Salvaging (my) Pedagogy

Although my CV doesn’t quite reflect it, I spend a lot of my time planning, preparing for, facilitating, and reflecting upon learning experiences for students. And it was teaching, both negative experiences as a student and the desire to be a better educator as an adult, that drove me to a doctoral program and academia in the first place. Even as regards my research, at the heart of all my inquiry and writing is the question of how education in public schools can be a more humanizing and edifying experience for children, particularly those from marginalized communities. Heightened by the compilation of my portfolio for comprehensive review, my attention and energies had gradually shifted away from these facts and disproportionately toward measures of scholarly productivity. It was time to re-equilibrate.

With this in mind, I traveled to the Digital Pedagogy Lab Summer Institute. I embarked on this excursion alongside colleagues from CU Denver’s ThinqStudio initiative, fortunate to receive a scholarship and logistical support from our forward-thinking administrators and some visionary colleagues. I knew what I was getting myself into; our dean had previously shared a video of a stirring keynote by one of the Institute’s organizers and another colleague, one of the primary incentors behind ThinqStudio, had made clear that Pedagogy was the operative word in Digital Pedagogy Lab.

I’ll admit, I was still a little surprised when our recommended pre-conference readings for a digital pedagogies conference included bell hooks and Paulo Freire, and when our first conversations of the day involved word associations with Critical, Digital, and Pedagogy separate from each other before bringing the terms together.

When tasked with tweeting our own definitions of Critical Digital Pedagogy, my response was conspicuously devoid of reference to technology and digital tools:

Critical digital pedagogy, it turns out, is not far afield from critical pedagogy. Digital tools, assuredly plentiful and useful, should operate in service of teaching practices that respect, invite, and affirm students’ experiences. Our technological resources should be vehicles for students’ voices and means for them to connect with the circumstances surrounding them, to read the world, as Freire & Macedo would offer. In so doing, they develop the skills and knowledge that a college education would instill and that will serve them in transforming the world toward a more liberatory vision. Pedagogy, moreover, is not merely a set of techniques, routines, and practices in the classroom, but also the ethos underlying them and the habit of reflecting upon them to continuously grow.

This all dovetailed with a work a colleague invited me to co-author with him, lending some context on educating emergent bilinguals to his larger framework of dignity in education. Among my sprinklings, I offered the following paragraph, which keeps coming to mind in these discussions of our own teaching.

We will argue in the forthcoming pages that the routinized, teacher-centered, pedantic mode of instruction most frequently reserved for students of color and acquiring English in schools in effect implies an intellectual segregation trapping students in initiation-response-evaluation (IRE) cycles or spectating on the sidelines thereof. This is particularly true for emergent bilinguals who not only endure the same didactic pedagogies as many students, but experience them in regard to phonics, grammar, and piecemeal literacy approaches in the “ESL Ghetto” (Faltis & Arias, 2007; Valdés, 1998; 2001), precluded from engaging meaningfully in content knowledge or the fecund inquiry and interaction that a dignity-centered education might afford.

(Espinoza & Poza, in progress)

Can I say that my own teaching is free of IRE cycles? That particular students do not spectate from sidelines with millions of unvoiced masterpieces in mind? That what students and I learn is meaningful to our lives and the world around us?

I can do better given the many tools – digital and otherwise – at my disposal and the many inspiring people whose words and practice inspire me. This opportunity to reflect has been a welcome reminder of that fact, and I especially welcome your comments to this post sharing your own thoughts and habits that turn teaching into the practice of freedom.

Take 2

And I’m back. Sort of. I know it’s been almost two years since my last post, and that has been fairly conscientious (though not entirely – I’ll admit to also being occasionally too lazy or intimidated to write anything for public consumption). I was ambivalent about launching the blog, and remain ambivalent about maintaining it. I’m hoping that a slight change in direction might animate me to write again and might move toward the essential goals of writing this blog in the first place.

When I started Language and Equity, the goal was to be in conversation with other academics around how the ideas and developments in our field might be diffused to educators, policy makers, and parents in order to improve schooling for emergent bilingual and otherwise linguistically stigmatized students. I soon realized that this approach, trying to advance ideas and promote their dispersion, was really just an accelerated and unchecked version of the peer-reviewed publication treadmill that I already find intimidating (important to the advancement of any field and the integrity of scholarship, but intimidating all the same). Unsurprisingly, I didn’t want to spend my scarce and valuable leisure time doing what I already spend the better part of my working hours doing – writing to be scrutinized and critiqued. Moreover, I found that like-minded individuals and colleagues with whom I already exchanged these ideas in face-to-face conversations on a quasi-regular basis comprised the (miniscule) audience the blog garnered in its infancy. What, I wondered, was the point of that?

