Shreyans_alagiya
Here’s your task: Use whichever AI you like (ChatGPT, Claude, Bing,…
Here’s your task:
Use whichever AI you like (ChatGPT, Claude, Bing, or Bard)
Give the AI a copy of the text that we read in class (see below)
Ask the AI to summarize the text for you. (Think about how you want to prompt the AI to do this! How you prompt it determines how it responds.)
Copy and paste the AI’s summary of the text
Evaluate the AI’s summary. What did it get right? What did it get wrong? What important aspect(s) did it overlook?
Excerpt from James Gee’s LITERACY, DISCOURSE, AND LINGUISTICS: INTRODUCTION
At any moment we are using language we must say or write the right thing in the right way while playing the right social role and (appearing) to hold the right values, beliefs, and attitudes. Thus, what is important is not language, and surely not grammar, but saying(writing)-doing-being-valuing-believing combinations. These combinations I call “Discourses,” with a capital “D” (“discourse” with a little “d” to me, means connected stretches of language that make sense, so “discourse is part of “Discourse”) Discourses are ways of being in the world; they are forms of life which integrate words, acts, values, beliefs, attitudes, and social identities as well as gestures, glances, body positions, and clothes.
A Discourse is a sort of “identity kit” which comes complete with the appropriate costume and instructions on how to act, talk, and often write, so as to take on a particular role that others will recognize. Being “trained” as a linguist meant that I learned to speak, think, and act like a linguist, and to recognize others when they do so. Some other examples of Discourses: (enacting) being an American or a Russian, a man or a woman, a member of a certain socioeconomic class, a factory worker or a boardroom executive, a doctor or a hospital patient, a teacher, an administrator, or a student, a student of physics or a student of literature, a member of a sewing circle, a club, a street gang, a lunchtime social gathering, or a regular at a local bar. We all have many Discourses.
How does one acquire a Discourse? It turns out that much that is claimed, controversially, to be true of second language acquisition or socially situated cognition (Beebe, 1988; Dulay, Burt, & Krashen, 1982; Grosjean, 1982; Krashen, 1982, 1985a, 1985b; Krashen & Terrell, 1983; Lave, 1988; Rogoff & Lave, 1984) is, in fact, more obviously true of the acquisition of Discourses. Discourses are not mastered by overt instruction (even less so than languages, and hardly anyone ever fluently acquired a second language sitting in a classroom), but by enculturation (“apprenticeship”) into social practices through scaffolded and supported interaction with people who have already mastered the Discourse (Cazden, 1988; Heath, 1983). This is how we all acquired our native language and our home-based Discourse. It is how we acquire all later, more public oriented Discourses. If you have no access to the social practice, you don’t get in the Discourse, you don’t have it. You cannot overtly teach anyone a Discourse, in a classroom or anywhere else, Discourses are not bodies of knowledge like physics or archeology or linguistics. Therefore, ironically, while you can overtly teach someone linguistics, a body of knowledge, you can’t teach them to be a linguist, that is, to use a Discourse. The most you can do is to let them practice being a linguist with you.
The various Discourses which constitute each of us as persons are changing and often are not fully consistent with each other, there is often conflict and tension between the values, beliefs, attitudes, interactional styles, uses of language, and ways of being in the world which two or more Discourses represent. Thus, there is no real sense in which we humans are consistent or well integrated creatures from a cognitive or social viewpoint, though, in fact, most Discourses assume that we are (and thus we do too, while we are in them).
All of us, through our primary socialization early in life in the home and peer group, acquire (at least) one initial Discourse. This initial Discourse, which I call our primary Discourse, is the one we first use to make sense of the world and interact with others. Our primary Discourse constitutes our original and home-based sense of identity, and, I believe, it can be seen whenever we are interacting with intimates in totally casual (unmonitored) social interaction. We acquire this primary Discourse, not by overt instruction, but by being a member of a primary socializing group (family, clan, peer group). Further, aspects and pieces of the primary Discourse become a “carrier” or “foundation” for Discourses acquired later in life. Primary Discourses differ significantly across various social (cultural, ethnic, regional, and economic) groups in the United States.
