If nothing else, the paradigm demonstrates that when individuals are given the opportunity to disclose deeply personal aspects of their lives, they readily do so. (p.6)

I don’t know if this line sparked some curiosity or just made me emotional. People have a strong desire to be heard whether it’s by themselves or by others, it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting it out of our system. To process hardships or triumphs through writing in a reflective and deeply personal way. 

That’s an emotional thing to think about.

I remember journaling as a safe space for me growing up. It’s where I’d go to write on and on about the day I had, the drama happening at school, my crushes, my internal conflicts, etc. And when I’d finish writing, I’d reread my entries with a certain curiosity, wanting to see what I had managed to get out. It was my way of processing.

I don’t know how I would have handled any situation in my life then, if I had not written it all down.

One of my best friends, Geo, is your typical guy (& that’s not to be offensive). I’ve talked to him about therapy before, but he’s always shrugged and been critical of the whole process. When I shared my experiences, he’d say something along the lines of well I’m happy that works for you, I just don’t know if it could for me. I’d say, then why not journal? And then he’d make a bunch of excuses as to why he doesn’t like journaling.

Last time I saw him, he spoke to me about life after graduation and how difficult it’s been to navigate… on top of all of life’s twists and turns. All of this to say that he’s been having a pretty hard time. As we walked he mentioned… in a very nonchalant, casual way… that he started journaling. 

Why did he start?… because he needed help processing. He needed help acknowledging and, as a result, confronting these sometimes difficult emotions. I think using that as a starting point to then start journaling about happy, good things would serve well for him too. 

One reason that we believe that expressive writing has been effective is that it serves as a life course correction… (p.37)

Like I said in my previous blog, I have a newfound “fear” or kind of hesitance to journaling. I now think that it’s because I know that if I pick up the pen I’ll be met with myself and be forced to confront all my wrongdoing (mainly because when I journal I usually rant).

But… occasionally, most of us benefit from standing back and examining our lives. (p.37)

This week’s readings (mainly Sonya Huber) had me thinking a lot about my writing process, my voice, and how it’s developed (and continuously developing) over time.

My voice has had many transformations. And they’ve all felt a little awkward and “false” until, over time, they finally felt like me. And honestly, I still feel like my writing voice is transforming.

I like the idea that our souls can encompass various voices. Some are more personal and others find themselves serving the public mask a little more. It’s important to remember the essence of self is carried within each “voice” as you use said voice as a tool in your writing.

Acknowledging all your different voices in all these different contexts helps you garner a deeper understanding of the self in turn makes you a better, more “embodied” writer. 

But it’s all annoying isn’t it. To have to navigate these spaces all at once and all these voices at once and use your very-specific-to-you style to compile a satisfying writing project.

I’ve struggled too. And after reading this, I started reflecting on why I use parenthesis at all. I realized I use it to kind of say or explain things without feeling or carrying the added pressure that comes with presenting my thoughts in an academic setting. When engaging in creative writing, I’ve noticed that I use parentheses to let my audience in on a little secret or to tell them what I really mean.

But why can’t I write or reveal as I use my surface-level voice, without the hedges? I guess that would be two different voices coming together in one piece of my writing. Heteroglossia! I liked learning the word for the phenomenon for a piece of writing inhabiting a writer’s many voices. It makes me feel more comfortable with exercising my voice the way I have and continue to do.

But that doesn’t necessarily remove that uncomfortableness from seeing yourself (the person you are) creeping there on the page. Which is a whole psychological endeavor to think about. What’s the difference between a person’s approach to writing who was heard when exercising the tool that is their voice and those who weren’t? Those who aren’t able to (particularly those who don’t have access to speech, vision, or body)?

I’ve been thinking about voice and its power a lot recently. Especially in writing. For some it flows out like water, and for others it takes more of a negotiation with oneself to finally “get the mess on the page.”

And wherever you land on that spectrum of struggle has a lot to do with where you’ve been and where you’ve landed. There is no Ideal Text to compare and work ourselves toward. & that’s important to remember.

Secondary education isn’t necessarily to blame for where I’ve landed (which is the side with struggle involved). Sure, it plays a role because of the how strict the structure of writing was, but I had a couple great english teachers that encouraged stepping (slightly) out of those lines. For me, I think it has more to do with identity.

Thinking of voice as a flame is a beautiful sentiment. To be caring, compassionate, mindful of our voices and nurture them into liveliness. To do that all again for the sake of knowing and trusting ourselves enough to write at all. And exercising that cycle to then present it to whoever your audience may be.

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Journaling has not been an easy feat for me recently. I genuinely can’t do it because every time I approach the page, it feels like my mind struggles to put the words together. Mainly for fear. But whenever a deep feeling arises that I can’t ignore (somehow) a poem exits itself out of my mind and (somehow!) onto paper.

“Real-life troubles affected my voice, to the point where I couldn’t be honest on the page or feel some of my emotions.” Like Huber, I’ve felt this way many, many times. But as an act of resistance, I can try labeling the voice that writes poems… Nonsensical Women or something.

A quote I also liked: “We become thought; we feel voice; we act out ideas on the small stage of our being.”

Adamari 10/8/2026

I found this week’s read, Queer Composition(s): Queer Theory in the Writing Classroom by Jonathan Alexander and Michelle Gibson, a very interesting read.

I’d like to start out by restating what was said in one part of this article: Why do we accept and validate identity rather than try to uncover how identities were constructed?

