I tend to find the topic of critical consciousness in the same class as philosophical thinking; there is, and always will be, different ways of explaining an answer. David Bartholomae and Peter Elbow both hold heavy matches that strike the fire for their arguments (whether writing can be without imitation or not). The voice of Bartholomae seems to come through just a bit more pragmatic for me.

For starters, I will come out and say that I believe in evolution…evolution as in the way that anything can evolve over time. And I think the evolution of language, including the process of writing in general, has been one of the largest changes over the course of history.

Ever since the origin of language (which God only knows when it began), people have been finding different ways to communicate, creating more practical ways to correspond with one another. The way that scholars would look back and try to improve communication tactics is a way that those people would build off of a foundation that was already set for them. Even the most legendary writers of all time (including Homer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Orwell, Charles Dickens, and Walt Whitman), at one point in their writing careers had to be influenced by some writer before them, whether it be a teacher, a relative, or simply stories from the Bible. These legendary writers did not become legendary because they were somehow able to write without their outlook being blocked by a world view. However, through past experiences in their own life, they could construe the methods they were taught to be written in a way that was significant to them.

I am a poet, and I like to think that the pieces I write are personal and independent to me, mostly because they would otherwise seem “cliché”(which, it feels cliché to use the word ‘cliché’ in the first place). I still know, however, that my writing is strongly influenced by teachers, friends, and students alike, the most influential being a literature teacher named Lisa Zimmerman at the University of Northern Colorado. She resolved my problem of writers block when she told me to be a writer, and then be an editor.

Nearly every day in class she would construct the “In-Class Writing Exercises”, which anyone who has taken an English class before knows how they work. We would write, listen to other peoples’ writing, and read ours aloud. We would read our short drafts, and she would read a piece that was already published in a book. These exercises were one of the defining establishments of my style of writing.

It was not until Zimmerman’s class that I was truly captivated by poetry and its ability to “take off the top of your heads”, as she liked to put it. She would pull out poetry from Eric Nelson, Chris Abani, Sylvia Plath, or even a poem from a student 3 years ago, and read it with such delicacy that placed images in front of us, using only words. I strived to write like Abani, and I actually wished to someday be exactly like him. He was living my dream: travel the country and read your poetry at meetings designed specifically for him. My need to be Chris Abani, or even Lisa Zimmerman, eventually made me strive to become a better, more creative, and more independent writer.

She taught in a way that made you want to go read the dictionary just so you could find the perfect word to complete that captivating image. I can honestly say that there is not one piece of writing of mine that was not manipulated by either her or the students around me.

Zimmerman showed us how poetry has evolved since the middle ages, up to the early twentieth century, to modern day. She showed us how to take our life’s experiences, couple them with the practices we have been taught, and turn it into a piece of art. She also taught us to free write and take bits and pieces of that and put them in a “folder” to put in a poem later.

That being said, I now feel that I am, at the very least, a moderate writer in the academy, as well as at my leisure. I do appreciate the way she taught us to do certain things. She did teach us to break the rules sometimes, and that put a certain spark in my writing that made me feel like I was being…fresh. I knew that I wasn’t the only person to ever write a poem about walking around campus in the rain. I felt anew in writing this piece, however, because it was about my personal experience of walking in the rain, half hung over, hiding under a tree for “poncho service”.

Although Bartholomae says that there can ultimately be no original thought, I think the way you use your lessons and the way you choose to write is enough to make you a good writer, or even an original writer. I personally feel that there really is nothing purely original in your life. Ever since we are taught to talk as infants, we are being learned to do something that someone else came up with. On that note, I think the teachings in the academy should stay just as they are. The knowledge we acquire as children is important to become successful writers in today’s society, and I find no problem with writing off of someone else’s “original” idea.

I have learned to write poetry, as well as prose, based off of the English language, the art of modern literature, Zimmerman’s teachings, and other sources or inspiration. I have since learned to write genuinely based off my past experiences. I know the pieces I write are not completely original, but I know that from the life I have led so far, as well as the teachings I have been taught, I can be fresh. If I can only do that, I will be happy with stealing some dead white guy’s ideas. Besides, everyone steals from the man who invented language.

“On the backside”

By: Kyle Boyd

This sidewalk is lonely

except on days like today

when the rain keep it company

with its hugging puddles.

Dips in the concrete make it so.

And I, too, will visit today, these

grey squares. But I swerve

to miss the puddles, for my

shoes are new, and leather does not repel.

I walked out of the building with

no goal, except to stagger, half hung over

in the most rain we’ve had in weeks.

Yet, my hood is heavier from wet drips,

so I circle the building, only once,

to visit the lonely cracks

on the backside, and then find a

tree for poncho service.

It drips more on my hood than before,

scraping leaves as the drops pile

higher and higher on my hood.

My coffee tastes of rain water today,

a refreshing bite on the lips.

Posted by kblax23 on December 5, 2008
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