After our initial socialization in our home community, each of us interacts with various non-home-based social institutions in the public sphere, beyond the family and immediate kin and peer group. These may be local stores and churches, schools, community groups, state and national businesses, agencies and organizations, and so forth. Each of these social institutions commands and demands one or more Discourses and we acquire these fluently to the extent that we are given access to these institutions and are allowed apprenticeships within them. Such Discourses I call secondary Discourses.
We can also make an important distinction between dominant Discourses and nondominant Discourses. Dominant Discourses are secondary Discourses the mastery of which, at a particular place and time, brings with it the (potential) acquisition of social “goods” (money, prestige, status, etc.). Non dominant Discourses are secondary Discourses the mastery of which often brings solidarity with a particular social network, but not wider status and social goods in the society at large.
Finally, and yet more importantly, we can always ask about how much tension or conflict is present between any two of a person’s Discourses (Rosaldo, 1989). We have argued above that some degree of conflict and tension (if only because of the discrete historical origins of particular Discourses) will almost always be present. However, some people experience more overt and direct conflicts between two or more of their Discourses than do others (for example, many women academics feel conflict between certain feminist Discourses and certain standard academic Discourses such as traditional literary criticism). I argue that when such conflict or tension exists, it can deter acquisition of one or the other or both of the conflicting Discourses, or, at least, affect the fluency of a mastered Discourse on certain occasions of use (e.g., in stressful situations such as interviews).
Very often dominant groups in a society apply rather constant “tests” of the fluency of the dominant Discourses in which their power is symbolized. These tests take on two functions: they are tests of “natives” or, at least, “fluent users’ of the Discourse, and they are gates to exclude “non-natives” (people whose very conflicts with dominant Discourses show they were not, in fact, “born” to them). The sorts of tension and conflict we have mentioned here are particularly acute when they involve tension and conflict between one’s primary Discourse and a dominant secondary Discourse.
…
Discourses (and therefore literacies) are not like languages in one very important regard. Someone can speak English, but not fluently. However, someone cannot engage in a Discourse in a less than fully fluent manner. You are either in it or you’re not. Discourses are connected with displays of an identity; failing to fully display an identity is tantamount to announcing you don’t have that identity, that at best you’re a pretender or a beginner. Very often, learners of second languages “fossilize” at a stage of development significantly short of fluency. This can’t happen with Discourses. If you’ve fossilized in the acquisition of a Discourse prior to full “fluency” (and are no longer in the process of apprenticeship), then your very lack of fluency marks you as a non-member of the group that controls this Discourse. That is, you don’t have the identity or social role which is the basis for the existence of the Discourse in the first place. In fact, the lack of fluency may very well mark you as a pretender to the social role instantiated in the Discourse (an outsider with pretensions to being an insider).
There is, thus, no workable “affirmative action” for Discourses: you can’t be let into the game after missing the apprenticeship and be expected to have a fair shot at playing it. Social groups will not, usually, give their social goodswhether these are status or solidarity or bothto those who are not “natives” or “fluent users” (though “mushfake,” discussed below, may sometimes provide a way for non-initiates to gain access). While this is an empirical claim, I believe it is one vastly supported by the sociolinguistic literature (Milroy, 1980, 1987; Milroy & Milroy, 1985).
I used this AI (ChatGPT, Claude, Bing, Bard):
And I gave it this prompt:
And I got this summary:
Here’s my evaluation of this summary:
Fish, Stanley: What Should Colleges Teach? Part 3
What Should Colleges Teach? Part 3 – Stanley Fish Blog – NY… http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/07/what-should-colleges-…
SEPTEMBER 7, 2009, 9:30 PM
What Should Colleges Teach? Part 3
I write a third column on the teaching of writing in colleges and universities because three important questions posed by a large number of posters remain unanswered: (1) Isn’t the mastery of forms something that should be taught in high school or earlier? (2) Isn’t extensive reading the key to learning how to write? (3) What would a composition course based on the method I urge look like?
Questions (1) and (2) can be answered briefly. Question (3) is, as they say, a work in progress.
By all the evidence, high schools and middle schools are not teaching writing skills in an effective way, if they are teaching them at all. The exception seems to be Catholic schools. More than a few commentators remembered with a mixture of fondness and pain the instruction they received at the hands of severe nuns. And I have found that those students in my classes who do have a grasp of the craft of writing are graduates of
parochial schools. (I note parenthetically that in many archdioceses such schools are being closed, not a good omen for those who prize writing.)
