Antiracist writing assessment ecologies : teaching and assessing writing for a socially just future

Asao Inoue

2015

WAC Clearinghouse

In Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies, Asao B. Inoue theorizes classroom writing assessment as a complex system that is "more than" its interconnected elements. To explain how and why antiracist work in the writing classroom is vital to literacy learning, Inoue incorporates ideas about the white racial habitus that informs dominant discourses in the academy and other contexts. Inoue helps teachers understand the unintended racism that often occurs when teachers do not have explicit antiracist agendas in their assessments. Drawing on his own teaching and classroom inquiry, Inoue offers a heuristic for developing and critiquing writing assessment ecologies that explores seven elements of any writing assessment ecology: power, parts, purposes, people, processes, products, and places.

Humanities

English

9781602357747

https://open.umn.edu/opentextbooks/textbooks/antiracist-writing-assessment-ecologies-teaching-and-assessing-writing-for-a-socially-just-future

Asao B. Inoue is Director of University Writing and Associate Professor
of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences at the University of Washington
Tacoma. He has published on writing assessment, validity, and composition pedagogy in Assessing Writing, The Journal of Writing Assessment,
Composition Forum, and Research in the Teaching of English, among other
journals and collections. His co-edited collection Race and Writing Assessment (2012) won the CCCC’s Outstanding Book Award for an edited
collection.

Perspectives on Writing
Series Editor, Susan H. McLeod and Rich Rice

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Fort Collins, CO 80523-1052
http://wac.colostate.edu

W

ANTIR ACIST WRITING ECOLOGIES

In Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies, Asao B. Inoue theorizes classroom
writing assessment as a complex system that is “more than” its interconnected
elements. To explain how and why antiracist work in the writing classroom
is vital to literacy learning, Inoue incorporates ideas about the white racial
habitus that informs dominant discourses in the academy and other contexts.
Inoue helps teachers understand the unintended racism that often occurs
when teachers do not have explicit antiracist agendas in their assessments.
Drawing on his own teaching and classroom inquiry, Inoue offers a heuristic
for developing and critiquing writing assessment ecologies that explores seven
elements of any writing assessment ecology: power, parts, purposes, people,
processes, products, and places.

Inoue

ANTIRACIST WRITING ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES

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ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES
TEACHING AND ASSESSING
WRITING FOR A SOCIALLY
JUST FUTURE

Asao B. Inoue

PERSPECTIVES ON WRITING
Series Editor, Susan H. McLeod

PERSPECTIVES ON WRITING
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ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES:
TEACHING AND ASSESSING
WRITING FOR A SOCIALLY
JUST FUTURE
Asao B. Inoue

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The WAC Clearinghouse, Fort Collins, Colorado 80523-1052
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© 2015 by Asao B. Inoue. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International.
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Title: Antiracist writing assessment ecologies : teaching and assessing
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
Introduction: Writing Assessment Ecologies as Antiracist Projects . . . . . . 3
Chapter 1: The Function of Race in Writing Assessments. . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Chapter 2: Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Chapter 3: The Elements of an Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecology. 119
Chapter 4: Approaching Antiracist Work in an Assessment Ecology . . . 177
Chapter 5: Designing Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies. . . . . . . 283
Notes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301
References. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
Appendix A: English 160W’s Grading Contract . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Appendix B: Example Problem Posing Labor Process. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337

v

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book, like all others, is the culmination of more than my efforts. In
many ways, I’m simply the messenger, shouting the news to others. Over the
last five years, I’ve had lots of help thinking, rethinking, conceiving, discussing,
and reading drafts of what would become what you hold in your hands. First, I
thank my wife, Kelly Inoue, without whom I cannot do what I do every day. She
makes me a better teacher, father, husband, scholar, and person just by living her
example of compassionate service. I live in her long shadow and am grateful for
her patience and love. I thank Victor Villanueva, my mentor and friend, who
read parts of Chapter 1, and has been a constant encouragement to me. I learned
much from him and his work about race and racism, and about being cheerful
in the face of so much wrong in the academy. Victor is my surrogate academic
father. I thank Bill Condon, my other mentor, who introduced me to the field
of writing assessment. He was often on my shoulder as I wrote and revised drafts
of this book. His broad smile and his gentle deep voice is always guiding me. I
thank Norbert Elliot, who in subtle ways always gives me things to learn, some
of which ended up in this book. I thank Mya Poe, my PIC, my friend, and from
whom I’ve learned so much. I feel so fortunate to work with her, even though
we are usually on two different coasts. I thank Chris Anderson, my first mentor,
friend, and colleague from Oregon State University, whom I asked to read an
earlier version of the book and who gave me valuable and important ideas. His
kind and careful feedback was instrumental in making this book what it is. He
was also one of my first teacher models in college, one who taught me that cultivating a compassionate ear is always the best pedagogical stance to take. I also
wish to thank the incredible folks at Parlor Press and the WAC Clearinghouse,
Mike Palmquist and his editorial team who made this manuscript sparkle; Sue
McLeod, my editor, who was wonderful, encouraging and helpful.
Thank you to my twin brother, Tadayoshi L. Inoue, who has supported,
loved, helped, and challenged me my entire life. I am always and ever-mindful
of how deeply blessed and fortunate every minute of my life has been (I was
born four minutes after my brother) to be a twin, and know twin-love. He has
been the rock I have always had the privilege and good fortune to stand on and
next to.
And then there are a number of folks who helped me along the way through
conversations and emails: Tom Fox, who read the entire manuscript, gave me
thoughtful and insightful ideas that made the book better in tangible ways; Carmen Kynard, who always has good things to say and encouragement to offer;
vii

Acknowledgments

Vershawn A. Young, my dear friend whom I can count on to push me and question everything; and Chris Gallagher, who offered crucial ideas to the guiding
metaphor of the book (ecology) in a 45-minute meeting we had at Cs in Las
Vegas. That meeting was the tipping point for me in thinking about the book
and what it should ultimately be.
I offer a very special thanks to my graduate students at Fresno State, who
were a constant source of inspiration, ideas, critiques, and joy while I was there.
They taught and gave me more than I feel I ever offered them. And finally, I
thank my undergraduate students at Fresno State, especially the students in my
Fall 2012, English 160W course that make up much of Chapter 4, who often
needed to have a lot of faith in me and what I asked of them. I am grateful for
the labor and trust that each year my students give me and our classes. They are
why I do what I do, and what makes my career, research, and life possible. I learn
how to learn from them every year.

viii

ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES:
TEACHING AND ASSESSING
WRITING FOR A SOCIALLY
JUST FUTURE

INTRODUCTION: WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES AS
ANTIRACIST PROJECTS
How does a college writing instructor investigate racism in his classroom
writing assessment practices, then design writing assessments so that racism is
not only avoided but antiracism is promoted? What I mean is how does a teacher
not only do no harm through his writing assessments, but promote social justice
and equality? In the broadest sense, this is what this book is about. It’s about
theorizing and practicing antiracist writing assessments in classrooms.
My assumption is that writing teachers should carefully construct the writing
assessment ecology of their classrooms both theoretically and materially. In fact,
we should continuously theorize and practice writing assessment simultaneously. So this book is about antiracist classroom writing assessment as theory and
a set of practices that are productive for all students and teachers. I realize that
thinking about race or racism in one’s pedagogy and assessment practices will
rub some readers wrong. They will say we need to move past race. It’s not real,
so we shouldn’t use it theoretically or otherwise in our assessment practices. I do
not deny that race is not real, that there is no biological basis for it, but biology
is not the only criterion for considering something as real, or important, or
worth discussing and addressing in our assessments. Because of this important
concern by many who might read this book, I dedicate the first three chapters
to addressing it in several ways. I think all would agree that we want classroom
writing assessments to be antiracist, regardless of how we individually feel this
project can be accomplished. This book is my attempt at finding a way toward
this worthy end.
My main audience for this book are graduate students, writing teachers, and
writing program administrators (WPAs) who wish to find ways to address racism
in their classroom writing assessment practices, even those who may not be sure
if such phenomena exist. In other words, I have in mind writing teachers who
wish to cultivate antiracist writing assessments in their writing classrooms. Thus
there are two strands in this book of interest to writing teachers: one concerns
defining holistically classroom writing assessment for any writing teacher, which
can lead to better designed and implemented writing assessments in classrooms;
and one is about theorizing writing assessment in ways that can help teachers
cultivate antiracist agendas in their writing assessment practices. In my mind,
these are really the same goals. We cannot do one without the other. If we are
3

Introduction

to enact helpful, educative, and fair writing assessments with our students, given the history of whiteness and all dominant academic discourses promoted in
schools and disciplines, we must understand our writing assessments as antiracist projects, which means they are ecological projects, ones about sustainability
and fairness, about antiracist practices and effects.
Thus all writing teachers need some kind of explicit language about writing
assessment in order to create classroom writing assessments that do all the things
we ask of them in writing courses, and have the ability to continually (re)theorize and practice them better. Additionally, I see an audience in teachers who are
looking to understand how to assess fairly the writing of their diverse student
populations, which include multilingual populations, working class students,
disabled students, etc. More specifically, I am interested in offering a usable
theory of writing assessment that helps teachers design and implement writing
assessments that are socially just for everyone. My focus, however, will be racism.
I realize that race and racism are different things. Race is a construct. It’s not
real. But there are structures in our society and educational institutions that are
racial. These structures help construct racial formations in the ways that Omi
and Winant (1994) explain, which I’ll discuss in Chapter 1.
Racism, on the other hand, is real. It is experienced daily, often in unseen
ways, but always felt. We may call the racism we see something else, like the
product of laziness, or just the way things are, or the result of personal choices,
or economics, but it is racism. There are social patterns that can be detected.
Thus, I do not use racism as a term that references personal prejudice or bigotry.
I’m not concerned with that kind of racism in this book. I’m concerned with
structural racism, the institutional kind, the kind that makes many students of
color like me when I was younger believe that their failures in school were purely
due to their own lacking in ability, desire, or work ethic. Racism seen and understood as structural, instead, reveals the ways that systems, like the ecology of the
classroom, already work to create failure in particular places and associate it with
particular bodies. While this book could focus on any number of dimensions
that construct diversity in our classrooms, I have chosen race (and antiracism as
a goal) because it has salience for me as a teacher, past student, and scholar. I am
a teacher of color, a former working class student of color, who attended mostly
or all-white classrooms in state universities. Racism was a part of the scene of
teaching and learning for me, a part of my day-to-day life. I know it still exists,
even in writing classrooms where good, conscientious teachers work.
But this could be my own demon, my own perceptions of things. Why articulate a theory of writing assessment around antiracism and suggest others use
it? Why not let the second half of the book’s title, teaching and assessing for a
socially just future, be the main subject of the book? Beyond the ethical need to
4

Introduction

eradicate racism in our classrooms, racism is a phenomenon easily translatable
to other social phenomena that come from other kinds of diversity in our classrooms (e.g., gender, sexual orientation, religious affiliation, linguistic differences, ethnic differences, disability, etc.). The dynamics are similar even though the
histories of oppression are different. These other dimensions, of course, intersect
and create what we often think of when we think of race, because race isn’t real.
It’s fluid and broad. It’s a construct we see into the system, which at this point
the system (re)constructs through these other structures, like economics and
linguistic differences (from a dominant norm). So the ways race and racism
function in writing assessment, in my mind, epitomize larger questions around
fairness and justice. Furthermore in the U.S., the default setting on most conversations, even about justice and fairness, is to avoid the racial, avoid speaking
of racism. So I choose not to. The conversation needs to happen. It hasn’t in
writing assessment circles.
I’m mindful of Stephanie Kerschbaum’s (2014) work on the rhetoric of difference in the academy. I realize I could be engaging in what she calls “taxonomizing difference,” a theorizing that often “refuses to treat racial and ethnic
categories as monolithic or governed by stereotypes by recognizing the variation
within categories,” but the categories offered tend to be “relatively static referents” (p. 8). This denies the individual ways that students exist and interact in
language and in classrooms. Or I could be engaging in what Kerschbaum calls
“categorical redefinition,” which “focuses on producing more refined and careful
interpretations within a specific category”(2014, p. 10), for example, my insistence throughout this book on seeing the Asian Pacific American students at
Fresno State as primarily Hmong students. Both rhetorics of difference, according to Kerschbaum, can allow the researcher or teacher to place identifications
and associate cultural and linguistic attributes to students instead of allowing
any differences, and their nuances within supposed racial or ethnic categories,
to emerge through actual interactions (2014, p. 9). So one dance I attempt in
this book is to talk about race and racism in writing assessments without forgetting that every individual embodies their racial identity in unique linguistic
and other ways. But there are patterns. We must not lose them in our attempt
to acknowledge individuality.
More important, if you can see the way racism is one product of all writing
assessments, then you can see the way biases against non-heterosexual orientations might be, or certain religious affiliations, or gender bias, or economic
bias. The dynamics are similar. They are all dynamics of power, but they are not
historically the same, and they are not just about bias or attitudes toward people. I’m not, however, suggesting that these dimensions of difference are equal
in social weight or consequences, that the oppression experienced and felt by
5

Introduction

students who proclaim a Christian identity is on par with the issues that male
African-American students on the same campus face, nor am I suggesting that
any of these dimensions are separable. Of course, we cannot simply think of a
student as one-dimensional, as her race, or her gender, or her sexual orientation,
or her class upbringing. All these dimensions intersect and influence each other,
creating individuals within groups who are as unique and different from each
other within a racial formation as they are from those of other social groups.
Kimberle Williams Crenshaw (1991) explains this phenomenon as “intersectionality,” a dynamic of oppression in which multiple structures intersect, such
as issues of class, economics, culture, and race. So when I speak of race in this
book, I’m thinking in localized terms, ones that assume local racial formations’
economic and other patterns as much as I’m thinking of racial structures. So
while this creates diversity within locally diverse populations, we can still find
patterns in those populations, as well as a few exceptions. The patterns come
mostly from the structures people work in, and particular racial formations tend
to be affected and moved by particular structures. This creates the racialized patterns. So I’m not interested in the exceptions, only the patterns. As a culture, we
(the U.S.) focus too much on exceptions, often fooling ourselves into believing
that because there are exceptions, the rule no longer exists or that it’s easily broken by anyone with enough willpower or hutzpah.
In popular culture and talk, race is often a synecdoche for a person’s physiognomy, heritage, culture, and language, even though these things cannot be
known by knowing someone’s self-identified racial designation, or by their
physical appearance, or some other marker of race. Race is also easily seen by
most people as a construct that should not be held against a student, nor should
it be used to judge the merits of their labors, yet few deny that most large-scale
writing assessments are racist, or at least reveal different performance patterns
that are detected when results are disaggregated by racial formation. Many have
already discussed the negative effects of various writing assessments on students
of color (Fox, 1999; Inoue & Poe, 2012a, 2012b; Soliday, 2002; Sternglass,
1997; White & Thomas, 1981). Others have investigated the effects of a variety of large-scale tests on students of color (Hong & Youngs, 2008; Jencks &
Phillips, 1998; Madaus & Clarke, 2001; Orfield & Kornhaber, 2001; Plata,
1995). We can find racist effects in just about every writing program in the
country. We live in a racist society, one that recreates well-known, well-understood, racial hierarchies in populations based on things like judgments of
student writing that use a local Standardized Edited American English (SEAE)1
with populations of people who do not use that discourse on a daily basis—
judging apples by the standards of oranges. Racism has always been a part of