I also have to acknowledge the role of the 2016 presidential election in the U.S. in my reluctance to post. As campaigns ramped up during primaries and the general election, as results rolled in on November 8th, and as disgrace after disgrace befell the office and the nation following the president’s inauguration, I felt (and still feel) increasingly disenchanted in the academy and myself. How could so much energy and effort invested in resisting oppression, racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, and so forth in our scholarly work nevertheless give way to the election of the very embodiment of all these things?

So now I’m trying again, but mainly trying to avoid writing about the stuff about which I publish. I’ll focus on reacting to and sharing ideas, events, and resources that inspire me; as well as much more on my teaching, the oft overlooked facet of my public persona that nonetheless makes me feel much more human and connected than the publications that get more institutional recognition. Take 2. And…action.

What do we tell the teachers? – Pt. 3: About Academic Language

My intention was to follow up previous posts about rethinking language(ing) with something about the implications of these new thoughts on second language acquisition pedagogies, but sometimes the universe has other plans. I recently had an article published in Miriada Hispánica about how the construct of academic language serves to exclude students acquiring English in school from the broader content curriculum, and was on my way to present this paper at the biennial LatCrit conference when my social media feed blew up with the latest from critical applied linguistics scholar Nelson Flores’s blog, The Educational Linguist. In his post, Dr. Flores critiques the way academic language is framed as something that emergent bilinguals don’t have, thus feeding stereotypes of these students and their language practices as deficient, and calls for a moratorium on the term. Professor Flores hit the nail on the head in terms of showing how students’ languaging readily accomplishes complex tasks like arguing with evidence, making comparisons, and conveying abstract concepts, and scholar/artist/mentor Dr. Christian Faltis added through social media that framings of “academic language” as a deficit perspective date back 50 years while critiques of such framings go back quite far as well.
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Nevertheless, I couldn’t resist tossing in my two cents, because it’s clear by the persistence of these ideas that the construct of academic language isn’t leaving us and teachers do need some way of addressing the school-related language practices with which students need support. My goal in this post, then, at the risk of beating a dead horse, is to clarify the critiques about dichotomizing academic and social language, as well as offering a tangible framework for thinking about academic language that doesn’t devalue students and their language practices by acknowledging how historical power relations inform what gets called “academic language.”

In addition, let me clarify that no one is denying that languaging practices can vary from classrooms to hallways to playgrounds to homes to churches to wherever else children use language. The point that those of us critiquing academic language are making is that this variation is non-hierarchical. That is, students’ multiple linguistic varieties can serve any necessary functions that they need them to in accordance with the interactional norms of their speech communities. Thus, if we want students to add new language practices to their repertoire, we would do better to give them opportunities to engage those practices authentically and leveraging their familiar linguistic resources. Moreover, we can seize this opportunity to question why particular features ascribed to academic language hold the prestige that they do as a first step towards having students’ language practices play a larger role in curriculum.

This begins with getting a firm grasp of what people mean by academic language and why it can be either problematic or liberating.

Dichotomies and Deficit Thinking

Some constructions of academic language, such as Bernstein’s restricted and open codes or Jim Cummins’ BICS (basic interpersonal communication skills) and CALP (cognitive academic language proficiency) and contemporary academic vs social language framings suggest that academic language is a thing apart from language outside the classroom. This kind of work points to the features of so-called academic language, like increased use of passive voice, nominalization, and dependent clauses to suggest that emergent bilinguals need explicit direct instruction in these features in order to internalize them. We can represent this construction visually:
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Sadly, this is the framework that is all too often reflected in curriculum that would have students isolated for academic language instruction rather than acquiring the target language forms in the authentic contexts in which these forms occur. It is, for example, the difference between supporting students to acquire the discursive practices of AP Chemistry by providing language scaffolds in an AP Chemistry class and excluding students from this valuable content by instead placing them in ESL or academic language development classes in which students review the vocabulary and syntax of chemistry texts without engaging in scientific inquiry and reasoning.