I cannot see, however, why a failure of secondary education relieves college teachers of a responsibility to make up the deficit. Quite the reverse. It is because our students come to us unable to write clean English sentences that we are obligated to supply what they did not receive from their previous teachers. No doubt this obligation constitutes a burden on an already overworked labor force, but (and this is one of those times a cliché can acquire renewed force), somebody has to do it.
The question of the relationship of reading and learning to write is more complicated. Classical rhetoricians preached the virtue of imitation; students were presented with sentences from the work of great authors and asked to reproduce their form with a different content. I like this exercise because its emphasis is so obviously formal.
But what about just doing a lot of reading and hoping that by passing your eyes over many pages you will learn how to write through osmosis? I’m not so sure. If to wide reading were added daily dinner-table discussions of the sophistication and wit found in many 18th and 19th century novels, I might be more sanguine. And if your experience with words were also to include training in public speaking and debate (itself a matter of becoming practiced in forms), I might say, O.K., you probably don’t need a form-based composition course. Unfortunately, however, reading is not the favorite pastime of today’s youth and debate societies don’t have the cachet they once did; so my insistence that a narrowly focused writing course be required for everyone stands.
How does one teach such a course? What texts can one use? How does one effect the passage from sentences to larger prose units? “How do you determine whether and in what ways [this] approach improves . . . students’ writing,” asks James Gee. My answers to these questions are provisional. I’m still trying to work them out.
I have reached some conclusions. First, you must clear your mind of the orthodoxies that have taken hold in the composition world. The main orthodoxy is nicely encapsulated in this resolution adopted in 1974 by the Conference on College Composition and Communication: “We affirm the students’ right to their own patterns and varieties of language the dialects of their nurture or whatever dialects in which they find their own identity and style.”
Of course, as a matter of law students have the right to any dialect they choose to deploy (although in some small cities where the “English Only” movement has succeeded in the ballot box, linguistic rights have been curtailed). The issue is whether students accorded this right will prosper in a society where norms of speech and writing are enforced not by
law but by institutional decorums. If you’re about to be fired because your memos reflect your “own identity and style,” citing the CCC resolution is not going to do you any good.
Behind the resolution is a theoretical argument. Linguistic forms, it is said, are not God-given; they are the conventional products of social/cultural habit and therefore none of them is naturally superior or uniquely “correct.” It follows (according to this argument) that any claim of correctness is political, a matter of power not of right. “If we teach standardized, handbook grammar as if it is the only ‘correct’ form of grammar, we are teaching in cooperation with a discriminatory power system” (Patricia A. Dunn and Kenneth Lindblom, English Journal, January, 2003).
Statements like this one issue from the mistake of importing a sociological/political analysis of a craft into the teaching of it. It may be true that the standard language is an instrument of power and a device for protecting the status quo, but that very truth is a reason for teaching it to students who are being prepared for entry into the world as it now is rather than the world as it might be in some utopian imagination all dialects equal, all habit of speech and writing equally rewarded.
You’re not going to be able to change the world if you are not equipped with the tools that speak to its present condition. You don’t strike a blow against a power structure by making yourself vulnerable to its prejudices. Even as an exercise in political strategy, “having conversations with students about linguistic systems and democratic values” (V.F. Kinloch, “Revisiting the Promise of Students’ Right to Their Own Language,” CCC 57:1, September 2005) strikes me as an unlikely lever for bringing about change; as a strategy for teaching writing, it is a disaster.
And if students infected with the facile egalitarianism of soft multiculturalism declare, “I have a right to my own language,” reply, “Yes , you do, and I am not here to take that language from you; I’m here to teach you another one.” (Who could object to learning a second language?) And then get on with it.
Of course, I still haven’t explained how you get on with it. Not by consulting Strunk and White’s “The Elements of Style,” a book cited favorably by more than a few posters. I wouldn’t go as far as Randy Burgess does when he calls the famous little book “the worst,” but I would say that it is unhelpful because its prescriptions presuppose the knowledge most of our students don’t have. What good is it to be told, “Do not join independent clauses with a comma,” if you don’t have the slightest idea of what a clause is (and isn’t), never mind an “independent” one? And even if a beginning student were provided with the definition of a clause, the definition itself would hang in mid-air like a random piece of knowledge. It would be like being given a definition of a drop-kick in the absence of any understanding of the game in which it could be deployed.
