new graduate student, we could be meeting anywhere and I'd still feel uncomfortable.

"So what I'd like to start with tonight," Anthony begins, "is some writing. Take a few minutes and free write about one or both of the articles you read for this evening."

Oh crap. I have to write. I am unsure how to proceed. I am unsure what to say. I worry about writing the right thing, about writing something significant. I take a deep breath, put pen to paper and being to writing, trying, as I go, to sound as articulate and educated as possible.

After a few painful minutes, I finish with what I think are appropriately academic concerns and put my pen down. Too late, I realize that others are still writing. I worry that they have more to say than I do—that once again, I won't measure up. I wonder if I'm going to have to hand this in and hope desperately that Anthony is not actually going to read it. After only a moment of my further fretting, however, Anthony stands and asks for our attention. I find myself silently pleading with him not to ask us to hand them in. I don't know if my ideas are good enough. "Now," says Anthony, "I'd like you to pass your paper two people to your right."

My heart pounds. My stomach churns. I wonder if I have heard correctly. I wonder if he might be crazy.

"Then as you read the text make a line in the margin beside anything that stands out to you, beside anything that resonates with you or you think others would benefit from. Once you've finished, keep passing to the right until you've read all the freewrites at your table."

I feel panic gripping me. I am sure that if other people read this, I will be exposed for the fraud that I am. I kick myself for sitting at the back of the room and wish that I were sitting by the door at the front so I could make an escape to the bathroom.

Despite the strength of my angst, everyone seems to be complying with Anthony's request. The papers are starting to move around the table. I can't help but notice, however, that others look uncomfortable as well. The woman next to me mutters an apology as she hands hers over. Maybe, I think, I'm not the only one who feels uncomfortable. I begin to read.

I finish reading the first paragraph and glance around to see who the author might be. Clearly, she has had far more teaching experience than I have. I realize it's much easier to critique someone who is far away and faceless. I realize that if she is as uncomfortable as I am, then I need to be more sensitive in how I respond. I do as Anthony suggests, and I draw a line in the margin beside her first paragraph. I think there is something of value in here that is interesting to think about—I realize I don't have to come up with a criticism, just think about what she has said.

As I take the next text that is waiting at my elbow, I glance up to see where my text is. Someone across the table is reading it. I note, with relief, that she is not laughing, that she is even drawing a line beside something I have written.

The activity continues. I continue to read, sensitive to those writers who are sitting with me. When my page finally makes its way back to me, I am amazed to see that parts of it have several lines in the margin beside it; I am amazed that someone has valued my input; I am amazed that no one has laughed at me. Perhaps, I muse, there is a place for me in this community after all. As I leave class later that evening, I find myself walking out with two of the women at my table, talking with them, and for the first time, feeling like maybe I do belong.

Belonging, membership—these are powerful concepts that drive and shape human identity. They are wrapped up not just in communities but in individual strengths and insecurities as well. The preceding vignette draws on personal experience to describe and introduce some of the angst and tension that sometimes accompanies joining a new community—more specifically, academia. While the angst and tension may not be a surprise (even if we rarely talk about it overtly), the role that writing had in facilitating membership in academia may be. It was not until after that challenging writing experience described in the opening vignette that I began to feel like I belonged either in that graduate class or in academia at all. What happened that evening that changed how I felt? What part did my insecurities play in participation? What happened that allowed me to be part of the community and not feel so...