6

Introduction

writing assessment at all levels.
Some may argue that I’m painting this picture of racism in writing assessments, in writing classroom assessments particularly, too broadly. I’m lumping
the accurate judgment of performance of say some Blacks who do not perform
well into the same category of writing assessments as those assessments that may
exhibit cultural, linguistic, or racial bias in the judgments or decisions made. To
put it bluntly, the argument is that sometimes students do not write well, and
they should be evaluated accordingly, and sometimes those who do not write
well will be Black or Latino or multilingual. Just because a writing assessment
produces patterns of failure or low performance by students of color who participate in it doesn’t mean the assessment is racist. This is an important argument.
I do not argue to let students slide academically because they happen to be by
luck of birth a student of color.
On the other hand, I see a problem with this argument. Why do more Blacks,
Latinos, and multilingual students relatively speaking perform worse on writing
assessments than their white peers in writing classrooms? At Fresno State, for
instance, between 2009-2012, the average failure rate for Blacks in the first-year
writing program was 17.46%, while the average failure rate for whites for the
same years was 7.3% (Inoue, 2014b, p. 339). Whites have the lowest failure rates
of all racial formations, and this is after the program revised itself completely in
part to address such issues. That is, these are better numbers than in the years
before. I realize that there are many ways to fail a writing class beyond being
judged to write poorly, but these internally consistently higher numbers that are
consistent with other writing programs suggest more, suggest that we cannot let
such numbers pass us by just because we can assume that teachers are not biased.
I’m not saying we assume bias or prejudice. I’m saying let’s assume there is
no bias, no prejudice. Now, how do we read those numbers? What plausible
assumptions can we make that help us make sense of these data, what rival hypotheses can be made? Do we assume that more Blacks, Latinos/as, and Asians at
Fresno State are lazier or worse writers than their white peers? Is it the case that
on average Blacks, Latinos/as, and Asians at Fresno State simply do not write as
well as their white peers, that there is some inherent or cultural problem with the
way these racial formations write? Or could it be that the judgments made on all
writing are biased toward a discourse that privileges whites consistently because
it is a discourse of whiteness? Could the writing assessment ecologies be racist?
I am mindful of the concern in the psychometric literature that mean scores
(like those I cite above) do not necessarily constitute test bias (Jensen 1976;
Reynolds, 1982a, 1982b; Thorndike, 1971). I’m not concerned, however, with
test bias in the psychometric sense, which amounts either to intentional bias
on the part of teachers, or a disregard for actual differences that do or do not
7

Introduction

exist among populations of people (Inoue & Poe, 2012b, p. 352; Reynolds,
1982a, p. 213). In one sense, I’m concerned with writing assessment as a much
larger thing, as an ecology that is more than a test or an essay or a portfolio or a
grade or a rubric. I’m concerned with what might broadly be called fairness in
the ecology , which is a measure of its sustainability. In an important article on
how legal definitions of disparate impact can be used to understand assessment
consequences, Poe, Elliot, Cogan, & Nurudeen explain fairness: “the Standards
for Educational and Psychological Testing provide four principal ways in which
the term fairness is used: lack of bias; equitable treatment in the testing process;
equality in testing outcomes; and the opportunity to learn” (2014, p. 592). I’m
most concerned with the second, third, and fourth items, but the first is also a
concern, only not in terms of individuals but bias in the ecology. For Poe and
her colleagues, they see much of fairness in assessments hinging on whether an
assessment has disparate impact, which can be understood through an assessment’s methods. They explain:
the unintended racial differences in outcomes resulting from
facially neutral policies or practices that on the surface seem
neutral. Because discrimination flows from the test design,
process, or use of test scores, rather than from the intent of
the test giver, disparate impact analysis focuses on the consequences of specific testing practices. (2014, p. 593)
In the end, Poe et al. see that “good decisions about our writing assessment practices for all students means attending to the various ways that we understand the
impact of assessment on our students” (2014, p. 605). Yes. This is the impetus
for antiracist writing assessment ecologies, fairness.
But wait, aren’t we talking about the academic discourse that we’ve all agreed
students must come to approximate if they are to be successful in college and
elsewhere. This is what Bartholomae (1985) has discussed, and that perhaps
more students of color have a harder time approximating than their white peers.
If we are beyond the old-fashion bigotry and bias, then what we are saying is
that there is something wrong with the academic discourse itself, something
wrong with judging everyone against an academic discourse that clearly privileges middle class white students. In fact, there’s something wrong with judgment
itself in writing classrooms. Is this racism though? Is promoting a local SEAE or
a dominant discourse that clearly benefits those who can use it properly, a racist
practice?2 When you’re born into a society that has such histories of racism as we
have, no matter what you think, what you do personally, you will participate in
racist structures if you are a part of larger institutions like education, like the discipline of composition studies, or the teaching of writing in college. This doesn’t
8

Introduction

make us bad people, but it does mean we must rethink how we assess writing, if
we want to address the racism.
What should be clear at this beginning point is that racism is still here with
us in our classrooms. You don’t have to actively try to be racist for your writing
assessments to be racist. As Victor Villanueva (2006) explains in an article about
writing centers, we don’t live in a post-racial society. We live in one that has a
“new racism,” one that uses different terms to accomplish the same old racial
hierarchies and pathways of oppression and opportunity. We cannot eradicate
racism in our writing classrooms until we actually address it first in our writing
assessments, and our theories about what makes up our writing assessments.
Baring a few exceptions, composition studies and writing assessment as fields of
study have not focused enough attention on racism in classroom writing assessment. In the following pages, I attempt to make racism a more central concern
in thinking about and designing classroom writing assessment.

MY PURPOSE AND SCOPE
This book attempts to theorize and illustrate an antiracist writing assessment
theory for the college writing classroom by theorizing writing assessment as an
ecology, a complex system made up of several interconnected elements. I ask:
how can a conscientious writing teacher understand and engage in her classroom
writing assessments as an antiracist project with her locally diverse students? My
answer is to see classroom writing assessment as an ecology with explicit features,
namely a quality of more than, interconnectedness among everything and everyone in the ecology, and an explicit racial politics that students must engage with.
Additionally, this antiracist assessment ecology contains seven elements that can
be reflected upon and manipulated. This means that when we design our writing courses, we must think first about how writing assessment will exist and
function in the course, how it constructs the ecology that students and teachers
work and live in, how it is sustainable and fair. In fact, I assume that all writing
pedagogy is driven by the writing assessment ecology of the classroom, no matter what a teacher has done or how she thinks about her pedagogy, no matter
what readings are discussed. Classroom writing assessment is more important
than pedagogy because it always trumps what you say or what you attempt to do
with your students. And students know this. They feel it. Additionally, writing
assessment drives learning and the outcomes of a course. What students take
from a writing course may not be solely because of the assessments in the course,
but assessment always plays a central role, and good assessment, assessment that
is healthy, fair, equitable, and sustainable for all students, determines the most

9

Introduction

important learning around writing and reading in a course.
In Chapters 1 and 2, I lay some groundwork for a theory of antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies that addresses diversity and racial formations,
and explain the metaphor of ecology. In Chapter 1, I discuss the importance
of the concept of race as a nexus of power relations and the significance of racial formations in the U.S., defining racial habitus in the process. I identify
specifically the hegemonic, the white racial habitus that is pervasive in writing
classrooms and their dominant discourses. Additionally, I define racism, since
it figures importantly in antiracist writing assessment ecologies. The focus on a
white racial habitus, however, is important in understanding how writing assessment ecologies can be antiracist projects because it focuses attention on dispositions in writing and reading that are separate from the white body, structures
that reproduce themselves in a variety of ways, yet historically these dispositions
are associated with the white body. I end the chapter by defining local diversities, since diversity itself is a term fraught with problems, one of which is that
it means such a broad range of things depending on what school or classroom
one is referring to. I focus on racial diversity and give examples of locally diverse
student populations at Fresno State in order to demonstrate the usefulness of
the term. If classroom writing assessment ecologies are a way to conceive of
antiracist assessment projects, then a clearly understood notion of local racial
diversity is needed.
In Chapter 2, I theorize antiracist classroom writing assessment using Freire’s
problem-posing pedagogy, post-process theory, Buddhist theory, and Marxian
theory. The chapter defines antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies in
three ways, as “more than” their parts, as productive, even limitless in what students can do and learn; as a system that is characterized by the interconnectedness of all that makes up assessment; and as a Marxian historic bloc, which uses
Gramsci’s famous articulation of the concept. Ultimately, I show how antiracist
writing assessment ecologies provide for sustainable and fair ways to assess locally diverse students and writing, ways that focus on asking students to problematize their existential writing assessment situations by investigating the nature of
judgment. These investigations compare a white racial habitus to those found in
the classroom among students.
In Chapters 3, 4, and 5, I detail the elements that make up classroom writing assessment ecologies, use the theory to explicate my own classroom writing
assessment practices, and offer a heuristic based on the ecological elements that
can help teachers reflect upon and design their own antiracist classroom writing
assessment ecologies. In Chapter 3, I explain the elements of a classroom writing
assessment ecology. These elements can be used to explain, parse, and design
any ecology. These seven elements are power, parts, purposes, people, processes,
10

Introduction

products, and places. Understood in particular ways, these elements offer richly
explanatory potential for teachers. Among them are relationships that can also
be explored in a similar way that Kenneth Burke (1969) describes ratios between
elements in his dramatistic pentad. Seeing the relationships between elements in
a writing assessment ecology can help students and teachers consider local consequences of the assessment ecology they co-construct. My discussion of these
ecological elements is not meant to replace terms like validity or reliability, but
enhance them, particularly for the writing classroom. I do not, however, attempt
to make these connections or elaborations, as I believe writing teachers do not
need such elaborations to design good, antiracist writing assessment ecologies,
nor do their students need such language to participate and shape those ecologies.
In Chapter 4, I illustrate my theory of writing assessment as ecology by using
it to describe and explain my own classroom, a writing course I taught in the
fall of 2012 at Fresno State. I look most closely at several students’ movement
through the ecology from initial weeks to exiting the course, showing the way
they reacted to the ecology and its unique writing assessment elements. I show
how an antiracist ecological theory of writing assessment informs my class design, and helps me see what students understand and experience as more fully
human beings, and what products they leave the ecology with. While I do not
argue that my course was able to create an antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology, it comes close and offers insights into one. Ultimately, I argue
that much can be gained by teachers and students when they think of their
classrooms as antiracist writing assessment ecologies more explicitly, and I suggest ways that my classroom begins to do the antiracist work I encourage in this
book.
In the final chapter, I offer a heuristic for antiracist writing assessment ecologies that I hope will be generative for writing teachers. The heuristic distills
the previous chapters’ ideas into a usable set of questions that may help teachers
design and test their own antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies. The
heuristic is based on the discussion from Chapter 2 and the seven elements from
Chapter 3. While I offer an extensive set of questions, they are only meant to
be generative, not exhaustive. This closing discussion offers ways to think about
the heuristic and what it offers and what critique the heuristic may provide to
conventional writing assessment ecologies. I close the book with a few stories of
writing assessment ecologies from my own past as a child and young adult in
hopes that they reveal why racism and whiteness are important to consider in
any classroom writing assessment ecology.
My project in this book, then, is to think holistically about what classroom
writing assessment is or could be for teachers and students. It’s about seeing
11

Introduction

classroom writing assessment in its entirety, not just parts of it, which we often
do when discussing it. While I’ll suggest here and there ways to think about
writing assessment in large-scale settings, even use a few large-scale writing assessment examples, such as placement decisions or high stakes tests, large-scale
writing assessment design, implementation, or validation are not the focus of
this book. I do believe that an ecological theory of classroom writing assessment
offers ideas toward large-scale writing assessment and its validation, but I am
not engaging with discussions of large-scale writing assessment or its validity in
the way that others have concerning cultural validity (e.g., Huot, 2002; Inoue,
2007, 2009c; Messick, 1989; Moss et al., 2008; Murphy, 2007; Ruth & Murphy, 1988).
In one sense, I am gathering together in one place vocabulary that writing
assessment folks have used in various ways for years. We just haven’t put it down
in one place, assembled everything together to show what the entire ecology looks
like and how it is experienced by students and writing teachers. We certainly haven’t named it as an ecology, or considered it as an antiracist project. The closest
we come is Ed White’s Teaching and Assessing Writing (1994), but his account
avoids a detailed discussion of race, cultural diversity, or multilingualism. And
his discussion isn’t about theorizing classroom writing assessment as a whole, or
as an antiracist project. White is more practical. This is just as true for White’s
Assigning, Responding, Evaluating: A Writing Teacher’s Guide (2007). Both are important introductions for teachers and WPAs when designing classroom writing
assessments, or program assessments, but they don’t attempt to theorize classroom writing assessment holistically and as an antiracist project in the way I do
in this book. They don’t draw on any literature outside of writing assessment or
composition studies to make sense of race, racism, or whiteness, as I do.
One might argue that my project does not create new theory or understandings about writing assessment or its validation, classroom or otherwise. It simply
repackages the same theory already adequately described by others applying yet
another set of terms, ecological ones that are unnecessary. This is not true. By
recasting writing assessment as an antiracist classroom ecology, I offer insights
into writing assessments as complex systems that must be thought of as such,
revealing them as more than what they seem, and suggesting what we might do
better tomorrow, especially if we want to promote antiracist agendas. Understanding classroom writing assessment as an ecology that can be designed and
cultivated shows that the assessment of writing is not simply a decision about
whether to use a portfolio or not, or what rubric to used. It is about cultivating
and nurturing complex systems that are centrally about sustaining fairness and
diverse complexity.
While a teacher could use a theory of writing assessment as ecology without
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Introduction

having an antiracist agenda for her classroom, I have couched my discussion in
these terms because an antiracist agenda in the writing classroom is important
and salient to me and many others. Some writing assessment theorists would
speak of this goal in terms of designing a classroom writing assessment that is
valid enough for the decisions a classroom teacher intends to make, say to determine a course grade and a student’s readiness for the next course. They might
speak of bias or disparate impact. I have purposefully stayed away from such
language, although I have engaged in that theorizing in other places by discussing the way writing assessment can be theorized as a rhetorical act that can be
mapped to the ancient Hellenic discussions of nomos-physis (Inoue, 2007), and
by discussing writing assessment as a technology that helps us see racial validity
(Inoue, 2009c).
However, I have found that many writing teachers are turned off by the
language of psychometrics, and it doesn’t make any clearer what we need to do
in the classroom, nor does it help students understand their roles and responsibilities in the ecology without a lot of reading into the literature of educational
measurement and psychometrics. Additionally, these discussions are more concerned with program assessment, not classroom writing assessment, the main
difference being that the latter is conducted exclusively by teachers and students
for their purposes, purposes of learning. So using the language of psychometrics
and educational measurement is not directly helpful for classroom writing assessment, even though it could be. A different set of accessible terms are needed
for teachers and students. In fact, the old psychometric terms can be a barrier for
many teachers to thinking carefully about classroom writing assessment because
most are not familiar with them and many see them connected to positivistic
world views about language and judgment.
I have been tempted to use the language that Patricia Lynne (2004) uses to
help redefine the psychometric terms used in writing assessment, which agree
better with the common social constructivist assumptions that most in literacy studies, English studies, and composition studies hold about language and
meaning. Lynne’s terms are “meaningfulness” and “ethicalness,” which she uses
to replace the psychometric concepts of validity and reliability. Lynne explains
that meaningfulness references the “significance of the assessment” and “structures the relationships among the object(s) of writing assessment, the purposes
of that assessment and the circumstances in which the assessment takes place”
(2004, p. 117). Meaningfulness urges two questions for teachers to ask: “why is
the assessment productive or necessary or appropriate?” and “what [do] assessors
want to know and what [do] they need to do to satisfy their defined purposes?”
(Lynne, 2004, p. 124, 125).
Ethicalness, on the other hand, “addresses the broad political and social is13