You have to start with a simple but deep understanding of the game, which for my purposes is the game of writing sentences. So it makes sense to begin with the question, What is a sentence anyway? My answer has two parts: (1) A sentence is an organization of items in the world. (2) A sentence is a structure of logical relationships.
The second part tells you what kind of organization a sentence is, a logical one, and in order to pinpoint what the components of that logic are, I put a simple sentence on the table, something like “John hit the ball” or “Jane likes cake.” I spend an entire week on sentences like these (which are easily comprehended by students of any background), asking students to generate them, getting them to see the structure of relationships that makes them all the same on a formal level, getting them to see that the motor of meaning production is form, not content.
Once they see that and it is an indispensable lesson they are ready to explore, generate and practice with the other forms that organize the world’s items in increasingly complicated ways. Basically, there is only one thing to be learned, that a sentence is a structure of logical relationships; everything else follows.
I have devised a number of exercises designed to reinforce and extend the basic insight. These include (1) asking students to make a sentence out of a random list of words, and then explain what they did; (2) asking students to turn a three-word sentence like “Jane likes cake” into a 100-word sentence without losing control of the basic structure and then explain, word-by-word, clause-by-clause, what they did; (3) asking students to replace the nonsense words in the first stanza of Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” with ordinary English words in a way that makes coherent (if silly) sense, and then explain what they did, and how they knew what kind of word to put into each “slot.” (The answer is that even in the absence of sense or content, the stanza’s formal structure tells them what to do and what not to do.)
Notice that the exercises always come in two parts. In the first part students are asked to do something they can do easily. In the second part they are asked to analyze their own performance. The second part is the hard one; it requires students to raise to a level of analytical conscience the operations they must perform if they are to write sentences that hang together.
In the final exercise, about which I’ve written before in this space, the class is divided into groups of four or five and each group is asked to create its own language complete with a lexicon, and a grammar capable of conveying the distinctions (of number, tense, mood, etc.) conveyed by English grammatical forms. At the end of the semester each group presents a text in its language and teaches the class how to translate it into English, and how to translate English sentences into sentences in the new language, to which the group always gives a name and about which it is always fiercely proprietary.
To my knowledge, there are no textbooks that teach this method Stephen reports, “until you described it . . . I had never heard of such a course at any college” although, in some respects, Francis Christensen’s “generative rhetoric” of sentences, now considered outmoded, comes close.
What I do is supplement the exercises described above with a standard grammar text filled with the usual terminology, a terminology that will not seem impenetrable and hostile to students who have been learning how language works at a level these texts assume but do not explicate. My current favorites are Geraldine Woods’ “English
Grammar for Dummies” and Martha Kolln’s “Rhetorical Grammar: Grammatical Choice, Rhetorical Effects.” I like the first because its examples are so fanciful (“Lochness loves my singing”) that there is no danger of becoming interested in their content. I like the second because of Kolln’s emphasis on how grammatical choices fulfill and/or disappoint reader expectations.
I have also assigned J.L. Austin’s “How to Do Things With Words,” Richard Lanham’s “A Handlist of Rhetorical Terms” and Lynne Truss’s “Eats, Shoots & Leaves,” and I have flirted with using the Rhetorica Ad Herennium and parts of Quintilian and Seneca, if only to show students how old the formal teaching of writing is.
My course is entirely sentence-centered except for one exercise, when I put a sentence on the board usually something incredibly boring like, “The first year of college presents many challenges” and ask each student in turn to add a sentence while taking care to look backward to the narrative that has already been developed and forward to the sentences yet to be written by his or her colleagues.
At the end of the semester, I used to send my students into the class taught by Cathy Birkenstein and Gerald Graff, whose excellent book “They Say / I Say” introduces
students to the forms of argument in a spirit entirely compatible with my focus on the forms of sentences. (We have taught in each others’ classes.)
As to the question of whether this method improves writing, I can only cite local
successes in my classes and the anecdotal reports of former students who have employed it in their own classes. I take heart from veteran composition teachers like Lynn Sams, who says that after many years of experimentation, she has concluded that “the ability to analyze sentences, to understand how the parts work together to convey desired meaning, emphasis, and effect is . . . central to the writing process.” (“How to Teach Grammar, Analytical Thinking and Writing; A Method that Works,” English Journal, January, 2003). Amen.
