Professional Documents
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The Road Not Taken
The Road Not Taken
Volume 11 Number 2
ISSN: 1524-6345
The Road Not Taken: John Dewey and Sentences as Limit Situations
Sarah Stanley
University Writing Director, English Department
University of Alaska Fairbanks, USA
Email: sstanley2@alaska.edu
Abstract
In J. Dewey’s book How We Think (1933), the metaphor for critical
thinking presented is a “forked road.” The subject critically acts by
observing, analyzing, and then selecting a route, or making a decision. In
Deweyian theory, reasons are tied to judgment, which is essential to
experience. The goal of this essay is to establish writing as critical thinking,
as a result of the process of writing toward and then negotiating these thickly
forked-roads, or what Freire (2000) understands as limit, situations.
Keywords: John Dewey, experience, critical thinking, critical writing
I reflect also on a sentence from John Dewey (1900), from his essay
“The School and the Life of the Child”: “There is all the difference in the
world between having something to say and having to say something.”
Dewey’s sentence interests me for its stylistic, emphatic use of the cleft. The
passage prompts the reader to imagine what “all the difference in the world”
could signify—all the meaning that depends on how we put it, one way
versus another. The energy behind Dewey’s sentiment is in communicating,
or acting on, the “world of difference” between such language situations—
what Freire (2000) understood as limit situations. Friere observed that a limit
situation exists whenever we are faced with a choice for how to understand
an idea, based on an act of interpretation and grounded in how we write this
idea, using language. The sentence is a call: an invitation to reason.
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such reasoning between form and content is to draw on the resources of a
particular sentence’s syntax, as the differences between subtle syntactical
arrangements are fundamental to how students position themselves, in
relation to their communicative acts with others. Do they have something to
say? Are they saying something because they must? What resources do they
already have for what to say? What resources are we teaching them and,
alternatively, expecting them to already have, in order to say something
purposefully? Are such resources fully conscious to our students, or to
ourselves? How conscious are we of what Dewey declared as the world of
difference between such questions? When faced with an alternative option
for wording what they have to say, what difference does this make to
students? What motivates students to put something one way versus
another?
Since the language is unnatural, not growing out of the real desire to
communicate vital impressions and convictions, the freedom of
children in its use gradually disappears, until finally the high-school
teacher has to invent all kinds of odd devices to assist in getting any
spontaneous and full use of speech. Moreover, when the language
instinct is appealed to in a social way, there is a continual contact with
reality.
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animals.” This situation is not necessarily fully conscious, and in fact,
language in school can often be presented under what Richards refers to as
“gross misconception,” as teachers emphasize the transmission of words into
images, rather than emphasizing that “it is the word which brings in the
meaning which the image and its original perception lack.”
On the one hand, we have the school which insists that interest is the
keynotes both of instruction and of moral training, that the essential
problem of the teacher is to make the material presented so interesting
that it shall command and retain attention. On the other hand we have
the assertion that the putting forth of effort from within is alone truly
educative; that to rely upon the principle of interest is it distract the
child intellectually and to weaken him morally.
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Yet Dewey does not see these forces as opposed, as he theorizes their
relationship, weaving them together. He writes that “effort is the result of
interest, and indicates the persistent outgo of activities in attaining an end
felt as valuable; while interest is the consciousness of the value of this end,
and of the means necessary to realize it.”
Lakoff and Johnson point out that in “the second sentence, where
taught and Harry are closer, there is more of a suggestion that Harry actually
learned what was taught him—that is, that the teaching had an effect on
him.” Syntax indicates directness of experience, and the elements of this
syntax, and especially their closeness, will indicate “the strength of that
effect.” Syntaxes that lengthen, as well as syntaxes that squish, concepts and
relationships between concepts are also frequently discussed in J. Gee’s
(1999) critical discourse analysis. Grammatical concepts such as passively
constructed sentences, foregrounding and backgrounding contextual
information within sentences, and the presence of grammatical metaphors
embedded in sentences are all syntactical resources used for certain
ideological effects (e.g., hiding who is doing what to whom). In sum,
sentences may be written with varying degrees of causal relationships, and
the ways we understand cause and effect are rendered through the spatial
object of a sentence.
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adjacent. Further, when compared to the second phrase “having” + “to say”
+ “something,” the spatial difference—the degree of closeness—is made
more apparent, all of which is further reinforced by how we read the turns of
phrase, using varying emphasis, rising and falling intonation, etc. Implicit in
Dewey’s arrangement, then, is a fact about grammatical order: grasping
something occurs prior to the decision/obligation to communicate it (having
something to say before having to say something). This discovery contrasts
with the second arrangement, of course, in which the “something” occurs
after a longer verbal phrase of “having to say…”
I’m arguing here that the difference in distance between these two
notions corresponds to the substance of what Dewey advocates in
education—the primacy of experience, which must not be separated from
our understanding of the student’s relationship to language. That is, one
reading of the syntax of this Dewey sentence is that it brings to the fore the
directness of experience (having something) in the communicative situation.