Introduction

sues surrounding assessment,” and “organizes and provides principles for understanding the conduct of the participants and the procedures for evaluation”
(Lynne, 2004, p. 118). It can urge writing teachers to ask: “who is involved
in the decision-making?” and “what procedures will the assessment requir[e]?”
(Lynne, 2004, p. 138). Lynne’s terms are perhaps more usable and friendly to
writing teachers generally, but they don’t explicitly account for all of the elements that move in and constitute any ecology, elements that writing teachers
should be aware of since they are part of the ecology’s design. These terms also do
not account for the relationships among elements in an assessment that make it
more fittingly an ecology. As Lynne’s questions suggest, her terms account for an
assessment’s purposes, people, power (politics), and processes (procedures), but
not explicitly or systematically, not in interconnected ways, and it could be easy
to ignore or take for granted the parts, products, and places within classroom
writing assessment ecologies. Most important, Lynne’s terms do not account for
whiteness, or the ways local diversities complicate the judging of writing by a
single standard, even though her terms could.
If there is one ecological element that may be the best synecdoche for the
entire ecology, it is place. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies, at their core,
(re)create places for sustainable learning and living. This is their primary function, to create places, and I think we would do well to cultivate such assessment
ecologies that self-consciously do this. Ultimately, I hope to show less conventional ways of understanding and enacting classroom writing assessment, since
conventional ways have not worked well in reducing the racial hierarchies and
inequalities we continue to see in schools and writing classrooms. Conventional
writing assessment practices rarely if ever dismantle the racism in our classrooms
and schools because they do not address whiteness in the dominant discourse as
hegemonic and students’ relationship to it.
Let me be very clear. Racism in schools and college writing courses is still
pervasive because most if not all writing courses, including my own in the past,
promote or value first a local SEAE and a dominant white discourse, even when
they make moves to value and honor the discourses of all students, as the Conference on College Composition and Communication’s statement of Students’
Right to Their Own Language asserts (CCCC, 1974; reaffirmed in 2003). I will
discuss in Chapter 1 why this is still the case, although given what we can easily
see in SAT scores, college admissions, and failure rates in writing programs, the
case is made by the racialized results we live with today, where students of color
do worse than their white peers. And unlike many teachers who see critical pedagogies alone as the way toward liberation and social justice for students of color
and multilingual students, I see things differently. The problems of racism in
writing classrooms are not primarily pedagogical problems to solve alone. Rac14

Introduction

ism is an assessment problem, which can only be fully solved by changing the system
of assessment, by changing the classroom writing assessment ecology. Thus assessment
must be reconceived as an antiracist ecology.
But when I say “writing assessment,” what exactly am I talking about in
this book? For writing teachers, I’ve found no better way to describe the range
of judging that teachers do than Stephen Tchudi’s (1997) description in his
introduction to Alternatives to Grading Student Writing. Tchudi characterizes the
degrees of freedom in various acts of judging student writing, which move from
a high degree of freedom and low degree of institutional pressure in acts of
responding to a limited degree of freedom and high degree of institutional pressure in grading. He offers four basic acts of judging, which I refer to generally in
this book as “writing assessment”:
• Response. “naturalistic, multidimensional, audience-centered, individualized, richly descriptive, uncalculated”;
• Assessment. “multidimensional, descriptive/analytic, authentic,
problem solving, here-and-now, contextualized criteria, formative/process-oriented”;
• Evaluation. “semi-deminsional, judgmental, external criteria, descriptive/analytic, rank ordering, future directed, standardized, summative”;
• Grading. “one-dimensional, rewards/punishments, rank ordering, not
descriptive, a priori criteria, future directed, one-symbol summative”
(Tchudi, 1997, p. xiii)
Thus when I refer to activities, processes, judgments, or decisions of assessment, I’m speaking mainly of the above known kinds of judgment, which all
begin with processes and acts of reading. As you can see from Tchudi’s descriptions, response is freer and more open than assessment, which offers an analytic
aspect to judgments on writing but less freedom than responses. Meanwhile,
evaluation is even more restrictive by being more judgmental and summative
than assessment, while grading is the most limited of them all, since it is one-dimensional and not descriptive.
We must be careful with using such distinctions, however. Thinking about
classroom writing assessment as essentially a kind of judgment or decision whose
nature is different depending on how much freedom or institutional pressure
exists in the judgment misses an important aspect of all classroom writing assessment that my ecological theory reveals. All of the above kinds of judgments
are based on processes of reading student texts. Assessment as an act is at its core
an act of reading. It is a particular kind of labor that teachers and students do in
particular material places, among particular people. This means that the nature
of any kind of judgment and the institutional pressure present is contingent on
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Introduction

the ecology that produces it and the ecologies that surround that ecology. So
while these distinctions are useful, they become fuzzier in actual practice.

WHY ECOLOGY AND AN ANTIRACISM AGENDA?
You may be wondering, what am I adding to the good work of writing assessment folks like Brian Huot, Peggy O’Neill, Bob Broad, Ed White, Bill Condon,
Kathleen Yancey, and others who have written about writing assessment in the
classroom? While very good, very conscientious scholars and teachers who have
much to teach us about validity, reliability, the nature of judgment, portfolios,
and reflection (self-assessment), none of these scholars use any race theory, postcolonial theory, whiteness theory, or Marxian theory to address racism in writing
assessments of any kind, but especially writing assessments in the classroom. To
date, I have seen nothing in the literature that incorporates a robust racial theory, Marxian theory, postcolonial theory, or a theory of whiteness to a theorizing
or practical treatment of classroom writing assessment. My ecological theory of
writing assessment incorporates such theories because such theories offer a way
to understand the ecology of people, environments, their relationships, and the
politics involved.
Thus what I address is the fact that students of color, which includes multilingual students, are often hurt by conventional writing assessment that uncritically uses a dominant discourse, which is informed by an unnamed white racial
habitus, which we see better when we use analytical tools like postcolonial theory,
whiteness studies, and Marxian theory. A theory of writing assessment as ecology
adds these theories to our thinking about classroom writing assessments. Thus it
doesn’t matter if teachers or readers see or read student writing with prejudice or
with a preference for whiteness in their classrooms. It doesn’t matter at all. What
matters is that the assessment ecology produces particular results, determines (in
the Marxian sense) particular products, reinforcing particular outcomes, which
make racist cause and effect difficult (even impossible) to discern. What matters
is that writing teachers and students not only have a vocabulary for thinking
about writing assessment in its most complete way, but that that vocabulary be
informed by other pertinent theories. Having such a vocabulary offers explicit
and self-conscious ways to problematize students’ writing assessment situations,
a central activity in antiracist writing assessment ecologies.
I’ve made a bold claim above about some very fine writing assessment scholars, so let me illustrate how racism in writing assessment often gets treated (or
avoided) by scholars and researchers by considering one very good writing assessment scholar, Brian Huot, one we would all do well to listen to carefully. My
goal is not to demean the fine work of Huot. In fact, I am inspired by his trail16

Introduction

blazing, by his articulation of key connections between writing assessment and
student learning, and his advocacy for composition studies as a field to know
more about the literature of writing assessment (mostly the psychometric and
educational measurement literature) in order to do our work better, but I argue
that we must now cut a broader trail, one that offers us additional theories that
help us explicitly understand racism in writing assessment.
In his important work (Re)Articulating Writing Assessment for Teaching and
Learning, Brian Huot (2002) discusses writing assessment as a field and a set
of classroom practices. In Chapters 3 and 5, he focuses explicitly on classroom
writing assessment. In Chapter 3, he argues convincingly that writing teachers
need to teach students how to assess writing themselves in order to help students
become better writers. He says, “[a] crucial missing element in most writing
pedagogy is any experience or instruction in ascertaining the value of one’s own
work” (2002, p. 67). In short, we must teach assessment to students, so that they
can understand the nature of judgment and value, which in return makes them
more critical and effective writers. To do this, he promotes what he calls “instructive evaluation,” which “involves the student in the process of evaluation …
in all phases of the assessment of her work” (2002, p. 69). Instructive evaluation
focuses attention on how judgments are made through the processes of reading student texts. In many important ways, I have tried to take up Huot’s call
by engaging students in the full cycle of writing assessment through a cycle of
rubric creating, drafting, judging, revising, and reflecting on the ways students
read and make judgments on peer’s texts (Inoue, 2004). I call it “community-based assessment pedagogy,” and I still use a version of it today, which I show
in Chapter 4. I extended this pedagogy by arguing for writing teachers to teach
the rhetoric of writing assessment (Inoue, 2010), which offers students ways to
understand the nature of valuing and judgment, which provides them with ways
to write from more critical and informed stances. So Huot—and particularly
(Re)Articulating—has helped me to understand a long-term pedagogical and
scholarly project, of which the present book is a continuation.
But in his discussion of teaching assessment to students, or involving them
in the full cycle of assessment, there is no mention of the ways that the judgments possible or the dominant discourse that informs those judgments are already constructed by racial structures, for instance, a white racial habitus, or
a dominant white discourse, which we might for now understand as a set of
linguistic codes and textual markers that are often not a part of the discourses of
many students of color, working class students, and multilingual students, but is
a part of many white, middle-class students’ discourses.
To illustrate, imagine that we are Olympic-level sprinters, and we’ve been
tasked to bring together all the athletes from the Olympic games in order to
17

Introduction

determine how good of an athlete everyone is by measuring how fast everyone
runs a 400-meter sprint. We use this measure because it seems a good measure
to us. We are conscientious and caring. We really are trying to be fair-minded to
all so we judge everyone by the same standard, but we only know how to judge
a 400-meter sprint. It’s what we know. Sure, we will do fine. Sprinters will be
judged highly, but what of those curlers, or the snowboarders, or the swimmers,
or the archers, or the skiers, or the tennis players, or the water polo players, or
the wrestlers? You get the idea. In the name of finding a consistent (i.e., fair) way
to judge everyone by the same standard, we have made an unfair assessment of
athletic prowess by narrowing our definition of what it means to be an athlete,
by ignoring the diversity of athleticism. Racism in the writing classroom often
works in similar ways. We define “good” writing in standard ways that have historically been informed by a white discourse, even though we are working from
a premise that attempts fairness.
In fact, when writing classroom assessments do not account for whiteness
or the dominant discourse’s relation to various racial formations in the class,
and that discourse is used to make judgments on writing and writers, racism
is bound to happen. It is systemic that way. Consider Huot’s closing words on
using assessment to teach writing:
Using assessment to teach requires the additional steps of
having students apply discussions of writing quality to their
individual texts or compile criteria for individual papers that
they can discuss with a teacher or peer group. Students can
only learn the power of assessment as they can other important features of learning to write—within the context of their
own work. Learning how to assess entails more than applying
stock phrases like unity, details, development, or organization
to a chart or scoring guideline. Students and teachers can use
these ideas to talk about the rhetorical demands of an emergent text, so that students could learn how to develop their
own critical judgments about writing. This creation of a classroom pedagogy for assessment should provide students with
a clearer idea about how text is evaluated, and it should work
against often nebulous, underdeveloped, and unarticulated
ideas they have about why they like a certain piece of writing
or make certain revisions. (2002, p. 78)
Certainly, this is a good way to understand writing assessment in the classroom
as pedagogical in very tangible ways, important ways, ways that as I’ve mentioned above I’ve been inspired by. I’m invested in this kind of pedagogy of
18

Introduction

assessment. I do not knock this aspect of Huot’s ideas: that we teach students
how to understand the nature of judgment in informed ways, ways that begin
with their own writing, but the above articulation avoids discussing race as an
important part of the student’s subjectivity as a reader and writer, and thus as an
important part of the inquiry into the nature of judgment.
Given this, I pose a question: when students discuss writing quality or compile criteria for a rubric, when they use ideas like “unity, details, development, or
organization” to “talk about the rhetorical demands of an emergent text” as more
than “stock phrases” —all excellent things to do—how will they negotiate the
ways that any “text is evaluated” against a dominant white discourse? How will
they confront the fact that most of the time evaluation, whether it’s a teacher’s
or students’, in a writing course means a set of hegemonic dispositions toward
texts? How will they understand past or present evaluations of texts, of their own
texts, as more than an individual’s failure to meet expectations or goals, but also
as a confluence of many other structures in language, school, and society, forming expectations they (and their teacher) have little control over?
While I do not think Huot means for this to happen, I can see how a class
that engages in such a pedagogy can easily turn into a class that asks students to
approximate the academic dispositions of the academy (whatever that may mean
for that class) without any explicit way of interrogating the system that asks for
such texts, or such evaluation of texts. I can see the course missing important opportunities to interrogate the dominant discourse as normative, or interrogating
the hegemonic ways of evaluating texts in classrooms, some of which are rhetorical in nature. It is one thing to investigate how a judgment is made and how to
articulate one’s judgments in order that they may help writers in some way, but
it is an entirely different reflective process to investigate the ways judgments on
our writing, and the judgments we make, participate in larger normative discourses that have uneven effects on various groups of people, that privilege some
students over others. And it is yet another thing to link these ways of judging to
the historically reproduced dispositions of whiteness.
Huot’s good theorizing misses these opportunities, which leaves open the
chance for racist effects in the writing assessment. He seems to be more concerned with students’ inability to articulate their judgments of texts in ways that
are rhetorical (again, a good thing to focus on in a classroom), but this is at the
expense of seeing those rhetorical ways of judging as hegemonic, as historically
connected to broader dispositions toward texts that are not necessarily universal
but rather are part of dominant white academic discourses, which sets up a hierarchical system of privileging through the valuing of texts. The hierarchy, while
not intended to be, turns out often to be racist.
To his credit, Huot does not ignore racism in writing assessment altogether.
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Introduction

In Chapter 5, Huot centers on the most important process of any classroom
writing assessment, reading and forming feedback to students about their writing or themselves as writers. Through a look at the literature on response, he
notes that the field has no formal theory of response. What we have are various
accounts, as good as they are, of how to respond to student writing, such as
Straub’s important work (1996a; 1996b; 1997; 2000). He concludes about the
literature of the field: “the focus is once again only on practice, with little attempt
to see response within a theoretical, pedagogical, or communicative context” (p.
111). In his move toward a theory of reading and response, a start at filling this
theoretical gap in the literature, Huot discusses Arnetha Ball’s (1997) very good
study on the reading practices of African-American and European-American
teachers, which turns out to be different along racial lines. He admits that at
least in this case, “teachers with different cultural orientations saw very different
things in student writing” (2002, p. 117). This, however, is the end of his comment. He moves from summarizing Ball’s study of race in a writing assessment,
which he reads as culture, to talking about Sarah Freedman’s (1984) work, which
talks about the culture of schools generally, how they construct roles and expectations for students and teachers. After Freedman, he discusses Faigley’s (1989)
important essay, “Judging Writers, Judging Selves,” which helps him identify the
ways that readers are situated historically and so have historically changing tastes
that affect the way we read and judge student writing.
Huot’s transition from Ball to Freedman is telling in the way he treats race,
and by implication racism. He says, “[i]t’s important in talking about the influence of culture in teacher response that we not forget that school itself is a
cultural system bound by specific beliefs and attitudes” (2002, p. 117). True
enough. No argument here. But what about racism, isn’t that an historical set of
beliefs, tastes, and practices too? There is no connection to race or racist practices. Ball’s findings do not come up again. It is important to note again, however,
that race is not real, but racism is. And it’s racism that must be considered first.
This avoidance of any deep treatment of racism in his discussion becomes
more problematic near the end of this otherwise fine chapter. Huot builds to a
very intriguing model for teachers and students for “moving toward a theory of
response” (2002, p. 132). There are five elements to the model, but there is no
explicit way to interrogate or understand racism in practices in the model. The
model offers as its most important term, “context,” which is informed surely
by the work of Ball and his earlier discussion. Not surprisingly, context is the
center of the visual model, and the other four elements revolve around it, influencing it. Context is described as: “Particular writer, particular moment of
a particular work in a particular curriculum, particular institution, particular
issues, and particular audiences” (Huot, 2002, p. 132). With all these particu20

Introduction

lars, one might think that teachers shouldn’t ever think in terms of larger social
patterns or effects, or should treat every reading and response scene as one in
which we cannot judge it next to others. This means that every judgment, every
assessment of every student is unique. In this way, the model attempts to resist
being racist by using the abstract liberal tenant of individualism (e.g., we are
all unique). It theorizes that the particulars of any context determine what we
do, how we read, why we read, what meaning or judgments we can make, etc.
But it resists acknowledging in any way race or racism as a phenomenon, resists
noticing or acting on larger patterns. By referencing individualism, by referring
to all students as individuals, the model loses the ability to see broader patterns
by any number of social dimensions. It resists seeing and acting against racism as
structural. To many, this model would amount to not seeing racism, ignoring it,
then saying that it doesn’t matter. It may not matter, but you cannot know that
until you investigate it.
There are many good things about Huot’s theorizing of context for reading
and response; however, treating every student as a unique student, as a particular
student, isn’t in contradiction to seeing racism as affecting our students of color,
seeing larger, broader patterns that reveal the uneven relations to the dominant
discourse and the judgments it promotes as unevenly tilted in favor of white
students. But this nuance, even in a very nuanced and complex model for reading and responding, is lost because of the way Huot does not treat racism in his
discussion. In part, this is because those in the field of writing assessment do not
have vocabularies to help them discuss racism.
Most important, Huot’s avoidance of considering racism in his discussion
is the larger cause of this theory of reading and responding to lack a necessary
attention to an antiracist agenda, which I know he would want to promote.
Through it all, Huot, like most others, never attempts to understand context or
historically changing values in reading, for instance, through other theoretical
lenses that could help reveal racism, such as those of postcolonialism, whiteness studies, and Marxian theories, which could reveal ways that historically
changing tastes and values may be influenced by historically changing racial
formations in various schools, or the particular manifestation of whiteness in an
assessment, or the historical structures of racism that affect who goes to school
when and where at what times in U.S. history. This lack of treating racism makes
it invisible in this otherwise very good theory of reading and response, which is
the thrust of Huot’s chapter.3