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I used this AI (ChatGPT, Claude, Bing, Bard):
And I gave it this prompt:
And I got this summary:
Here’s my evaluation of this summary:
Young, Vershawn Ashanti: Should Writers Use They Own English? (Excerpted)
Excerpt from “Should Writers Use They Own English?”
by Vershawn Ashanti Young
What would a composition course based on the method I urge look like? . . . . First, you must clear your mind [of the following]: “We affirm the students’ right to their own patterns and varieties of languagethe dialects of their nurture or whatever dialects in which they find their own identity and style.” Stanley Fish, “What Colleges Should Teach, Part 3”
Cultural critic Stanley Fish (2009d) come talkin boutin his three-piece New York Times “What Should Colleges Teach?” suitthere only one way to speak and write to get ahead in the world, that writin teachers should “clear [they] mind of the orthodoxies that have taken hold in the composition world.” He say don’t no student have a right to they own language if that language make them “vulnerable to prejudice”; that “it may be true that the standard language is a device for protecting the status quo, but that very truth is a reason for teaching it to students.”
Lord, lord, lord! Where do I begin, cuz this man sho tryin to take the nation back to a time when we were less tolerant of linguistic and racial differences. Yeah, I said racial difference, tho my man Stan try to dismiss race when he speak on language differences. But the two be sho nuff intertwined. Remember when a black person could get hanged from the nearest tree just cuz they be black? And they fingers and heads (double entendre intended) get chopped off sometime? Stanley Fish (2009a) say he be appalled at this kind of violent racism, and get even madder at the subtle prejudice exhibited nowadays by those who claim that race is dead, that racism don’t happen no mo. But it do happenas Fish knowwhen folks don’t get no jobs or get fired from jobs and worse cuz they talk and write Asian or black or with an Appalachian accent or sound like whatever ain’t the status quo. And Fish himself acquiesce to this linguistic prejudice when he come sayin that people make theyselves targets for racism if and when they don’t write and speak like he do.
But don’t nobody’s language, dialect, or style make them “vulnerable to prejudice.” As Laura Greenfield point out in her chapter on racism and writing pedagogy in this collection, it’s ATTITUDES. It be the way folks with some power perceive other people’s language. Like the way some view, say, Black English when used in school or at work. Black English don’t make it own-self oppressed. It be negative views about other people usin they own language, like what Fish express in his NYT blog, that make it so.
This explain why so many bloggers on Fish’s NYT comment page was tryin to school him on why teachin one correct way lend a hand to choppin off folks’ tongues. But, let me be fair to my man Stan. He prolly unaware that he be supportin language discrimination, cuz he appeal to its acceptable formstandard language ideology, also called “dominant language ideology” (Lippi-Green 1997). Standard language ideology is the belief that there is one set of dominant language rules that stem from a single dominant discourse (like standard English) that all writers and speakers of English must conform to in order to communicate effectively. Dominant language ideology say peeps can say whateva the heck they want, howeva they want toBUT AT HOME!
[…]
what we call standard English is part of a common language system that include Black English and any other so-called variety of English. I’m sho not trying to say here that Black English don’t have some rhetorical and grammatical features that differ from what is termed standard English. What I’m sayin is that the difference between the two ain’t as big as some like to imagine. […] This why I got a big problem with the followin advice that Fish (2009d) give to teachers:
If students infected with the facile egalitarianism of soft multiculturalism declare, “I have a right to my own language,” reply, “Yes, you do, and I am not here to take that language from you; I’m here to teach you another one.” (Who could object to learning a second language?) And then get on with it.
Fish got it wrong here. […] ain’t it disingenuous of Fish to ask, “Who could object to learning a second language?” when his whole argument is to convince writin teachers to require students, the “multi culturals,” to do the impossible, to leave they dialect behind and learn another one, the one he promote? If he meant everybody should be thrilled to learn another dialect, then wouldn’t everybody be learnin everybody’s dialect? Wouldn’t we all become multidialectal and plura lingual? And when it comes to speakin and writing English, ain’t we all usin a common language anyway, even if somebody over there speak it with this accent, and someone over here use it in that dialect? And that’s my exact argument, that we all usin a common language. And to the extent that folks use of that language differ, then we all should learn everybody’s dialect, at least as many as we can, and be open to the mix of them in oral and written communication (Young 2007).