A Continuum of Language

Despite its persistence, this dichotomy approach got (and continues to get) torn apart pretty swiftly by researchers. Plenty of scholars pointed out that social language not only could accomplish the same functions as academic language and address complex concepts, but also that academic language itself was not as universal and fixed in its features as we’d like to imagine if we’re going to design whole classes around teaching its characteristics. Moreover, scholars are very quick to point out that these are better thought as separate registers, rather than separate languages. Instead, scholars offered that language existed on a continuum wherein some features of language from students’ lives outside of school could inform and fulfill academic tasks, and some of the supposed functions exclusive to academic language were likewise present in students’ lives outside of school (for instance, argumentation and abstract thinking). At the extremes, we could imagine features that don’t cross contexts, like profanity (although I’ve observed some very insightful and profound discussions in secondary classrooms in which text or speech used curse words strategically and provocatively) and discipline-specific vocabulary (although again, I’ve seen students argue about movies or sports using terms they’ve picked up in physics classes).
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Languaging Across Contexts

This continuum framework is an important step in the right direction, but it still narrows our field somewhat. First and foremost, it still leaves us with an oversimplification into two categories: social and academic language. Any simple reflection on our own languaging reminds us that in different classrooms, with different teachers, or on different school-related tasks our languaging shifts in tone and register (for example, did you talk to your hip young teachers the same way you would talk to the principal?). Likewise, across different circles of friends, adults, or purposes, our languaging outside of school is also far from a single, fixed entity (for instance, do the discursive practices of a locker room look and sound like those in a church, or a grandparent’s house?). Moreover, we also know that these languaging patterns can change over time.
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This framework maintains the overlap of the continuum perspective, again highlighting that students’ familiar linguistic resources can inform their learning and support their fulfillment of academic tasks. By adding the multiple spheres and blurred boundaries, this further suggests that social and academic language practices are multiple (the various registers used when talking to siblings, elders, peers, on playgrounds, in classrooms, etc.) and dynamic, meaning that they can influence and reshape one another. By reframing academic language as languaging in school, we highlight that this language is itself very contextualized, but in the discourse practices of the school rather than in some more universal context of a discipline or in some “standard” or “prestige” variety that derives its place from the imposition of the language practices of socially dominant groups. Moreover, this framework suggests that if we remove the stigma attached to languages other than English and to non-standard varieties of English, there is no reason that students’ languaging should impede learning and no reason for not having it inform curriculum.

What do we tell the teachers? Part 2: About language(ing)

I remember the optimism and straightforwardness with which I envisioned my doctoral trajectory when I first started my PhD. I planned to study bilingual education across national contexts, comparing the policies, populations, languages, and program models, hoping to delve deeper into why some societies thrive in their multilingualism while others wrestle with monolingual paradigms and why some bilingual communities excel while others are marginalized.

To be sure, these are worthwhile inquiries, and a great deal of thought has already been devoted to these matters of multilingualism, power, and language planning (that’s the field that considers how policies attempt to shape and influence language use within a nation). Nevertheless, it wasn’t my time to travel that path, because in a six month stretch between 2009 and 2010, I read three books that completely changed the way I thought about language and its role in schooling: Disinventing and Reconstituting Languages, Bilingual Education in the 21st Century, and Bilingualism: A Social Approach. Maybe some other day I’ll post reviews of these works, but for now it suffices to say that these books made me stop thinking of language as a fixed object of study – a variable in an analysis – and see it instead as a social process, with tremendous implications for how language and language learning can be conceptualized in curriculum, policy, and pedagogy.

So what does it mean for language to be a social process? What are the implications of thinking about languaging instead of language? Aída Walqui of WestEd and Stanford University’s Understanding Language initiative offers us some useful insights with regard to conceptualizing language as an action to support teachers and students working with the Common Core State Standards.

Plenty of other scholars have thought about the issue, too, in the contexts of second language acquisition, language and identity research, multilingualism, and transnationalism. Along with the books I mentioned above, these and other scholars in this vein argue that our thinking about language as a rule-based assemblage of features and functions emerges from the impulses of elites and rulers in the nascent days of nation-states, who sought to impose their language practices as the standard in order to consolidate power and make governing broad, disparate constituencies more tenable (definitely see the work of Benedict Anderson, Pierre Bourdieu, and James Scott if this interests you). What follows from this, of course, is that there is one proper form of any given language and that those failing to master it are excluded from full political, economic, or social participation (think about the stigma attached to African American Vernacular English (AAVE) in the US, for example).