ABOUT THE RESISTANCE TO RACISM
I get a lot of resistance to explicitly thinking about race and racism in dis21

Introduction

cussions of writing assessment, or I get silence, which I take as one form of
resistance. This probably is an unfair assessment of some, I realize, but these
discussions in hallways, classrooms, conferences, and over email are a part of
why I write this book. And I feel it necessary to address these resistances in this
introduction as a way to conclude it.
What troubles me are people who look at racial inequalities, look at racism
in writing classrooms and programs, like the numbers and statistics I show later
in this book and say, “how do we know that is racism?” My mind often whirls
at such questions. Forget for a moment how it happened, inequalities are here.
No African-Americans in your classes, few in your school. Where are the Native
Americans? Most who are there, do not do well. They fail. Why? Isn’t it enough
to see such patterns? Does it really matter whether readers envisioned Latino
or Black writers when they judge blindly the writing on the SAT writing exam
or the English Placement Test (EPT) in California, which I discuss later in this
book, or the writing of African-American students in first-year courses at Fresno
State, the ones with a higher failure rate than any other racial formation? Here’s
what matters to me. White students uniformly and historically do better on
most if not all writing assessments, large-scale or classroom. It may not be intentional, but it is racism, and it is a product of the writing assessment ecologies we
create. Do not get me wrong. I do not blame white students or teachers. I blame
writing assessments.
Richard Haswell disagrees with me to a degree, but he voices an important
critique of the use of racism as a concept and goals in writing assessments. In his
review of Race and Writing Assessment (Inoue & Poe, 2012a), Haswell’s (2013)
central critique of the book is that there is a contradiction in any investigation
of racism in writing assessments. He says, “People cannot go about eliminating
racism without constructing the notion of race, and the construction of race can
only further racism” (Haswell, 2013). A little later, he makes an even more direct claim, which can be read as a criticism of the present book and its antiracist
project: “any writing assessment shaped by anti-racism will still be racism or, if
that term affronts, will be stuck in racial contradictions” (2013). What follows
are a discussion of four “racial aporias” that we live with because we live with the
contradiction of race.
The fourth aporia that Haswell identifies is one about the subject position
of the researcher or teacher in an antiracist writing assessment project, such as
the one this book attempts to articulate. He states it this way: “Writing scholars
position themselves outside institutional racism to understand it but their understanding concludes that there is no outside” (2013). The point that Haswell
is making is that no one can escape their own racial subjectivity or the structural
influences in society and school that make up what we call race and racism. We
22

Introduction

taint our own efforts at antiracist writing assessments. Of the contributors of the
collection, Haswell claims, “None of them voice the possibility that this pervasiveness of racial formations might include their own relations, conceptions, and
identities,” and he concludes, “the editors note that their book, which repeatedly
castigates the stylistic criterion of high academic English as a racial formation, is
entirely written in high academic English” (2013).
I do not deny these observations at all, but they do not make an antiracist
project of any kind, including an antiracist writing assessment theory, impossible to do or wrong-headed. On the contrary, because we are all implicated in
racism in our classrooms and in society, because race is already constructed for us
historically, because racism already exists, because we already live in racial contradictions, we should be engaging in antiracist projects. The use, for instance, of
a Standardized Edited American English (SEAE), a hegemonic discourse, is not
an indicator of racism on my part because of what and why I say what I do. No,
my discourse is an indicator of my subversive success at making a local SEAE
and dominant discourse my own, making that discourse less white and more
universal by diversifying it, and pushing us all to interrogate our uses of it in
our classrooms. I’ve worked hard to have the voice I have in the academy, made
some linguistic sacrifices, changed my ways with words and my dispositions
toward texts, but I’d argue my voice and what it says changes the academy too,
just as others’ voices have.4 SEAE, of course, is often a racial marker, a marker
of whiteness, but not a marker of one’s racial formation, nor a marker of racism
unless it is used against students in a writing assessment as the standard. Its use
by a researcher or teacher isn’t necessarily a racist act, neither is identifying those
standardized structures as racialized, and people who historically have been racialized by them. The point isn’t to get rid of race. Race is one way we mark
diversity and complexity, difference. The point is to get rid of racism, unfair
racialzied hierarchies. Haswell would have me avoid race completely in hopes
that it withers and dies for lack of attention, which then creates a nonracist
world. But to deny race is just another way to deny diversity, which is natural
and needed in all systems. So it is how writing assessments deploy discourses and
judgments that make them racist not our references to difference.
As Haswell notes, there are contradictions, aporias. SEAE is learned, but
not always by choice. I will be the first to admit that I lost my ghetto English a
long time ago (but not the swearing) for the wrong reasons, for racist reasons. I
cannot help that. I was young and didn’t understand racism or language. I just
felt and experienced racism, and some of it was due to how I talked and wrote
in school. I was captivated by the kind of English I read in the first few books
of my literary life, White Fang, Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird. It sounded smart and clever, even magical, magical in the ways that Gorgias speaks of
23

Introduction

language in his famous fragment, Encomium of Helen. Language bewitched me
quite literally. Part of that spell had racist components. Since then, I’ve come to
see that language as a hegemonic discourse that, like all others, can be helpful
and harmful depending on how it is used and what it communicates.
I don’t expect everyone to see my project as the best beginning to antiracist
writing assessments, but don’t tell me there isn’t racism in writing classrooms.
Don’t tell me we can ignore it and that doing so will make it go away. Don’t tell
me we shouldn’t see race and that’s the answer to racism. Doing so tells me that
my experiences of racism in school and out are just figments of my imagination,
that they must have been something else, that we just cannot know if there is
racism anymore, that we just have to ignore it and all will be well, that we just
wait a little while longer. As a middle-aged man, I know better. Waiting is complicity in disguise. I’ve seen and experienced too much. It ain’t my imagination.
Any denial of racism in our writing assessments is a white illusion. It upholds a
white hegemonic set of power relations that is the status quo. It is in the imagination of those too invested in a white racial habitus, regardless of their racial
affiliation. Hell, I denied it when I was younger. I had to. It would have eaten
me alive, and I likely would not be able to do what I do today if I hadn’t. More
aporias around racism.

24

CHAPTER 1: THE FUNCTION OF
RACE IN WRITING ASSESSMENTS
In order to understand why an antiracist project is so important to any classroom writing assessment ecology, even before I define that ecology, the concepts
of race, racial formation, and racism need to be discussed and defined. Therefore
in this chapter, I argue for a term, “racial habitus,” as a way to understand the
function of race in writing assessment ecologies, making all writing assessment
ecologies racial projects of some kind.5 I distinguish racial habitus from Omi
and Winant’s (1994) term, “racial formations,” which I use to refer to the actual
people that populate schools and writing classrooms. I discuss the term “racism,” which might initially be understood as a larger set of historical structures,
assumptions, and effects (or consequences) of any racial project. Through my
discussions of racial habitus and racism, I address several criticisms or resistances
by those who may feel that a focus on racism in classroom writing assessment
ecologies may be misguided or wrong. What I hope to make clear is that we have
no choice in thinking about racism in our writing assessments. And if we care
about antiracist or social justice projects in the writing classroom, we need to
care about and address explicitly the way race functions in our classroom writing
assessments. Thus, I ask in this chapter: how might we define race and understand its function in classroom writing assessments so that we can articulate
antiracist writing assessments?

THE IMPORTANCE OF RACE
Race is an important social dimension, a lived dimension of everyone’s life
despite its socially constructed nature (Ferrante & Brown, 1998; Gossett, 1963).
No one can avoid the way race is structured in our lives, even those who do
not wish to see it, and even though it isn’t real in the same way someone has
black hair or brown eyes. Our social, economic, and political histories in the
U.S. are underwritten by the construct of race, as many have discussed already,
particularly by looking at whiteness and the creation of white bodies and people
(Hannaford, 1996; Ignatiev, 1995; Lipsitz, 1998; Mills, 1997; Roediger, 1999).
The influence of the concept of race is in the coded ways we talk about each
other, the words we use for race and to avoid its reference (Bonilla-Silva, 2003a,
2003b; Villanueva, 2006). It is in the way we behave and perform our identities (Inda, 2000; Young, 2004, 2007), which can also be seen in discussions of
gender performativity (Butler, 1990; Salih, 2002). Many in composition studies
25

Chapter One

have argued that race is an important social dimension that we must pay attention to if we are to teach better, assess better, and build a more socially just future (hooks, 1994; Hurlbert, 2012; Prendergast, 1998; Villanueva, 1993, 1997;
Young, 2007).
Even those who promote multilingual and translingual pedagogies (Horner
& Trimbur, 2002; Horner et al., 2011; Jordan, 2012), which are not focused
on race but linguistic difference from the dominant academic discourse, often
assume racial structures that support and are associated with the linguistic and
language competencies of all students. In other words, even if we wish to avoid
talking about race and just talk about linguistic difference, which appears to be
about a real difference in groups of people in the writing classroom, appears to
be a dimension without prejudice, appears safer to notice and judge because
we’re judging writing, not race, the people who most often form multilingual
English students or linguistic difference from the dominant academic discourse
are racialized in conventional ways, as are their languages and writing. In fact,
our discursive performances are some of the ways race is produced as a social
dimension that distinguishes people (Inda, 2000). Race is often marked through
language. In short, those who identify primarily as African-American, or Latino/a, or Asian-Pacific American often are the multilingual students or the linguistically different in schools.
As a social construction, race is complex, often composed of multiple factors
that intersect in one’s life despite the fact that it is a fabrication by people over
time. We made up race, then it became something real. But it is not real, just as
gender isn’t real. I’m reminded of Stephen J. Gould’s (1981) discussion of the
reification of the construct of IQ. In his well-known book, The Mismeasure of
Man, Gould (1981) draws out historically the ways that IQ tests and the testing
of intelligence through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries led to clear racist
consequences by creating the construct of IQ and using it against non-white
populations to show their inferiority to whites. Gould shows how easy it is for
people to “convert abstract concepts into entities” (1981, p. 24), meaning once
a test becomes accepted, its results, like an IQ number or an SAT or EPT score,
are “reified,” which then allows the reification to be deployed in a number of
ways in society. While we act as if the signifier of an IQ or EPT or SAT score
is something real, the test itself created this thing. We forget that the construct
that the scores allegedly measure are created by the tests and do not actually exist
before those tests.
In his compelling sociological account, F. Allan Hanson (1993) comes to this
same conclusion, showing historically how various tests and examinations create
the very attributes and competencies they purport to measure. Thus there is no
IQ before IQ tests, no remedial status before the EPT. One might say (although
26

The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

it isn’t completely true), in the case of Fresno, there is no racial hierarchy until
the EPT produces it. While the EPT is not testing race, per se, race is a complex
set of material and discursive factors that create groups of students with similar
competencies and literacies in the test. Race functions through the EPT because
the test does not account for the multiple literacies, the multilingual capacities,
of all the students currently taking the test. It uncritically and unknowingly
accounts for one kind of literacy, a dominant one, a hegemonic one, a white,
middle class discourse (I’ll offer evidence of this claim later in this chapter).
It is no coincidence, then, that race was used to understand the results of intelligence tests early in the 20th century. One example should do. As Norbert Elliot (2005) explains, the army alpha and beta tests that determined intelligence,
thus opportunities for taking positions in the military, were given to recruits in
the second decade of the twentieth century (pp. 59-60). A part of the concerns
that the test makers had once they began testing recruits was the high frequency
of illiteracy in southern Black and immigrant recruits, which they associated
with mental deficiency or lack of intelligence (Elliot, 2005, pp. 64-66). It didn’t
occur to the test makers that perhaps the construct of intelligence in their tests
was not universal, and required particular experiences and cultural references
that Blacks from the south and immigrants just didn’t have access to (for different reasons). Instead, Robert Yerkes, the man in charge of the tests, concluded
that the illiteracy of any group of recruits was dependent on the number of Black
recruits in the group. Additionally, he concluded that most immigrants from
Italy, Poland, and Greece were illiterate (and thus less intelligent), than their
English, Scottish, and Irish immigrant counterparts (Elliot, 2005, p. 66). Race
functioned to make sense of the test results, validating their findings.
In these obvious ways, race has had a strong connection to assessment generally since assessment tends to confer social and economic privileges. Tests like
the army alpha and beta, the SAT and EPT, often are gateways to educational and economic access, privilege, and jobs. Many have shown the ways that
U.S. society in general has been designed to protect such privileges and access
for whites and kept them at arm’s distance to racialized others (Ignatiev, 1995;
Lipsitz, 1998; Mills, 1997; Roediger, 1999). Many of these structures still exist, even if only as lingering, familial economic privileges (or lack of privileges)
gained by past generations and available to the present generation. Many of
these structures exist in everyday reading and judging activities that teachers
do with student writing, as Lester Faigley (1992) convincingly shows. In his
discussion of Coles and Vopat’s collection, What Makes Writing Good, Faigley
demonstrates that particular class—and I argue racial—dispositions function to
produce judgments of student writing, particularly dispositions concerning perceived “authenticity” and “honesty” (1992, p. 121). The examples of authentic
27

Chapter One

and honest writing from the collection not only reveal a middle class set of tastes
but a clear white racial set of experiences and perspectives. Faigley’s conclusions
are ones about the ways that such reading practices by teachers are an exercise of
Foucauldian power, power that is difficult to see thus more potent and pervasive
(1992, p. 131). I would add to Faigley’s critique that it is race that functions in
such daily classroom writing assessment practices, hiding behind power relationships set up by the judgment of student writing by teachers who use a dominant
discourse. To put this another way, power is hidden more effectively because a
set of white racial dispositions are already hidden in the assessment in various
places, assumed as the standard.
Thus it is imperative that writing teachers consider explicitly and robustly
the function of race in their classroom writing assessments, which often are a
response to large-scale assessments, such as the ACT, SAT, AP, and EPT. The
assessment community calls this relationship “washback” (Weigle, 2002, p. 54)
when a test influences school and classroom curricula, but it might also be called
“whitewashing.” If we think that these large-scale tests are racist, or could be,
and we know they washback into our classrooms, or are supposed to, then it
seems reasonable to assume that our classrooms are constituted by racist institutional structures, and race is a factor in our classrooms. In his chapter on
the neoliberal narratives of whiteness that structures racism in the U.S., George
Lipsitz offers a reading of the film Lean on Me (1989), but begins it with a fitting
way to close this section:
My sister and mother both taught at Eastside at different
times during the 1960s and 1970s and established reputations
as the kind of demanding and dedicated instructor students
remember long after their school years have been completed. Over the years, I have learned a great deal about what
it means to try to offer a quality education in an inner-city
school from them. My father, my mother, my sister, and
many of their colleagues and friends have devoted much of
their lives to that effort. I know how hard a job they have,
how much patience and love it takes to try to neutralize the
effects of poverty and racism even temporarily. I know as well
that no amount of good intentions, no mastery of teaching
techniques, and no degree of effort by individual educators
can alter meaningfully the fundamentally unequal distribution of resources and opportunities in this society. (1998, p.
141)
If as teachers, we cannot alter such pervasive unequal distributions of resources
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

and opportunities in our students’ lives, which affects who they are and what
they bring to our writing classrooms, then I think our best strategy as antiracist
educators is to change the way we understand and do writing assessment, while
simultaneously building arguments and movements to change the larger structural racism in our society and schools. But this antiracist project begins in our
classrooms because it is the only place we, as writing teachers, can begin.