[…]
But some would say, “You can’t mix no dialects at work; how would peeps who ain’t from yo hood understand you?” They say, “You just gotta use standard English.” Yet, even folks with good jobs in the corporate world don’t follow no standard English. Check this out: reporter Sam Dillon write about a survey conducted by the National Commission on Writing in 2004. He say “that a third of employees in the nation’s blue chip companies wrote poorly and that businesses were spending as much as $3.1 billion annually on remedial training.”
Now, some peeps gone say this illustrate how Fish be right, why we need to be teachin mo standard grammar and stuff. If you look at it from Fish view, yeah it mean that. But if you look at it from my view, it most certainly don’t mean that. Instead, it mean that the one set of rules that people be applyin to everybody’s dialects leads to stereotypes that writers need “remedial training” or that speakers of dialects are dumb. Speakin and writin prescriptively, as Fish want, force people into patterns of language that ain’t natural or easy to understand.
This unnatural language use is what my girl, linguist Elaine Richardson (2004), call “stereotype threat.” This term applies when someone is forced in the face of racial perceptions to keep the most expressive parts of her language out of formal communication, whether writing or speakin, like when say, a black person is asked to keep her dialect out of a school paper. Richardson says this causes “stereotype threat” and her language become neither expressive standard or expressive Black English but a stilted middle-brow discourse. A whole lot of folk could be writin and speakin real, real smart if Fish and others stop using one prescriptive, foot-long ruler to measure the language of peeps who use a yardstick when they communicate.
[…]
But here what Fish don’t get: standard language ideology insist that minority people will never become an Ivy League English department chair or president of Harvard University if they don’t perfect they mastery of standard English. At the same time the ideology instruct that white men will gain such positions, even with a questionable handle of standard grammar and rhetoric (Didn’t George W. get to be president for eight years, while all kinds of folks characterized his grammar as bad and his rhetorical style as poor? And hasn’t former vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin made up words like refudiate for repudiate and lamestream media to poke fun at mainstream media? Just askin.) Fish respond that this the way our country is so let’s accept it. I say: “No way, brutha!”
[…]
grad students also be tryin too hard to sound smart, to write like the folk they be readin, instead of usin they own voices. In my own experience teachin grad students, they also tend to try too hard to sound academic, often using unnecessary convoluted language, using a big word where a lil one would do. Give them students some credit, Fish! What you should tell them is there be more than one academic way to write right. Didn’t yo friend Professor Gerald Graff (2003) already school us on that in his book Clueless in Academe? He say he tell his students to be bilingual. He say, say it in the technical way, the college-speak way, but also say it the way you say it to yo mommain the same paper. Now that’s some advice!
[…]
The Internet, among other mass media, as well as the language habits of America’s ever-growing diverse ethnic populations, be affecting how everybody talk and write now, too. A term like punked, which come from black culture to describe someone getting tricked, teased, or humiliated, used to be taboo in formal communication as was black people wearin braided hair at work in the 1980s. The professional world has become more tolerant of black hair styles. And that same world not only toleratin but incorporatin, and appropriatin, black language stylesas they do black hairstyles.
Actor Ashton Kutcher popularized the term punked with his hit TV show of the same title. That’s probably how the word seeped into the parlance of suburban professionals (“I feel punked”; “Obama . . . punking voters”), although it still retains it colloquial essence.
Fish may reply, “But these examples be from TV and journalism; those expressions won’t fly in academic or scholarly writing.” But […] Is you readin this essay?
References
Auer, Peter. 1988. Code-switching in conversation: Language, interaction and identity. New York: Routledge.
Booth, Wayne C. 1983. A new strategy for establishing a truly democratic criticism. Daedalus 112 (1): 193-214.
Campbell, Kermit. 2005. Gettin’ our groove on: Rhetoric, language, and literacy for the hip hop generation. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press.
Coleman, Charles F. 1997. Our students write with accentsOral paradigms for ESD stu dents. College Composition and Communication 48 (4): 486-500.
Conference on College Composition and Communication. 1974. To readers of CCC: Resolution on language. College Composition and Communi
