Anzaldúa, Orgasms, and Pedagogy!

Bet that title made you start reading!

I closed the book, raised my hand in class (as was my practice) and asked the Professor, “Where does meaning come from for this lady?”  My tone was unfriendly and exasperated.  The phrase “this lady” helped my reputation little.  The Professor directed me to a poem (that I no longer actually remember), within the book.  I remember the realization as I was reading that the poem was about the author masturbating to orgasm.  My Professor had framed the book as an important work of philosophy in communication, and derided my small-mindedness for “not getting it”.  So I thought, “I’m all for orgasms, but I can certainly think of more transcendent locations for meaning making.” I decided this author whom I’d never met, and whose book I had read cursorily; was a fool. 

Ok, confession time.  I’m referring to my first exposure to the writings of Anzaldúa.  I hated it.  I’m not talking about, “Gee, I think this isn’t my favorite reading.”  I’m talking about a visceral emotional reaction.  It wasn’t the bilingual writing.  I’ve always thought multi-lingual knowledge is quite important.  It also wasn’t the poetry—well not entirely the poetry.  I think it was drawn from it being my first year in grad school and I was tired of people questioning meaning.  The ways that I had been orienting myself to the world were being torn from my fingers, and it really hurt.  Anzaldúa was the last straw for me and I never picked the book up again.

That was a long time ago, and I’ve broadened my horizons.  But I still had an Anzaldúa prejudice that made me dread the reading for week 7.  Well, she hasn’t changed, but apparently I have.  Surprisingly, I felt an immediate connection with Anzaldúa this time.  For one thing, a little dose of grad school social failure, and never being the smartest person in the room, does wonders for humility/ation.  I’ve even found this blog post to be a bit more personal and confessional in honor of Anzaldúa (though lacking the artfulness).  I am different because I realize now why she annoyed me.  I now realize I also straddle cultures, though not to the degree Anzaldúa did.  My Appalachian heritage does not respect the academy, and oft-times vice versa.  I thought that I could write when I stepped into grad school.  I was wrong.  Anzaldúa describes my experience when she compares a lack of confidence in her ability to write to a lack of belief in total self.  She absolutely committed to the process of writing.  It made writing both sublime and extremely painful for her.  That is the point where I found a useful pedagogical perspective in the composition classroom.

When we take a student who is set in their ways and begin to break down those barriers, we cause them to question.  They are riddled with ambiguity.  As Anzaldúa describes it, “The stress of living with cultural ambiguity both compels me to write and blocks me” (96).  This undermining is necessary to a liberal arts education, but can trouble and block writers.  Anzaldua artfully states her moments of clarity come when “once again I recognize that the internal tension of opposition can propel (if it doesn’t tear apart)…” (96).  When a student comes “just to learn to write better”, I do them a service if I help them overcome prejudices, intolerances, and closed-mindedness.  However, I do them no service if I don’t take into account the “tearing apart” that such changes can make. 

My professor did little to help me work through my own process of being torn apart, and I built a new prejudice.  It wasn’t her fault, necessarily, but I’ve learned what I will do differently.  In my classroom, I will make sure I build up commitment to the process of writing as prejudices are broken down.  I don’t want an empty space where meaning once resided.  I’d like to see my students finding new meanings—though preferably not centered on orgasms.