LANGUAGE’S ASSOCIATION WITH RACE
Racial formations—material bodies that are racialized—are connected
closely to language use and our attitudes toward language. Laura Greenfield
(2011) makes this point in a number of ways. She argues that in U.S. society and
schools, most people, including writing teachers, tend to ignore or overlook the
“linguistic facts of life” that linguist Rosina Lippi-Green (1997) identifies and
that reveal the structural racism in society and language preference. These facts
of life are long-established linguistic agreements in the field:
• All spoken language changes over time.
• All spoken languages are equal in linguistic terms.
• Grammaticality and communicative effectiveness are distinct and interdependent issues.
• Written language and spoken language are historically, structurally,
and functionally fundamentally different creatures.
• Variation is intrinsic to all spoken language at every level. (as quoted
in Greenfield, 2011, p. 33; Lippi-Green, 1997, p. 10)
These agreements essentially say that all language varieties, from Hawaiian
Creole English to Black English Vernacular to Spanglish are legitimate, rule-governed, and communicative. They are not degenerate versions of English or “bad
English,” yet they are often seen in a lower position of power and prestige than
the local variety of SEAE. It isn’t because SEAE is inherently better, more logical,
more effective, or more efficient.6 It is because whiteness and white racial formations historically are closely associated with SEAEs and dominant discourses.
Greenfield concludes, explicitly connecting SEAEs with the white body:
The language varieties deemed inferior in the United States
(so much so that they are often dismissed not simply as inferior varieties but not varieties at all—just conglomerations of
slang, street talk, or poor English) tend to be the languages
whose origins can be traced to periods in American history
when communities of racially oppressed people used these
languages to enact agency. It is no coincidence that the lan29

Chapter One

guages spoken by racially oppressed people are considered to
be inferior in every respect to the languages spoken predominantly by those who wield systemic power: namely, middleand upper-class white people. (2011, p. 36)
Thus so-called proper English or dominant discourses are historically connected
to the white body. This makes sense intuitively. We speak with and through our
bodies. We write with and through our bodies. As teachers when we read and
evaluate our students’ writing, we do so through and with our bodies, and we
have in our minds a vision of our students as bodies, as much as we have their
language in front of us. Who historically has had the privilege to speak and write
the most in civic life and in the academy? Whose words have been validated as
history, truth, knowledge, story, the most throughout history? White people.
Additionally, the material conditions that our students come from and live in
affect and shape their bodies, making them who they are, making us who we
are as teachers. The material conditions of the classroom, of our students’ lives,
as we’ll see in later chapters, greatly determine their languaging and the writing
assessment ecology of the classroom. I argue that in most cases writing teachers
tend to have very different local histories and material conditions than their
students of color and multilingual students, often the common thread is race.
Allow a few crude examples to help me make the point that race is connected to the judging of English. In the seven years I helped run the first-year
writing program at Fresno State, an historically Hispanic Serving Institution
where white students are the numerical minority, there have been to my count
seven teachers of color teaching in the program total. Every year, we bring in
around ten to twelve new teachers, sometimes more. We usually have around
25-30 working teachers at any given time. This means that on average there has
been one teacher of color teaching first year writing at any given time. The rest
are, for the most part, white, middle class, and female. Given my experiences at
three other state universities and a two-year college, these conditions seem to be
the norm. A report by the Center for American Progress on “Increasing Teacher
Diversity” in public schools in the U.S. cites equally alarming statistics from the
National Center for Education Statistics. Racial minority students make up over
40% of students in all schools in the U.S., but only 14.6% of all teachers are
Black or Latino/a, and in 40% of public schools there is no teacher of color, not
one (Bireda & Chait, 2011, p. 1).
If the dominant discourse of the academy is taught almost exclusively by
white, middle class teachers, then is it possible that such conditions will affect
the discourse valued in writing assessments? Is it possible that those who achieve
such positions, such credentials, might have achieved them because they can
30

The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

use and favor the dominant discourses? If so, it is no wonder that dominant
discourses in schools are closely associated with the white body and whiteness,
which makes them associated with race.
Some might argue that the picture Greenfield and I paint for why any local dominant discourse is valued is inaccurate. My paradigm seems to say that
teachers think about race when they judge students’ writing. In one sense, yes.
Greenfield and I are saying this. We cannot help it. Gender and race are the first
things people identify (or try to) about a person when they meet them. We look,
often implicitly and unconsciously, for markers that tell us something about the
person so that we can interact with them appropriately. Why would teachers be
any different? But at a more fundamental level, Greenfield argues that teachers
are simply a part of systemic racism, a structural racism in schools and society
that we don’t control, and may not even be fully aware of. The fact that most if
not all college writing programs demand that their students produce some dominant discourse, then judge them on their abilities to approximate it, according
to Greenfield, is racist, since all dominant discourses are associated closely with
white middle- and upper-class racial formations in the U.S.
But wait, some may argue further that even if this is true, even if structural racism does form the context of any writing course, it doesn’t change the
fact that there is a dominant discourse that is the lingua franca of schools, the
workplace, and civic society. If you can approximate it, you have more power in
those circles. You, in effect, negate the structural racism that may hold you back,
keep power and privilege from your grasp. And so, in good writing classrooms,
goes the argument, one can honor and respect the languages that all students
bring to the classroom, then teach and promote a local SEAE so that those
students have a chance at future success. This pedagogy is posed as antiracist, or
at least one whose goal is social justice. This kind of argument and pedagogy,
says Greenfield, is based on two false assumptions. The first is that these other
language varieties, say BEV, are somehow less communicative and cannot do the
job needed in the academy or civic life (Greenfield, 2011, p. 49). A simple example will show the flaw in the pedagogy’s logic. Hip hop and rap are mainstream
musical genres now, have been for years. Most of the lyrics are based on BEV, yet
the music is listen to by people from a wide range of socioeconomic strata and
by all racial formations in the U.S. and worldwide. If BEV isn’t as effective in
communicating in civic life, how is it that it is so popular, so mainstream? How
is it that it connects to so many different kinds of people? How is it that it can
tell such compelling stories? Is it that we don’t mind Black people entertaining us
(a white mainstream audience), but we don’t want their language tainting the socalled important areas of our life, academics, knowledge making, civic life, law,
politics, etc.? Are we just slumming in Harlem when we celebrate the relatively
31

Chapter One

few Black entertainers and sports figures, the few who make it economically, the
exceptions, so that we can ignore the multitudes who do not?
The second false assumption that Greenfield says supports the above pedagogical decisions is that “[p]eople believe falsely that by changing the way people
of color speak … others’ racist preconceptions will disappear and the communicative act will be successful” (2011, p. 49). So teach Blacks or Latinos/as to speak
and write a dominant discourse and they will have more power and opportunity. They’ll be more communicatively successful. The logic here says that today
people aren’t racist toward people, but they may be toward the languages people
use. Consider again the hip hop example. If we really did believe that changing
the language of people of color would gain them power and opportunity, make
them more communicative, then again I ask why are Hip Hop and rap so popular? It’s mainly performed by Blacks in the U.S., although it has become a global
genre. Could it be so popular if it wasn’t effectively communicating ideas and
narratives?
We are talking about the exceptions really. The rule is that African-Americans who speak and write BEV are not usually successful in school or civic
life. But is it because they are not able to communicate effectively and clearly?
According to Greenfield, the answer is no. Referencing several studies that prove
the fact, she argues that people really are racist toward people because of the way
racialized white bodies historically have been and are closely wedded to local
SEAEs. She says:
Black people are not discriminated against because some
speak a variety of Ebonics—rather, I argue, Ebonics is stigmatized because it is spoken primarily by Black people. It is
its association with a particular people and history that has
compelled people to stigmatize it. Our attitudes toward language, it appears, are often steeped in our assumptions about
the bodies of the speakers. We assume an essential connection—language as inherently tied to the body. In other words,
language varieties—like people—are subject to racialization.
(2011, p. 50)
What does it mean that Ebonics or Spanglish or some other variety of English is
stigmatized already in writing classrooms? The word’s root is “stigma,” which the
OED defines as “ a mark made upon the skin by burning with a hot iron (rarely,
by cutting or pricking), as a token of infamy or subjection” (Stigmata, 2015).
Thus something stigmatized is something already judged, something already in
subjection, something lesser. No matter what antiracist motives a teacher may
have, including my own motives, we all work within conditions and systems
32

The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

that have branded some languages as less communicative, less articulate, less
than the dominant discourse. No matter who we are, we always struggle against
antiracist systems in the academy.
We shouldn’t pretend, however, that any local dominant discourse, BEV,
Spanglish, or any variety of multilingual English is monolithic or self-contained,
therefore these stigmas are also not categorical. What I mean is that everyone
speaks and writes a brand of English that has its nuances, its deviations. For
instance, not every African-American student will speak BEV, and not everyone
who uses it will use BEV in the same ways that others will use it. V. N. Volosinov
(1986) makes this point clear about language generally, arguing that there is no
langue, only parole, only language that is in a constant state of flux and change.
Vershawn A. Young’s (2004; 2007; 2011) arguments for “code-meshing” agrees
and helps us see the nuance, helps us see why it’s difficult to speak of BEV or a
dominant white discourse alone. In fact, none of us speak or write solely some
brand of English alone. We use variations of English that we encounter around
us. Young (2007) argues that we all have hybrid Englishes. We speak in codes
that are meshed with other codes, and we should account for this in the classroom. Additionally, because the dominant discourse is a white racial discourse,
associated with white bodies historically, Young explains that “[w]hen we ask
Black students to give up one set of codes in favor of another, their BEV for
something we call more standard, we’re not asking them to make choices about
language, we’re asking them to choose different ways to perform their racial
identities through language” (2007, p. 142). However, just because we can see
the hybridity of any brand of English, it doesn’t mean the stigmas go away. The
question is: how do we not let the stigmas determine how we assess writing in
our classrooms?
The bottom line is we cannot separate race, our feelings about the concept or
particular racial formations, which includes historical associations with particular
racialized bodies in time and space, from languages, especially varieties of English
in the U.S. This makes language, like the dominant discourse, racialized as white
(I’ll say more about this later in this chapter). More important, as judges of English in college writing classrooms, we cannot avoid this racializing of language
when we judge writing, nor can we avoid the influence of race in how we read and
value the words and ideas of others. Lisa Delpit offers a poetic way to understand
language and its connection to the body, which I read with racial undertones:
“[o]ur home language is as viscerally tied to our beings as existence itself—as the
sweet sounds of love accompany our first milk” (2002, p. xvii). Freire has another
way of pointing out the power of language in our lives, the power it has in making our lives and ourselves. He says, “reading the world always precedes reading
the word, and reading the word implies continually reading the world” (1987,
33

Chapter One

p. 23). When we read the words that come from the bodies of our students, we
read those bodies as well, and by reading those bodies we also read the words they
present to us, some may bare stigmata, some may not.

THE FUNCTION OF RACE IN THE EPT WRITING
ASSESSMENT
I’ve just made the argument that race generally speaking is important to
English as a language that we teach and assess in writing classrooms. But how is
race implicated in writing assessments? How does race function or what does it
produce in writing assessments?
One way to consider the function of race in writing assessment is to consider
the consequences of writing assessments. Breland et al. (2004) found differences
in mean scores on the SAT essay among Asian-American, African-American,
Hispanic, and white racial formations, with African-Americans rated lowest
(more than a full point on an 8 point scale) and Hispanic students rated slightly
higher (p. 5), yet when looking for differences in mean SAT essay scores of “English first” (native speakers) or “English not first” (multilingual) students, they
found no statistically significant differences (p. 6) —the mean scores were virtually identical in these two groups. I don’t know how Breland and his colleagues
determined native speaking proficiency, but my guess is that it may fall roughly
along racial lines. These findings have been replicated by others (Gerald & Haycock, 2006; Soares, 2007), who found that SAT scores correlate strongly to parental income, education, and test-takers’ race. Similarly, in Great Brittan, Steve
Strand (2010) found that Black Caribbean British students between ages 7 and
11 made less progress on national tests than their white British peers because of
systemic problems in schools and their assessments. These patterns among racial
formations do not change at Fresno State, in which African-American, Latino/a,
and Hmong students are assessed lower on the EPT (see Inoue & Poe, 2012,
for historical EPT scores by racial formation) than their white peers and attain
lower final portfolio scores in the First Year Writing (FYW) program readings
conducted each summer for program assessment purposes (Inoue, 2009a; 2012,
p. 88). Race appears to be functioning in each assessment, producing similar
racialized consequences, always benefiting a white middle class racial formation.
Between 2011 and 2014, I directed the Early Start English and Summer
Bridge programs at Fresno State. All students who were designated by the English Placement Test (EPT), a state-wide, standardized test with a timed writing
component, as remedial must take an Early Start or Bridge course in order to
begin their studies on any California State University campus. Even a casual
look into the classrooms and over the roster of all students in these programs
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

shows a stunning racial picture. These courses are ostensibly organized and filled
by a test of language competency, however, each summer it is the same. The
classes are filled with almost exclusively students of color. Of all the 2013 Bridge
students, there were only four who were designated as white by their school records—that’s 2% of the Bridge population. And the Early Start English program
is almost identical. So at least in this one local example of a writing assessment
(the EPT), when we talk about linguistic difference, or remediation (these are
synonymous in many cases), we are talking about race in conventional ways.7
The remediation numbers that the EPT produces through blind readings by
California State University (CSU) faculty readers also support my claims. In fall
of 2013, as shown in Table 1, all students of color—it doesn’t matter what racial
formation or ethnic group we choose—are designated by the EPT as remedial
at dramatically higher rates than white students. The Asian-American category,
which at Fresno State is mostly Hmong students, are the most vulnerable to this
test, with 43.9% more of the Asian-American formation being designated as remedial in English than the white formation.8 How is it that these racially uneven
test results are possible, and possible at such consistent rates? How is it that the
EPT can draw English remediation lines along racial lines so well?