When the communicative situation interrupts the relationship between
students and their experiences (i.e., having + to say + something), then we
distance these students from experience, and in that space, where they are
separated from their somethings, we require language use. To generalize: no
wonder so many students feel alienated, frustrated, and fearful of writing in
school—these students are made to feel they have to say something, rather
than having something to say! Our social expectations for students, in this
case, seem to be more about the institutional obligation for students to
demonstrate rather than communicate.
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As years of teaching added up, a number of my problems grew
stronger. First, I was getting bored. Having taught the same way for
almost 15 years, I was not discovering much. …this Socratic skill I
was demonstrating teetered on smugness, on what Dewey saw as
learning for ostentatious display. Analyzing for analyzing’s sake, at
least without a lot more constructive work than I was promoting in
class, could easily encourage students to become academic “sharps”
(Democracy 9). So I was chalking up zeroes again, until I got
assistance from an unexpected source, one which led me to see the
value—as Dewey put it—of helping pupils find they have “something
to say” (How 246).
“Yes,” I have written, on the margins of that page. But now I wonder, after
this reading and thinking about Dewey’s sentence, about all the difference
that form makes in Dewey’s sentence’s meaning, about an eagerness to take
that form apart, and about a personal connection to Dewey’s writing on art
and experience, if a deep belief about writing and the teaching of writing
likewise warrants pragmatic doubt. So I also argue that the presence of
“having something to say” and “having to say something” are co-dependent
concepts. From the sentence, the teacher and student are faced with a forked
road situation—should I follow the lead of the student? Should I follow the
lead of the curriculum? How directly—how closely—are we drawing from
the student’s experience with language in our classrooms? Is there a
sequence in place that may displace the student from experience? How can
we develop a curriculum founded on the premise that our students already
have something to say? What does that look like?
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My students and I have continued to engage Dewey’s turn of phrase.
As the teacher, however, I am always careful to frame our conversations so
that we may discuss purpose in terms of voices of saying, just as I also
introduce them to a fundamental question that motivates critical reasoning
about language use: What is the difference between this way of saying this
particular thing and that way of saying this particular thing? Further: Does
the difference matter? Why does it matter?
I am calling into question the belief that writing should be about the
something to say rather than how the something to say is put. That is, we
cannot extract the meaning from Dewey’s sentence and assume that “having
something to say” is the “substance” of this sentence, as it so depends on the
other possibility—that students have to say something. When I teach writing
to first-year students, I like to begin with Dewey’s point about purpose and
motivation. In order to get students excited about such distinctions regarding
using language and communication, I turn Dewey’s statement into a
question: What is the difference between having to say something and
having something to say?
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developed as an aspect of a writer’s language use because language is
ideological. Focusing on what is lost and what is gained in terms of language
choices that occur for a writer is also a way of discussing the ideological
implications and effects tied to these language choices. The relationship
between language and ideology explored in a classroom encourages students
to critically consider language and grammatical choices, resulting in a more
conscious and deepened sense of their unique purposes, in relation to the
existence around them.
References
Dewey, J. (1900). The school and society. Chicago, IL: The University of
Chicago Press.
Dewey, J. (1933). How we think (Revised edition). New York, NY: Heath.
Dewey, J. (1964). Interest in relation to training of the will. In R. D.
Archambault. (Ed.), John Dewey on education: Selected writings.
(260-285). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Fishman, S., & McCarthy, L. (1998). John Dewey and the challenge of
classroom practice. New York, NY: Teacher’s College Press.
Freire, P. (2000). Pedagogy of the oppressed. New York, NY: Continuum.
Gee, J. P. (1999). An introduction to discourse analysis: Theory & method.
New York, NY: Routledge.
Ivanič, R. (1998). Writing and identity: The discoursal construction of
identity in academic writing (Studies in Written Language and
Literacy, Vol. 5). Philadelphia, PA: John Benjamins Publishing.
Lakoff, G. and Johnson, M. (2002). Metaphors we live by, second edition.
Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Lu, M. Z. (1994). Professing multiculturalism: The politics of style in the
contact zone. College Composition and Communication, 45(4), 442-
458.
Miccichie, L. (2004). Making a case for rhetorical grammar. College
Composition and Communication, 55(4), 716-737.
Richards, I. A. (1936). The philosophy of rhetoric. New York, NY: Oxford
University Press.
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