There’s this kind of notion that says to educators and students that our personal stories aren’t any good in an academic context. In other words, saying they don’t matter. Or they have nothing to do with this.

By why are we really avoiding doing the more difficult thing?

Instead of overlooking these personal experiences, we should try to understand what our identities (& how they were constructed) say about social structures and how it manifests in our writing. It definitely adds to the transgressive approach to pedagogy as we explored when reading bell hooks last week.

Which brings me to this quote: “a pedagogy that uses the vantage point of the social margin,” said by Malinowitz (pg. 13).

By looking outside borders of this kind of pedagogy field that slyly advocates for the protection of the status quo, we can instead gain a deeper understanding by taking a step back and looking at everything that constructed these almost oppressive frameworks. No matter how radical that might sound. In fact, our stories matter so much, so much so that it makes us even better writers.

“…students are asked to consider lesbian/gay experience in the context of heterosexist and homophobic American culture.”

This is so important and is something being touched upon in my identity of racial and ethnic identity class too. To put it simply, there is a reason why everything exists and moves the way it does (gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, etc.), and a lot of those explanations are hidden behind what is told is appropriate to talk about (especially in the classroom). And as for something I found myself agreeing with:

”…it is better to acknowledge and grapple with the political within the pedagogical than risk teaching from unaware and uniformed ideological biases.” (pg. 1).

P.s. I enjoyed how this article very clearly taught me the timeline of how queer theory came to exist within English studies. It gives me a gauge of how far the field has come, but also how much more there’s left to do. (Also, did this make sense?)

adamari 10/1/2026

The (kind of nonsensical outtakes): Which is so obvious but so overlooked at the same time. Like, of course exploring our identity and understanding that we must always continue to do so because it’s fluid and ever changing with whatever happens in our personal lives is important. Gaining that understanding in turn makes us better writers. That’s why so many of our worlds respected writers were known to have journals (franz Kafka, Sylvia Plath, etc. ). It’s us processing ourselves to then come to the table with a clearer mind of why what we’re writing about matters and how we are going to uniquely approach it.

(oh! Which sort of connects to the single story podcast. These writers weren’t magically great writers, they explored their 4dness.)

(happy October!)

I look back at all my english classes with a deep fondness and a load of appreciation. Those years were, one, extremely formative to me as a writer and, two, extremely formative to me as a person. Still, there’s a concern that grows a little larger every time read a new pedagogical essay:

The way my teachers approached the english curriculum, as I shared briefly last class, each varied in style and consideration. Looking back with what I know now (as a student who has done a lot of reading and has taken a billion english classes) there are a lot of things from that time that just don’t make much sense.

Take the amount of time devoted to the teaching and developing the writing process as just one example. Why?!? For so long?! Was I limited to hamburger style essays?!!? Why only in my first semester of undergrad was I taught that… no, that’s actually not the formula you should use to write your rhetorical essay…?

I have to agree with Murray, teachers are taught to direct students to be “fully trained in the autopsy.” You read something, you analyze it, and then—with a rubric full of requirements you must follow—you write about it. But that doesn’t necessarily work for (or benefit) everyone. And not everyone knows how—or even wants—to break out of that approach to the writing process.

A big part of that unwillingness or inability to break through is simply because students don’t think they’re allowed and students are trained in such a way that sometimes it doesn’t even appear as a possibility. That’s exactly why hooks was such a joy to read! The time she spent as a primary and secondary student navigating a segregated American educational system, to when she found herself in a complete mental crisis by her tenure acceptance is a true testament of the importance of “radical pedagogy’ in an educators approach to teaching and a students love for education.

I don’t know. The whole thing has surprisingly fascinated me.

“the classroom remains the most radical space of possibility in the academy”

For my work at college steps, I’m tasked with joining one of my students to their English Composition class every week. I’m there, sitting on the sidelines, simply for support. Yet, I often find myself transfixed by the class & I’ll tell you why:

The professor is great. He speaks very openly about his own experiences and prompts students to do the same during any and all stages of their writing process. I think he’s done a (really) good job in creating a space/classroom environment where every student feels heard and cared for. I mean, students participate eagerly and those who don’t raise their hands are always prompted to do so (never with any negative pressure). Students are comfortable sharing their own personal stories, they ask questions without fear or judgment, and spend the hour and fifteen minutes with eyes on him, really listening. Some of them update the professor—openly, perfectly comfortable with classmates providing their input— on their days or an ongoing situation in their lives. It feels as though a lot of them, and I don’t think I’m wrong, are happy to be in class.

That’s rare.

By doing as he does (successfully engaging freshman, first semester students in a writing class (!!!) and doing it passionately), this professor (Professor Woods is his name) is proactively transgressing the boundaries of what we’re told academia is supposed to be.

I wonder if he’s read hooks?

Which leads me to wonder the possibility of this kind of framework being applied in all classrooms. I know the likelihood of significant pedagogical changes starting tomorrow, next month, a year, or even years from now is somewhat improbable (but never impossible!), but I’m happy to know a room full of so many educators are reading these texts. I’m happy to have read it and feel moved. & I’m happy to put this knowledge in my pocket to carry with me wherever life takes me.

P.S. He did this thing today where he introduced the class to the compare & contrast essay but prompted them to compare the U.S. educational system to the ones of the world’s highest ranking educational systems (for example, China). I thought this was interesting because he opened up why this may be the case for discussion which in turn prompted students to think about pedagogy through both perspectives (as a learner and as an educator).

Adamari 9/24/2026