Table 1. At Fresno State, students of color are deemed remedial at
consistently higher rates than white students by the EPT (California State University Analytic Studies, 2014)
No. of First-Year
Students

No. of Proficient
in English

% of Designated
as Remedial

119

61

48.7%

1,298

593

54.3%

Asian- American

495

161

67.5%

White Non-Latino

601

459

23.6%

2,965

1,548

47.8%

Race
African- American
Mexican- American

Total

While my main focus in this book is on classroom writing assessment, the
way judgments are formed in large-scale ratings of timed essays are not much
different from a single teacher reading and judging her own students. In fact,
they show how language is connected to the racialized body. The processes, contexts, feedback, and consequences in a classroom may be different in each case,
but how race functions in key places in classroom writing assessment, such as the
reading and judgment of the teacher, or the writing construct used as a standard
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Chapter One

by which all performances are measured, I argue, are very similar. And race is
central to this similarity because it is central to our notions of language use and
its value.
To be fair, there are more things going on that produce the above numbers.
There are educational, disciplinary, and economic structures at work that prepare many students of color in and around Fresno in uneven ways from their
white peers. Most Blacks in Fresno, for example, are poor, go to poorer schools
because of the way schools are supported by taxes, which are low in those parts
of Fresno. Same goes for many Asian-American students. But why would the
Mexican-American students have twice as frequent remediation rates as white
students? There is more going on than economics and uneven conditions at local
schools.
Within the test, there are other structures causing certain discourses to be
rated lower. Could the languages used by students of color be stigmatized, causing them to be rated lower, even though raters do not know who is writing
individual essays when they read for the EPT? Consider the guide provided to
schools and teachers in order to help them prepare their high school students
to take the EPT. The guide, produced by the CSU Chancellor’s Office, gives
the rubric used to judge the written portion of the test. Each written test can
receive from 1 to 6, with 6 being “superior” quality, 4 being “adequate,” 3 being
“marginal,” and 1 being “incompetent” (2009, pp. 14-16). The rubric has six
familiar elements:
a. response to the topic
b. understanding and use of the passage
c. quality and clarity of thought
d. organization, development, and support
e. syntax and command of language
f. grammar, usage, and mechanics (CSU Office of the Chancellor, 2009,
p. 14)
At least items e and f correspond to a locally dominant SEAE, while a, b,
c, and d correspond to some conventions and dispositions that are a part of a
dominant discourse. The guide offers this description of a 4-essay, which is “adequate,” that is, not remedial:
a. addresses the topic, but may slight some aspects of the task
b. demonstrates a generally accurate understanding of the passage in developing a sensible response
c. may treat the topic simplistically or repetitively
d. is adequately organized and developed, generally supporting ideas with

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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

reasons and examples
e. demonstrates adequate use of syntax and language
f. may have some errors, but generally demonstrates control of grammar,
usage, and mechanics (CSU Office of the Chancellor, 2009, p. 15)
I cannot help but recognize this rubric. It’s very familiar. In Chapter 13,
“Evaluation,” of William Irmscher’s (1979) helpful book, Teaching Expository
Writing, he provides a very similar rubric, one I’ve used in the past in writing
classrooms:
• Content
• Organization/structure/form
• Diction/language/style
• Punctuation/mechanics
• Grammar/style (1979, pp. 157-159)
Irmscher’s dimensions are a variation of the five factors that Paul Diederich
(1974) and his colleagues, John French and Sydell Carlton, found in their factor analysis of fifty-three judges’ readings of 300 student papers in a 1961 ETS
study. The five factors they found most important to academic and professional readers’ judgments of student essays were (in order of importance/most frequently used):
• Ideas
• Usage, sentence structure, punctuation, and spelling
• Organization and analysis
• Wording and phrasing
• Style (Diederich, 1974, pp. 7-8)
Diederich explains that these five factors that most of his readers used to
read and grade essays only accounted for 43% of all the variance in the grades
given to the set of papers in his study. He says, “the remaining 57 percent was
unexplained” (1974, p. 10). Most likely, the unexplained variance in grades was
due to “unique ideas about grading that are not shared by any other reader, and
random variations in judgment, which may be regarded as errors in judgment”
(Diederich, 1974, p. 10). In other words, most of what produced evaluations
and grades of student writing simply couldn’t be accounted for in the study, and
could be unique or idiosyncratic. Each reader has his or her own unique, tacit
dimensions that do not easily agree with the tacit dimensions that other readers
may have. But what does this have to do with the EPT’s use of a very similar
rubric and how does it help us see race in the assessments of writing made on
the EPT?
Diederich and his colleagues show us that reading student writing, like the
impromptu essays written for the EPT, will be judged by other factors as well as
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Chapter One

those explicitly expressed. Even with careful norming, which I’m sure occurs in
the EPT readings, there will still be variance. Readers will read from their biases.
They have to. That’s reading. But the question I’m wondering is: What stigmata
do they see? Is this what is affecting the racialized remediation rates? The guide,
to its credit, explains that readers will not “penalize ESL writers excessively for
slight shifts in idiom, problems with articles, confusion over prepositions, and
occasional misuse of verb tense and verb forms, so long as such features do not
obscure meaning” (emphasis in original, CSU Office of the Chancellor, 2009,
p. 16). It’s the qualifier I wonder about. Isn’t it possible that many readers will
read confusion over prepositions or misuse of verb tense and forms, as obscuring meaning? Is it possible that multilingual students, like Fresno State Hmong
students, will usually have more than “occasional” slips in the above linguistic
features of their texts? Without doing a detailed linguistic analysis of samples, it
seems plausible that such features of texts are associated with many students of
color’s discourses. For sure, multilingual students, like most Hmong and many
Latino/a students at Fresno State, use discourses that are characterized by “misuse of verb tense and verb forms,” as well as the other items listed. Are these
markers read as stigmata though? Does seeing such linguistic markers compel a
lower judgment by a reader who is most likely white, female, and middle class?
It would seem that the instructions allow for this interpretation.
All EPT writing prompts direct students to read a short paragraph from a
published argument, then explain it and make an argument agreeing or disagreeing with it. In one of the examples in the guide, the passage is from Sue Jozui,
which argues against advertisers’ use of celebrities’ testimonials or endorsements
to sell products. Here’s the excerpt from Jozui:
Advertisers frequently use the testimony of a celebrity to support a claim: a football star touts a deodorant soap, an actress
starts every day with Brand A coffee, a tennis pro gets stamina
from Brand X cereal, a talk-show host drives a certain kind
of car. The audience is expected to transfer approval of the
celebrity to approval of the product. This kind of marketing is
misleading and insults the intelligence of the audience. Am I
going to buy the newest SUV because an attractive talk-show
host gets paid to pretend he drives one? I don’t think so. We
should boycott this kind of advertising and legislate rules and
guidelines for advertisers. (CSU Office of the Chancellor,
2009, p. 17)
The prompt then states: “explain the argument that Jozui makes and discuss the
ways in which you agree or disagree with her analysis and conclusion. Support
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

your position by providing reasons and examples from your own experience,
observations, or reading” (CSU Office of the Chancellor, 2009, p. 17).
Often the most instructive examples of student writing are the ones that
reveal the borderlands, the margins that define the mainstream. The 2-essay, the
“very weak” essay is a four-paragraph essay, one that does not reiterate Jozui’s argument, but attempts to argue both sides of the issue. It has many more errors in
local SEAE usage than any of the other sample essays rated higher, but in some
ways, it does try to offer an academic approach by considering opposing points
of view. It appears, however, to lack focus and a conventional organizational
pattern. The 2-essay reads:
If a football star touts a deodorant soap, an actress starts
everyday with brand. A coffee, a tennis pro get stamina from
Brand X cereal and if a talk show host drives a certain car it
does not mean that your going to do that. I agree with Jozui if
an atractive talk-show host gets paid to pretend to drive a car,
it does not mean that your going to go buy one.
It would be good boycotting this kind of advertisement but
theres always a positive & negative side to the advertisements.
Boycotting this advertisement will be good so it wont be misleading or insulting anyones intelligence. If a celebraty want
to be advertised with a product or something at their own I
think they have the right to. On my positive side of it I see
it that its okay to be advertised, one thing is to be advertised
& get known or get the product known, and another thing is
buying the product.
Some examples are for May 1st theres been a law trying to
pass people, news reporters, and radio stitons were saying that
on May first no one should go out & boycott by not buying
anything that day, and not even going to work. That was getting known, so that point was to do a lot of peoples ears but
not everyone did it about sixty to seventy percent of people
I bet did not listen to them, if they were not going to work
who was going to pay them for those hours lost no one, but,
the other thirty to forty person of people did do the boycott.
They did no care about it they want the law to pass.
Everyone has the right to advertise. But its not like your going
to go buy something just because come one else did. You
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Chapter One

have to follow your thought do what you wanna do not do
what you see other people do. (CSU Office of the Chancellor,
2009, p. 22)
The guide offers these judgments on the “serious flaws” of the 2-essay:
• The writer begins by responding to the topic of celebrity advertising
and the proposal to boycott it, but then goes off topic and writes
about another kind of boycott entirely.
• The essay reflects a lack of understanding of Jozui’s arguments and
seems instead to be discussing the right of celebrities to be in advertisements and the consequences for people who participate in boycotts.
• The essay has no apparent focus or organization. After agreeing with
Jozui, the writer tries to mount a pro and con argument, and by the
third paragraph resorts simply to a stream of consciousness.
• The lack of command of language makes it difficult to understand
what the writer is saying: “If a celebraty want to be advertised with a
product or something of their own I think they have the right to.”
• A variety of serious errors occur throughout the essay. The third paragraph is composed almost entirely of a single run-on sentence. (CSU
Office of the Chancellor, 2009, pp. 22-23)
If we assume that the prompt, a familiar kind of argumentative prompt, was
free of structural racism—that is, we assume that such tasks are typical in the
curricula of schools where this student comes from and are typical of the discourses that this student uses—and we assume that the expectations around the
first four items on the rubric are not culturally or racially biased (we can more
easily assume that the last two items are racially biased), then we can conclude
that the above judgments are “serious flaws” in the essay, and perhaps the essay
deserves a score of 2. But what if we assumed that the prompt itself is already
biased toward a dominant discourse that is associated closely to a white body
and a white discourse?
Putting aside for the moment the many errors and miscues in the essay (some
of which can be accounted for by the impromptu nature of the test), this essay
might be one that engages in a rhetoric that could be a product of some other
discourse(s), a discourse other than the dominant white one promoted in the
EPT test prompt, rubric, and explanations of judgments that are assumed to be
normative. Take the most problematic, third paragraph, which is judged as “off
topic” and “stream of consciousness.” This paragraph surely contributes to the
assessment that the essay lacks focus and organization. But the paragraph does
offer a material perspective on the discussion. It takes the abstract discussion
40

The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

of boycotting advertisements that use celebrities and juxtaposes a discussion of
something that allegedly occurred on May 1 in California, an actual boycott.
There is a clear connection, but it’s labeled by the guide as off topic. While there
could be explicit connections to the current discussion about celebrities in ads,
this discursive strategy might be associative or working from a logic of juxtaposition. These are logics that usually do not expect explicit connection to be made
by the writer. But is the guide’s assessment of the essay racist because it refused
to value this paragraph in this way?
While this is purely speculative, since I don’t know when this essay was written exactly, only that it was written before 2009, the publication date of the
guide. The paragraph could be referring to the “Great American Boycott” of
2006 and 2007 (Associated Press, 2007), in which millions of Latino/a immigrants boycotted schools and businesses for one day in order to show the degree
to which the U.S. depends on them financially. It is a decisively racial reference,
which likely most EPT readers at the time would have been aware of, since
Los Angeles was one of the cities with the largest turnout in 2006, estimated
at 400,000 (Gorman, 2006). In fact, it is reported that in L.A., the protesters
chanted, “Si, se puede” (“Yes, it can be done”) (Glaister & MacAskill, 2006),
which was the motto of the United Farm Workers organization, headed in part
by César Chavez.9 While the writer of the 2-essay doesn’t mention any of these
details, one could read them underneath the text. The references to “not even
going to work,” “hours lost” from work, and the sense that many “did not care”
that they lost some money but wanted social and economic change seems to be
sentiments felt or experienced by those in the student’s community.
These changes are not simply about labor, but about Latino/a labor in California, about immigration policies, and racially defined immigrants and their
material struggles with participating in social justice projects, like a boycott.
They are about the experience of Latino/a immigrants engaging in a boycott that
is meant to affect advertising and consumer consumption. These references are
only off topic if you don’t find such Latino/a cultural references valid in a discussion about the marketing of consumer products. If a reader’s primary relation
to such advertisements is that of a buyer, and not the laborer or retail worker
working in the department store stocking and selling the soap or cereal, then this
paragraph may seem off topic. But what if a reader imagined that her primary relation to the production and distribution of such advertisements was as a laborer
who made such items available to customers? Then, I think, this paragraph, with
its reference to the Great American Boycott, is far from off topic and racialized as
Latino/a in a California context. It calls upon the common relations of Latinos/
as in California to Capitalist consumption.
Yes, I read a lot into the essay, maybe too much, but that is the point. White
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Chapter One

discourses and dispositions tend to lean on abstraction, and avoid such racially
politicized readings of texts. I don’t think the writers of the prompt or the guide
intended for such an assessment to be valid of this essay because it racializes it.
Does this mean that the essay should get more than a rating of 2? I think so. In
the above ways, it addresses material concerns in a pretty unique way, in a way
that matters to many in California, in a way that stretches the prompt to be
more applicable than simply about an abstract idea like celebrities in ads, in a
way that may very well matter to the student writer.
I cannot argue definitively that the guide or any judge would consciously
see the markers of this text as racialized stigmata, but it doesn’t matter. What
the guide does promote is a particular ideal text, one that values only abstract
ideas, with no sensitivity to the way particular racial formations might respond
differently, respond from their own social conditions. This ideal text, I argue, is
informed by a dominant white discourse, seen in the rubric and the way it asks
readers to judge from it. The assessment that the guide promotes seems to ignore
the possibility that what is “off topic” is culturally and socially constructed by a
dominant, white discourse, and that any response will be constructed by one’s
material relations to the ideas around advertising and consumer economies in
a racially divided California. Judging essays in the way the guide asks teachers
to do produces the uneven and racist consequences that we see in Fresno State’s
remediation rates and its Early Start and Bridge programs. One cannot know
who this writer is, but that’s not the point. The point is what gets read and
stigmatized in the text while not explicitly about race ends up having racist
consequences.

RACIAL HABITUS
Up to this point, my use of the term race has been imprecise. At the same
time, race as an abstraction or as a social dimension in which people are grouped
or group themselves is tricky to define too finely. It encapsulates an historically
organizing set of structures that structure social interactions and society, to draw
on Pierre Bourdieu’s phrase for habitus (Bourdieu, 1977, p. 72). The term habitus gives us a way to think about race as socially constructed in at least three
ways:
• discursively or linguistically, that is, through discourse and language
practices;
• materially and bodily, or through people’s material conditions and the
bodily and material markers that our environments leave on us; and
• performatively, or through the ways we perform, behave, and act,
which includes what we consume in conspicuous ways.
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

Bourdieu defines habitus as “not only a structuring structure, which organizes practices and the perception of practices, but also a structured structure:
the principles of division into logical classes which organizes the perception of
the social world itself the product of internalization of the division into social
classes” (1984, p. 170). That is, race as habitus structures and is structured into
our lives, bodies, languages, actions, behaviors, expectations for writing, reading
practices that judge writing, etc. Quoting Pierre Bourdieu, E. San Juan uses this
definition of habitus:
Bourdieu means “the conditionings associated with a particular class of conditions of existence that produce habitus,
systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured
structures predisposed to function as structuring structures,
that is, as principles which generate and organize practices
and representations that can be objectively adapted to their
outcomes without presupposing a conscious aiming at ends
or an express mastery of the operations necessary in order to
attain them.” (2002, p. 52)
For Bourdieu, habitus is multiple, historically situated structures composed of
and conditioned by practices, material conditions, and discourses, that iterate
into new structures (i.e., structuring structures), all the while these structures are
durable and transposable, even when history and conditions alter them superficially. Racial habitus, then, is one way one might think of race as a set of structuring structures, some marked on the body, some in language practices, some
in the ways we interact or work, write, and read, some in the way we behave or
dress, some in the processes and differential opportunities we have to live where
we do (or get to live where we can), or where we hang out, work, go to school,
etc. Thus, racial habitus places an emphasis on the continual (re)construction of
race as structures, as sets of dispositions that are discursive, material, and performative in nature. We speak, embody (are marked materially), and perform our
racial designations and identities, whether those designations are self-designated
or designated by others. Another way to say this is that racial habitus explains
the way race is made up of discursive, material, and performative structuring
structures.
To complicate further the concept of race as a social dimension, race has two
ways of being experienced and referenced in the world that make it slippery and
ambiguous in any given situation beyond the historically changing nature of it.10
It is a dimension that can organize one’s own subjectivity in the world, the way
one acts, speaks, relates to others, and behaves. This is its subjective dimension.
Everyone experiences race subjectively, or from a particular subject position and
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Chapter One

