Argument as a Catalyst of Community

by TWIG Contributor Ambur “Bur” Miller

At first I thought that argument meant division. In the secondary school I attended I don’t remember even discussing it as a skill, but I believed that confrontation was bad. Argument meant choosing a side, adamantly standing on that metaphorical soap box, and heatedly debating regardless of who was listening or why they disagreed. As a new teacher a decade ago, being asked to teach this skill was intimidating. Over the years I learned that argument wasn’t quite as terrifying and divisive as it originally seemed, even if much of the world interprets the purpose of argument differently than we do in education.

I’ve learned that the teaching of argument writing isn’t just a standard to meet, it is a necessary skill that much of the real world currently lacks. Argument isn’t so much about being correct, or winning an argument, but it is more about asking the right questions, finding your voice, and, most importantly, listening to the voices of others. 

Traditionally, this is not what our students have been taught. Argument has been so difficult for us and our students to grasp because it asks us to be vulnerable and possibly be wrong (and acknowledging it) in front of others! However, I’ve learned this past year that modeling vulnerability--asking questions with students, sharing moments where I’ve been corrected and how that’s helped me grow, and asking questions about the events around us can lead to what argument really should be. These prompts, popular in the Kernel Essay (that this piece is even modeled after), lends itself to this mindset:

“First I thought….”

“Then I learned this from…”

“Now I think…”

“But I still wonder…”

I’ve now started to see argument in the classroom as a way to share one’s voice and discover the voices of others--not hinder or stifle them. This makes argument a catalyst of community in our lives and in our classrooms. True community. A community based on the understanding of others and the stories that have created the soapboxes they stand on or the questions that they ask. A community that leaves notes of hope and encouragement on whiteboards simply because they are beginning to understand that more lies beyond a person’s outer appearance and initial claim. 

As a participant in TWIG I’ve been asked many questions. How can I create a safe space for every student’s voice? How can I help students explore other’s perspectives while developing their own claims? How can I give students the knowledge and courage to respond to others? And let others respond to them? How can I better listen to my students? Yet I’ve discovered that argument, when taught by asking these questions, can mean unity. This process has been much like the practice of argument itself. I’ve started asking the right questions, sought after more lines of inquiry and possible answers, and been encouraged and challenged  by listening to others' voices. Perhaps that is why the Boise State Writing Project and TWIG are as meaningful as they are; they are byproducts of a passionate culture of argument themselves.

Practicing What We Teach: A Sense of Belonging with Fellow Educators

by TWIG Contributor Brianna Gibson

My name is Brianna Gibson, and I’m in my fourth year as an Idaho public school educator. Although I’m still in the early stages of my career, I know the Idaho public education system a little too well. Both of my parents are teachers who inspired my love of learning yet were honest about the struggles of public education in our state. When my older sister and I both decided we wanted to become teachers, my father lovingly asked us, “Are you sure?” I thought I knew what I was getting myself into as a teacher: the good, the bad, the overworked, the underpaid, all of it. What no one could have predicted, though, is that a global pandemic would emerge in the middle of only my second year teaching, turning an already difficult career into one of even more pressure, inconsistency, and isolation. And like so many educators across the state—across the nation—I have spent these years wondering if I really was sure this career was meant for me.

Then, I was invited to TWIG.

See, teaching can already be an isolating experience. Throw in at-home learning, hybrid schedules, and quarantine periods, and it’s easy to feel like the walls of your classroom are closing in around you. Even more so, teachers can be really, really negative (myself included). It’s easy to focus on the students who won’t listen, the parents who question your every move, the grading that’s never finished. They say misery loves company; well, a miserable teacher loves the teacher’s lounge. But logging on to a meeting with the Teaching Writers Inquiry Group is like a breath of fresh air.

Teachers rarely get to attend anything without preparing materials beforehand, but TWIG allows me to log on without a lesson plan or learning target. Teachers are often working overtime, but TWIG consistently respects my time by beginning on the hour and ending within those 60 minutes. Teachers often go to each other to break down the most difficult parts of their day, but TWIG celebrates the strategies and ways of thinking that enrich our classrooms, and our lives. So, when I was asked to write about something meaningful I’ve learned in my time attending TWIG, the biggest lesson I could share is the immense difference it makes to find a community of teachers resolving to grow personally, professionally, academically, and collectively despite every reason not to.

One of my fundamental beliefs as a teacher is that everyone wants to belong. They want their voices heard, they want their perspectives validated, they want a community. Teachers work endlessly to make sure students can belong in their classrooms, but all too often we are isolated—or we isolate ourselves—from the spaces where we too can achieve a sense of support and belonging. For all the strategies, discussions, and free resources I’ve gained from my meetings with TWIG, I’m most grateful for the community I’m joining and the feeling that I belong.