Thinking of language as a social process, meanwhile, means we have to recognize that it is much more dynamic, variable, and unpredictable than purists (or standardized tests or language curricula) would have us believe. Here’s an activity I tried with my students the other day that helped get the point across. Make a list of every step in your daily routine. Most likely, your list looks something like “Wake up,” “brush teeth,” “eat breakfast,” and so on. Now, deconstruct every task on that list to consider all the taken-for-granted details that you assume others will understand when you say you “brush teeth,” for example. Did you use commercially available toothpaste? A disposable brush? Water from the tap? Did you floss? Use mouthwash? Start with your molars? Odds are, you don’t have to think about these decisions (and they are decisions) because they seem normal to you; and they seem normal to you because you’ve been doing things this way for a long time, probably having learned it from others who did it this way. Now imagine how brushing teeth might look different if you were raised by dentists, or in a place where tap water was either not readily available or not particularly safe to ingest. Suddenly your normal isn’t so normal anymore. Language operates in similar ways; we learn to speak through socialization within speech communities, and thus our linguistic repertoires are constantly being shaped, reshaped, and negotiated by our communicative needs and by the different speech communities in which we participate.

Thinking of language as a social process not only changed my doctoral studies trajectory, it also opened my eyes to some pressing questions if my ultimate goal was to better support bilingual students. Seeing language as a social process forces us to recognize how inextricable students’ familiar language practices are from their identities and local histories and how easily devaluing those practices in turn devalues their humanity. It alerts us as to how social hierarchies attached to race, class, gender, region, ethnicity, and so on, map onto the language practices associated with certain groups. And it presses us to think about ways to apprentice students into a wider range of language practices through authentic interactions if we want to broaden their repertoires. Of course, this brings us to a whole other discussion of how these new perspectives inform our thinking about bilingualism and second language acquisition.

What do we tell the teachers?

It’s a pretty exciting time to be in the field of educational linguistics. Scholarship around language, multilingualism, and language learning is evolving in some interesting and sometimes challenging ways, depending on people’s starting points. A lot of fundamental concepts are being reimagined – from what language is to how additional languages are learned to what it means to be bilingual – and the application of these new ideas holds promise for students in light of decades of rather fruitlessly adhering to previous understandings. But there are a few caveats.

First of all, a lot of the new thinking around language and language learning implicates popular societal opinions about race, class, and nationhood in the marginalization of particular language varieties and their users, meaning that even more than before there is reason to look beyond the classroom and a requirement to wrestle with uncomfortable topics such as legacies of slavery, imperialism, and white supremacy in order to effect change. Second, while a lot of these new schools of thought emerged specifically from research in schools and have students in mind, uptake has been pretty slow on the educational policy and programming side. In part, this falls on us academics for not doing enough to reach beyond the ivory tower, and to be sure part of the challenge is also getting through to institutions and individuals heavily invested in the status quo (such as the Testing Industrial Complex), but even among receptive audiences such as teachers and administrators who have seen traditional ways fail their students year after year, it can be really hard to put into practice theories that challenge a lot of what was taken for granted before. So the question at hand for all of us in critical applied linguistics or bilingual education who muck around in this new liminal space, is what do we tell the teachers?

Before getting to the heart of things, a quick acknowledgement is in order. When I say “new” theories, I should qualify that by saying that these are just starting to gain traction outside the academy in the last decade or so. In fact, people like Vivian Cook, François Grosjean, Yamuna Kachru, Alan Firth, and Johannes Wagner have been advancing these ideas for well over 20 years, arguing to move bi/multilingual perspectives into a more normative forefront and to recognize social experiences as mediators of language learning. Like I said, though, it’s been a pretty recent development that these perspectives have made their way into conversations about curriculum design and language proficiency frameworks, which is why we still find ourselves struggling to explain this all and make it actionable.

So what does it mean, especially for teachers under the surveilling gaze of the American accountability regime, to design curriculum around students’ languaging, rather than their language? To recognize the idea of individual languages as a social construction and vestige of the formation of modern nation-states? To situate language learning in social processes and interactions rather than in students’ individual minds? To see the intersections of race, class, nationhood, gender, and all their accompanying privileges or stigmas in a person or group’s languaging? In my upcoming posts I’ll hazard some ideas based on my own research and that of people much smarter than me in terms of what these new (“new”) ideas of language and SLA actually mean and how they could improve education, but in the meantime, welcome to Language & Equity, and thank you for taking the time to read this.