set of experiences, which intersect with other dimensions of experience (e.g.,
class, gender, sexuality, disability, etc.). One might consciously or unconsciously
reproduce particular racial structures in language, dress, behavior, appearance,
etc. that structure one’s own sense of one’s racial subjectivity. In this sense, race
is consciously a set of discursive, material, and performance choices.
Race is also commonly seen or understood by others through physical, linguistic, social, and cultural markers, structuring structures themselves that have
uneven and various meanings to others. This second dimension is race’s projective
dimension, or one of others’ perceptions and expectations placed upon the person or persons in question. It is the dimension of race that people or institutions
use in order to know people and organize them either privately or institutionally.
Even though we may not publically act on or voice assumptions about racial
formations or individuals in our midst, we all have such assumptions. It’s hard
not to given the way our minds work to help us make sense of things, people,
and experiences, particularly the unknown. In this sense, race is projected onto
individuals and groups for a variety of purposes, often institutional.
Allow me to offer an example that illustrates how racial projection affects
assessments (sets of judgments and decisions about people), despite a contradictory racial subjectivity. Growing up in Las Vegas, I was at least five or six shades
darker than I am today. I was short, skinny, with jet black hair and brown eyes.
In that context, among the working class whites at school and in our neighborhood, I was a “beaner,” a “dirty Mexican,” a “trouble-maker.” In that context,
where local Mexican-American communities were vying for working class jobs
against whites, any brown-skinned, brown-eyed boy was a Mexican. It didn’t
matter that my name is as Japanese as you can get, very obviously non-Anglo,
but that marker itself was read as a marker of the racial other that was most at
odds with working class whites in my neighborhood and school. Unlike ethnicity, race is usually a broad brush stroke, not a fine penciled line. All my actions,
all that I did, walking past a fence or a neighbor’s trailer, knocking on a door to
see if a friend could play, or trying to get a soda from a vending machine at the
trailer park’s office, all were seen as suspicious activities, ones that suggested I was
surely up to no good.
I’m not making up this feeling of being suspect everywhere, every day, by
everyone. The stigma was real, so real that a group of white trailer park tenants
and the manager (also white) got together, wrote a letter to my family, listing all
the activities my twin brother and I had done in the last year. One more misstep
and we were evicted, kicked out. Interestingly, there were a list of activities and
wrong-doings attributed to my brother and me during the previous summer,
a summer we had spent with our grandmother in Oregon. We were not even
in the state, yet all bad things were attributed to us, the Mexicans in the trailer
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

park. To my white, working class neighbors, it seemed obvious and clear that all
wrong-doing in the trailer park were markers that my brother and I had been
there. Our skin tone, eyes and hair were judged to be Mexican, which told them
about our natures as boys.
I have always been proud to be Japanese-American, to be Asian-American,
despite the racial and ethnic ambiguity that has often followed me. This is why
I’ve placed extra effort and labor in my racial subjectivity, even back then, even
as a pre-teen and teenager. It didn’t matter what I said, or what I claimed to
be. My performance, my physical and material appearance, even my discourse,
which was quiet around adults, especially men (having almost no contact with
men until deep into high school), was assessed as Mexican, as trouble-maker,
as racial other. No matter what I did or said, it was seen as suspicious or bad.
And because I was raised by a single-parent, my mom, who didn’t have a college
education, worked several low-paying jobs just to keep the lights on, our clothes
were not the newest or nicest. They were clean and cared for, but there were several years in which we had to make do with last year’s school clothes, last year’s
shoes. These economic constraints only reinforced the other material markers
that constructed me as Mexican in the eyes of the whites around me.
I believe writing teachers, as good-hearted and conscientious as most are, use
racial projection in the same ways that I experienced as a boy. Perhaps they do
not make the same exact assessments when working with students of color, but
we do racially project our notions and expectations onto others we meet, others
we read, others we evaluate and grade in the writing classroom. If we didn’t, it
would be difficult to teach, to interact with any group of students, to understand
the language offered us in writing by our students. We have to have assumptions,
otherwise nothing makes sense. Now, I realize that some may find my conclusion about racial projection difficult to accept. They might say that they don’t
have to see race or assume and project some set of racial attributes in order to get
along and work with others who appear different from them. Fair enough. Yet, I
too find the typical alternative conclusion, that we can escape such racial projections in our interactions with our writing students when reading their writing,
including multilingual writing, equally unacceptable and unrealistic. This practice of ignoring racial habitus in our lives, in reading and writing practices, and
in our dispositions for judging, is essentially an attempt to negate much of what
makes all of us who we are and how we communicate. It means that a teacher
who tries not to see race is forced to assume a non-racial set of dispositions,
which amounts to a white racial habitus (discussed below). But I understand
that likely those who do not accept my conclusion likely have not experienced
constant racial projections that contradict their own racial subjectivity. And this
is likely because they fit into a white racial habitus that often doesn’t have such
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contradictions in school.
Thus these two dimensions of race, subjective and projective, may not match
up in any given particular person, but they operate simultaneously. Our writing
assessments should struggle with these two ways of experiencing race, race as
subjectivity and race as projection by others. Although tangled and flawed, race
as discursive, material, and performative are good ways to organize inquiries
into what happens in writing assessments, since our life experiences, whether
we acknowledge them or not as racialized, are often organized by racial subjectivity and projection to some degree, just as gendered habitus organize our
experiences. Racial habitus offers language that calls attention to the dynamic,
(re)productive structuring structures of discourse, materiality, and performance
that are central to judging student writing. The term helps us talk about race as
sets of structures—as parts in and of systems—structures that are not categorical, nor static.
To think of race as racial habitus has been approached by Edwardo Bonilla-Silva (2003) in his sociological work on racism and whiteness, only he focuses
on a white habitus that produces particular language about race. In his study,
Bonilla-Silva examines the ways that students from various U.S. universities use
certain discursive “frames” (e.g., abstract liberalism, naturalization, cultural racism, and minimization of racism) to articulate their racial ideology and cloak it
in linguistic “styles” (e.g., “I’m not prejudiced, but …” (p. 57), “I’m not Black,
so I don’t know” (p. 58), “anything but race” (p. 62), “they are the racist ones
…” (p. 63)).11 This color-blind racist discourse used primarily by white students
attempts to ignore, erase, or minimize the structuring structures in language
that construct racial difference and racism. He explains that “social and spatial
segregation” in different communities creates a “‘white habitus,’ a racialized, uninterrupted socialization process that conditions and creates whites’ racial taste,
perceptions, feelings, and emotions and their views on racial matters” (2003, p.
104). Thus whites have structuring structures that construct local white racial
formations, just as Hmong and Mexican-Americans do in Fresno.
Arguing that writing teachers and writing assessment theorists need to “interrogate and refashion our racial politics of assessment,” Nicholas Behm and
Keith Miller (2012, p. 125) provide a detailed account of Bonilla-Silva’s (2006)
study of color-blind racism, and explain his concept of a white habitus in which
whites are socialized. Behm and Miller explain that a white habitus is a set of
“historically and culturally constructed dispositions, feelings, and discourses,
which ‘conditions and creates whites’ racial taste, perceptions, feelings, and emotions and their views on racial matters’” (2012, p. 129, emphasis in original).
But habitus may be more complex than this. Sometimes it is unconscious, so it
may be more accurate to say that we participate in already existing racial habitus,
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

participating in structures that are to some degree outside or beyond individuals,
making habitus structuring structures we make our own, nuancing them in the
ways that Young (2007) discusses code-meshing. Furthermore, when I speak
of white racial habitus below, it is not necessarily linked to a racialized body, a
white body, as it appears to be in Bonilla-Silva’s study. Instead, the structuring
structures of a local white racial habitus make white students, or ideal students,
in writing assessment ecologies of the classroom. A white racial habitus exists
beyond or outside of bodies, in discourse, in methods of judging, in dispositions
toward texts, etc.
And so using a term like racial habitus can keep us from thinking of these
structuring structures as simply dwelling in individuals, as inherent characteristics of individuals – since I’m rarely taking about individuals when I discuss
issues of race and racism in classroom writing assessments. Instead, racial habitus
foregrounds the macro-level phenomena, foregrounds the structures and social
structuring, foregrounds the patterns among many people who associate or find
themselves geographically and historically in the same places and circumstances,
without forgetting that these patterns exist in individuals who augment them.

WHITE RACIAL HABITUS
Important to seeing racial habitus as a determining aspect of any classroom
writing assessment project is seeing a white racial habitus as fundamental to all
classroom writing assessment, whether we promote it, critique it, or actively
promote something else. Many have discussed how to define whiteness as a construct that affects writing pedagogy (Frankenberg, 1993; hooks, 1994; Keating,
1995), which has bearing on how writing is judged in classrooms by teachers
using a local SEAE or other academic expectations for writing.12 Timothy Barnett (2000) synthesizes five statements about whiteness that the scholarship on
whiteness overwhelmingly confirms, and is a good way to begin to understand
whiteness as a racial habitus in classroom writing assessment ecologies, or as a set
of structuring structures that are performed or projected onto student writing:
• Whiteness is a “coded discourse of race,” that “seems invisible, objective, and neutral”;
• Whiteness maintains its power and presents itself as “unraced individually” and “opposed to a racialized subjectivity that is communally and
politically interested”;
• Whiteness is presented as a non-political relational concept, defined
against Others, whose interests are defined as “anti-individual” and
political in nature;
• Whiteness “is not tied essentially to skin color, but is nevertheless
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Chapter One

related in complex and powerful ways to the perceived phenomenon
of race”;
• Whiteness maintains power by defining (and denying) difference “on its
own terms and to its own advantage” (my emphasis, p. 10)
As a habitus that is practiced in language, expected in classroom behaviors,
and marked on the bodies of students and teachers, whiteness, then, is a set of
structuring structures, durable, transposable, and flexible. As Barnett summarizes, these structures construct whiteness as invisible and appealing to fairness
through objectivity. The structures are unraced (even beyond race), unconnected
to the bodies and histories that create them. They are set up as apolitical, and
often deny difference by focusing on the individual or making larger claims
to abstract liberal principles, such as the principle of meritocracy. These structures create dispositions that form reading and judging practices, dispositions
for values and expectations for writing and behavior. Echoing Lippi-Green and
Greenfield’s arguments that connect race to language, Barnett offers a succinct
way to see whiteness as a racial project in the classroom, which can easily be a
way we might describe any classroom writing assessment as a default white racial
project:
“Whiteness,” accordingly, represents a political and relational activity disguised as an essential quality of humanity that
is, paradoxically, fully accessible only by a few. It maintains
a distance from knowledge that depends on the power of
authorities, rules, tradition, and the written word, all of
which supposedly guarantee objectivity and non-racial ways
of knowing, but have, not incidentally, been established and
maintained primarily by the white majority. (2000, 13, emphasis in original)
In her discussion of the pervasiveness of whiteness in bioethics in the U.S., Catherine Myser defines whiteness as a marker and position of power that is situated
in a racial hierarchy (2002, p. 2). She asks us to problematize the centrality of
whiteness in bioethics as a field of study and industry, which I argue we should
do in the writing classroom too. By looking at several studies of whiteness, Myser provides a rather succinct set of discursive and performative dispositions that
could be called a white racial habitus that writing teachers often enact:
• [A focus on] Individualism, hyperindividualism, self-determination, autonomy, and self-reliance, self-control;
• The person is conceived in purely individual terms, as a
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

rational and self-conscious being (the Cartesian “I” or cogito
ergo sum), making failure an individual weakness and not a
product of larger structural issues;
• Relationships are understood as being between informed, consenting individuals, but individual rights are primary, placing
an emphasis on contracts, laws, and abstract principles for
governing relationships;
• Cognitive capacity is the ability to think rationally, logically,
and objectively, with rigor, clarity and consistency valued
most;
• All problems are defined as those situations or conditions
that are out of control, that disrupt autonomous functioning.
(Myser, 2002, pp. 6-7)
Whiteness as a discourse and set of expectations in writing, then, like the
dispositions distilled from Barnett’s summary, can be boiled down to a focus
on individualism and self-determination, Descartes cogito, individuals as the
primary subject position, abstract principles, rationality and logic, clarity and
consistency, and on seeing failure as individual weakness, not a product of larger
structural issues.
These dispositions are very similar to Brookhiser’s (1997) six traits of WASP
whiteness in the U.S.13 The important thing about whiteness, as Barnet and
many others have identified about whiteness generally, is that it’s invisible, often denied as being whiteness. This is the nature of whiteness as a habitus. Ross
Chambers (1997) explains that whiteness remains unexamined through the
“pluralization of the other and the homogenization of others” (p. 192). He says
that whiteness has been “unexaminable” (or rather, “examinable, yet unexamined”) because it is not only the yardstick by which difference (like quality of
writing) is judged and identified in the classroom and out of it, but whiteness
is bound to “the category of the individual” first through “atomizing whiteness”
by homogenizing others, which allows it to be invisible (p. 192). This invisible and universalizing nature of the above dispositions gives some reason for
why the first two items are the most telling, and perhaps contentious. These
two dispositions (hyperindividualism and the primacy of the cogito) alone make
up much of Faigley’s (1992) discussion of tastes in the ways teachers described
the best student writing in their courses found in Coles and Vopat’s collection,
What Makes Writing Good (1985). What did most teachers say was good writing? Writing that exhibited a strong, authentic, honest voice. And what does
strength, authenticity, and honesty look like as textual markers? It is a self-reliant
voice that is focused on itself as a cool, rational, thinking self in the writing and
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Chapter One

in its reading of writer’s own experiences or ideas. This isn’t to say these are bad
qualities in writing, only that they are linked to whiteness and this link often has
uneven racist consequences in classroom writing assessments.
To put it more bluntly, a white racial habitus often has racist effects in the
classroom, even though it is not racist in and of itself. Citing Mills (1997) and
his own studies of whiteness (2001), Bonilla-Silva argues that “whiteness is the
foundational category of ‘white supremacy’ …. Whiteness, then, in all of its manifestations, is embodied racial power” (2003a, p. 271; emphasis in original). The
maintenance of whiteness and white supremacy, even if tacit as in the “new
racism” that Bonilla-Silva and Villanueva (2006) describe, is vital to maintaining the status quo of society’s social, economic, and racial hierarchies, the structuring structures that (re)produce a white racial habitus. Bonilla-Silva (2003a)
explains that the new racism isn’t just “racism lite,” but manifests through five
key structures that I argue destroy many healthy writing assessment ecologies:
• racial language practices that are “increasingly covert,” as with
those who argue that using a local SEAE as the privileged discourse in a writing classroom is not racist because the course
is about the appropriate language use for college students,
without questioning why that brand of English is deemed
most appropriate or providing ways in the class to examine
the dominant discourse as a set of conventions that have been
“standardized” by the hegemonic;
• racial terminology that is explicitly avoided (or a universalizing and abstracting of experience and capacities), causing
an increasing frequency of claims that whites themselves are
experiencing “reverse racism”;
• racial inequality that is reproduced invisibly through multiple
mechanisms, reproduced structurally, as in my critique of the
EPT or others’ findings in the SAT;
• “safe minorities” (singular examples or exceptions, often
named) that are used to prove that racism no longer exists,
despite the larger patterns and statistics that prove the contrary, such as the Fresno State Hmong and African-American
student racial formations;
• racial practices reminiscent of the Jim Crow period (e.g., separate but equal) that are rearticulated in new, non-racial terms,
such as the new use of the EPT as a de facto entrance exam
that by result attempts to stem the tide of students of color
in California universities without ever being explicitly about
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

race. (p. 272)
In many ways, the new racism discussed by Bonilla-Silva and Villanueva
occurs more frequently in our classroom writing assessments because we uncritically promote (often out of necessity) a dominant academic discourse that is associated with a local SEAE. While these discourses and sets of linguistic conventions are not bad in and of themselves, they do need interrogating with students
as structuring structures that give us certain tastes in language and thought. But
writing classrooms cannot leave white racial habitus at that, at just critical discussions of language and texts, without also using those discussions in some way
to change the writing assessment ecology of the classroom. This isn’t easy work,
but I hope to show ways I’ve attempted to do this in Chapter 6.

RACIAL FORMATION, RACIAL PROJECTS, AND RACISM
To conceive of and use an antiracist classroom writing assessment theory, we
need concepts like racial habitus and white racial habitus, but while these concepts reference racialized bodies and suggest a definition of racism, the terms do
not inherently explain racism as a phenomenon. They also do not explain how
to reference actual bodies in the classroom. As I’ve reiterated above, racial habitus
is not a term that directly references students’ material bodies, and racism affects
real people, real bodies, not habitus. Thus I use the term racial formation to do
this referencing. Racism then affects racial formations.
Omi and Winant define “racial formation” “as the sociohistorical process
by which racial categories are created, inhabited, transformed, and destroyed”
(1994, p. 55). Any racial formation, then, is a part of a dynamic, historical
process, constantly changing. These changes occur because of numerous “racial
projects” that create, represent, and organize human bodies in particular times
and places. These racial projects “simultaneously … interpre[t], represen[t], or
explai[n] … racial dynamics,” and “reorganize and redistribute resources along
particular lines” (Omi & Winant, 1994, pp. 55-56). In short, all notions of
race are (re)created by various racial projects in society and schools. Individual
racial formations, such as the Hmong of Fresno, are constructed subjectively
and projectively through racial projects in schools, society, in the EPT, in the
university, etc.
Thus racism, Omi and Winant say, isn’t simply a consequence of bigotry
or prejudice. Historically in the U.S. it has been an “unavoidable outcome of
patterns of socialization which were ‘bred in the bone,’ affecting not only whites
but even minorities themselves.” They explain that discrimination, inequality,
and injustice have been “a structural feature of the U.S. society, the product of
centuries of systematic exclusion, exploitation, and disregard of racially defined
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Chapter One

minorities” (1994, p. 69). Thus today, a racial project is racist “if and only if it
creates or reproduces structures of domination based on essentialist categories of
race” (Omi & Winant, 1994, p. 71). In the introduction to their collection, Race
and Writing Assessment, Inoue and Poe (2012a) provide this way of understanding the concept of racism in light of Omi and Winant’s racial formation theory:
If racial formations are about the historical and structural
forces that organize and represent bodies and their lived experiences, then racism is not about prejudice, personal biases, or
intent. Racism is not about blaming or shaming white people.
It is about understanding how unequal or unfair outcomes
may be structured into our assessment technologies and the
interpretations that we make from their outcomes. (p. 6)
If it’s not clear already, just like large-scale assessment ecologies, classroom writing assessment ecologies are racial projects, regardless of their purposes, our intentions, or their designs. These racial projects may produce fair, good, and equitable outcomes or something else. I’m sure the EPT is not intended to be racist,
nor to exclude, nor to create educational barriers for Hmong students, but that
is exactly what it does as a racial project, making it a racist project. The EPT as a
racial project directly affects the students in writing classrooms, and affects those
classrooms’ writing assessment ecologies as well, because it affects how students
get there, how they see themselves, and what the curriculum offers them. Despite the best antiracist intentions, any classroom writing assessment ecology can
easily be racist if it doesn’t explicitly account for how students get there and how
they are constituted subjectively and projectively by writing assessments.
To give you an example, consider Fresno State’s writing program. The conventional grading systems used in the writing program before we redesigned
the curriculum, installed a grading contract, and implemented the Directed
Self-Placement14 (DSP) process, produced racialized failure rates and grade distributions among our four main racial formations, which can be seen in the first
row of Table 2 (listed as “2005-06 (Engl 1)”).15 Without any ill intentions on the
part of writing teachers, many of whom were and are very conscientious about
issues of fairness and racism in their classrooms, almost all writing classrooms
reproduced higher levels of course failure in Hmong, Latino/a, and Black racial
formations, with white students having the least amount of course failure.
The changes made to the program were almost all assessment-based, reconfiguring all the classroom writing assessments, from how students get into
courses (DSP), to how most courses calculated final course grades (the grading
contract), to the curriculum and pedagogies available (a program portfolio). As
can be seen in Table 2, the failure rates in 2009-10 for the new end course, Engl
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

5B (equivalent to the old Engl 1) dropped by about half in all formations, except
the Black racial formation, and the failure rates generally became more even
across all racial formations.

Table 2. Students of color fail writing courses at consistently
higher rates than their white peers in Fresno State’s First-Year
Writing Program (reproduced from Inoue, 2014b, p. 338)
African-American
Academic Year

n No. failed

Asian-American (Hmong)
% failed

n

No. failed

% failed

2005–06 (Engl 1)

198

45

22.7%

454

90

19.8%

2009–10 (Engl 5B)

130

25

19.2%

158

16

10.1%

2010–11 (Engl 5B)

109

18

16.5%

195

19

9.7%

2011–12 (Engl 5B)

66

11

16.7%

160

16

10.0%

Latino/Latina
Academic Year

White
% failed

n

No. failed

% failed

2005–06 (Engl 1)

843

n No. failed
188

22.3%

788

121

15.4%

2009–10 (Engl 5B)

682

75

11.0%

292

21

7.2%

2010–11 (Engl 5B)

685

65

9.5%

273

23

8.4%

2011–12 (Engl 5B)

553

78

14.1%

158

10

6.3%

In this very limited way, classroom writing assessment ecologies in the program can be seen as racial projects, as projects that produced particular kinds
of racial formations associated closely with failure and success. No one is trying
to be racist, but it is happening systemically and consistently, or structurally
through the various classroom writing assessment ecologies. What should be
clear is that racism isn’t something that is always a “conscious aiming at ends,”
rather it is often a product of overlapping racial structures in writing assessments
that are subjective and projective. Racism is not usually produced by conscious
intentions, purposes, or biases of people against others not like them. Racism
is a product of racialized structures that themselves tend to produce unequal,
unfair, or uneven social distributions, be they grades, or access to education,
or the expectations for judging writing. Conversely, antiracist projects must be
consciously engaged in producing structures that themselves produce fair results
for all racial formations involved.
Some may argue that the above failure rates may not be showing some form
of racism, rather they only demonstrate that racial formations of color have performed worse than the white racial formation, so there is no clear racist project
occurring here since the cause of the above effects cannot be determined to be
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Chapter One

racial in nature. How do we know racism in writing assessments is the cause of
the course failure and not something else? This critique comes from a discourse
of whiteness, from a white racial habitus that demands that such racialized conclusions reveal in a logical fashion racist intent by teachers, disregarding effect or
results, as those are typically attributed to the individual (e.g., failure). The white
racial habitus informing this question also assumes that there be a clear cause and
effect relationship demonstrated in such conclusions about racism, conclusions
from observations that make no assumptions about race. But as the literature on
whiteness explains over and over, there is no getting around race in our epistemologies. The assumptions around needing clear racist causes that then lead to
racist effects stems from a white disposition, a rationality that is calm and cool,
for such things when we discuss racism (racism is hardly a calm and cool discussion in the U.S.). What seems clear to me in the above figures is that whites
perform better regardless of the assessment ecology, but some ecologies mitigate
the racist effects better than others. The uneven effects of these same ecologies
demonstrates a problem. But if you still need a racist cause, there is a common
cause for all the course grades: the courses’ writing assessment ecologies that
produced the grades.
Part of my argument for racism in classroom writing assessments, like those
mentioned above, is that there are larger societal structures that are racist that
create and influence the classroom. As my discussion of white racial habitus
suggests, the structures of our writing assessments come from our society, our academic disciplines, and educational institutions, which have been organized to
keep whites and whiteness dominant. In Charles Mills’ (1997) award-winning
book, The Racial Contract, he argues that Western civilization historically has
cultivated and maintained a “racial contract” for the purposes of maintaining
such white racial dominance in society at large. In one sense, Mills’ could be
arguing that there is an over-arching racial project that Western societies have
participated in historically. We can hear how the racialized consequences of the
racial contract are easily translatable to the consequences of college writing assessments in Mills explanation of the racial contract:
set of formal or informal agreements or meta-agreements
(higher-level contracts about contracts, which set the limits of
the contracts’ validity) between the members of one subset of
humans, henceforth designated by (shifting) “racial” (phenotypical/genealogical/cultural) criteria C1, C2, C3 … as “white,”
and coextensive (making due allowance for gender differentiation) with the class of full persons, to categorize the remaining
subset of humans as “nonwhite” and of a different and inferior
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

moral status, subpersons, so that they have a subordinate civil
standing in the white or white-ruled politics … the general
purpose of the Contract is always the differential privileging
of the whites as a group with respect to the nonwhites as a
group, the exploitation of their bodies, land, and resources,
and the denial of equal socioeconomic opportunities to them.
All whites are beneficiaries of the Contract, though some
whites are not signatories to it. (1997, p. 11)
One good way to subordinate nonwhite groups in California generally would
be to maintain the EPT as a placement and entrance writing assessment, since
doing so would in effect keep more students of color out of college and allow
more (relatively speaking) white students in. A good way to validate its uses so
as to maintain white racial supremacy is to do so abstractly, using disciplinary
meta-agreements about what constitutes validity and bias, despite the contradictions those agreements create when applied to the literacy competencies of
locally diverse students in, say, Fresno. This racial contract flows into, is then
assumed in, all writing classrooms.
Furthermore, a part of the racial contract is the categorizing of other things
that lead to racial hierarchies, such as an uncritical privileging of a local SEAE in
college writing courses, or an unreflective expectation of the fictional, monolingual English speaker and writer that many have critiqued (Horner & Trimbur,
2002; Horner et al., 2011; Jordan, 2012; Lu, 1994). Before writing teachers can
breach the racial contract, we have to recognize it as such, and see it as informing our past and present classroom writing assessment ecologies because it has
informed the U.S. history and Western society.
There is one adjustment, however, to the language of Mills’ racial contract
theory that I make for use in classroom writing assessment. His language suggests that the purposes, perhaps even intent, of the racial contract’s sets of agreements are to privilege whites, but I think, at least in the realm of classroom writing assessment, it should be emphasized that the purpose of the racial contract
might be more accurately identified as its function, which is beyond or despite
intentions or purposes. The racial contract involved in any writing assessment
ecology cannot be said to regulate explicitly the assessment’s purposes. Purposes
are connected tightly to people, and have particular associations with writing
assessments. It would be extremely rare, in my opinion, to find a writing assessment whose purposes are explicitly to subordinate students of color or deny
them opportunities in a writing classroom. However, I emphasize that the racial
contract for these same writing assessments functions in the same way that Mills
describes, but not from an expressed purpose to do so, instead the racial contract
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Chapter One

of writing assessments usually functions in these ways despite our antiracist intentions or good purposes because the racial contract is structural in nature and
privileges a white racial habitus.
To put it bluntly, when the function of a writing assessment is primarily to
promote a local SEAE or dominant discourse, without regard to the literacies
that various racial formations bring to the classroom, or the various ways that
particular racialized linguistic structures are judged by the teacher, then many
students may be treated unfairly. The writing assessment may be racist, and all
in the name of an abstract liberal principle: to teach all students the same English, the dominant one, to maintain the tacit whiteness associated with the local
SEAE and the writing assessment itself. My implicit argument is that this project
(to assess everyone by standards of the same discourse, the same English) is an
inherently racist project.
Often writing teachers claim to assess everyone by the same standards or
expectations because this practice is inherently fair. If only we could stop being
so fair, we might have a chance at making serious antiracist change. Fairness is
often articulated as a white liberal value, but it often protects white interests
by maintaining racist practices and effects by appealing to an abstract liberal
principle, such as, “everyone should be treated the same.” This value makes no
sense when we try to transplant the abstract principle of fairness to, say, fruit. Is
an orange better than an apple because it is juicier? Of course not, they are just
different. And their differences are acknowledged and accepted. But when we
deny racialized difference in the writing classroom, we tend to judge apples by
their orangeness. I realize the metaphor breaks down, but my point is: it is not
fairness that we need in antiracist writing assessment ecologies, or any antiracist
project—it is not judgment by the exact same standard that we need—it is revolutionary change, radically different methods, structures, and assumptions about
the way things are now and how to distribute privileges.
As I’ve argued similarly elsewhere (Inoue, 2007), fairness in any writing assessment ecology is not an inherent quality, practice, or trait that then allows
us to claim an assessment is fair for everyone. Judging everyone by the same
standard is not an inherently fair practice in a writing classroom. Fairness is a
construction of the ecology itself. It is contingent, and its primary constituents
are agreement and participation by those in the ecology. When you don’t have
enough agreement (not consensus), participation, and an acknowledgement of
fairness as a dynamic and shifting construct of the ecology, it is difficult to have
a fair writing assessment.

CRITICISMS OF RACE AS AN ORGANIZING PRINCIPLE
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The Function of Race in Writing Assessment

Some may argue that the problems we see, for example in the Hmong student populations and their lower performance on the EPT or the failure rates in
the writing program I showed above, are mostly economic in nature, or a product of different cultural values about school or language practices, or a result of
some social dimension that has nothing to do with race, that there is no need to
think in terms of race because race doesn’t really exist. It just confuses and muddies the waters. In short, some may argue that it is not race but other non-racial,
more fundamental factors that affect any writing assessment’s results.
I do not deny that such factors as economics are involved. African-Americans and Hmong in Fresno are often some of the poorest in the community,
with very high poverty rates, higher than those of whites—and this intersection
of economics and race is not a coincidence so we shouldn’t treat it as such.
These kinds of factors intersect and make up racialized experiences as political, as relations of power. In the U.S., power usually is organized around three
nodes of difference: gender, race, and economics. These non-racial factors are
the structuring structures that racial habitus references. These structures become
racialized when they pool or gather into patterns in groups in society, creating
distinctions from the white hegemonic group. These structures then are used as
markers of difference that then justify the denial of privilege, power, and access
to opportunities, such as education. Using a local SEAE as a way to determine
the merit of a student, her fitness for college, or the value of her literacies in
college are clear cases of societal structures that become racialized when they
are used to maintain white privilege. Just because we don’t call our valuing of a
dominant discourse racist doesn’t make it not racist. So could we deal with the
above assessment issues in classrooms as economic ones and not racial ones? We
could, but we’d be denying the way economics constructs racialized experiences
and subjectivities in the U.S. and in our classrooms.
Furthermore in the U.S., we just do not uniformly act or behave based on
fine-tuned, ethnic or cultural distinctions because the tensions among various
groups have always been about maintaining or gaining power, privilege, property, or rights. Culture, language, and ethnic differences to a hegemonic whiteness
are used to construct power relations, but they tend to be used to create broader
racial differences. It’s much easier to use a broader category like race, than distinguish between ethnic Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Hmong, etc. It’s
easier just to say Asian. Because the bottom line is, historically the main reasons
to identify the differences in any group in the U.S. has been to subordinate that
group to white power and deny privileges. And even though the motives may
not be what they used to be, the effects of the structures that remain are the
same.
Education and literacy, the keys to the kingdom, are a part of these power
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Chapter One

relations because they tend to be seen as a way to confer privileges and jobs.
Consider the discussions of literacy in the U.S. as white property, particularly
around the decisions of Brown v. Board of Education (Bell, 2004; Prendergast,
2003). Or more broadly, consider the ways whiteness has been used as a way
to claim and hold onto jobs and property by whites (Lipsitz, 1998; Roediger,
1999). Perhaps the most powerful term that explains how race often is used to
maintain power, property, and privilege is in Pierre L. van den Berghe’s term,
“herrenvolk democracy” (; Roediger, 1999, p. 59; van den Berghe, 1967, pp.
17-18). Herrenvolk democracy explains the way a society, through laws and
norms, creates a democratic system for a dominant group, but simultaneously
offers a considerably less democratic one for subordinate groups. Race is a convenient and well-used way to construct subordinate groups, ones with less access
to property, jobs, literacy, and education. Today, we use language to do this
subordinating, which racializes all writing assessment.
It isn’t hard to see the denial or dramatically less access to education, jobs,
privilege, and social power to people of color, particularly African-Americans,
Latinos/as, and Native Americans (Asians are a set of complex racial formations,
uneven in their access to power). While no one is denying college entrance to,
for instance, Black students because they are Black, almost all colleges use SAT
and ACT scores to help determine candidacy. As mentioned earlier, Breland et
al. (2004) found that SAT scores are hierarchical by race, with whites performing the best and Blacks the worst. Furthermore, GPAs and other extra-curricular
activities are used by colleges in their application processes also. This means if
you are poor, you likely will have gone to a high school that couldn’t prepare
you well for college. According to the National Center for Law and Economic
Justice, Blacks and non-white Hispanics live in poverty at the highest rates of
all racial groups, with just over a quarter of non-white Hispanics and 27.2% of
Blacks living in poverty (National Center for Law and Economic Justice, n.d.).16
Many more Blacks and Latinos/as live in poverty than whites, thus they are more
likely to go to schools that do not prepare them for college in traditional ways,
and any application they may submit likely will be viewed as weaker than their
white counterparts. Economics, tax laws that fund schools unequally, and the
like are some of the structuring structures that seem not to be about race but are
racialized, and they structure the racial habitus of students. A herrenvolk democracy in schools, from elementary to college, itself structures inequality into just
about all writing assessments by working from laws and norms that racially privilege a white racial habitus that is nurtured in some places and starved in others.
It is important to remember, though, as Bourdieu’s habitus makes clear, that
there is no “conscious aiming at ends.” There are no racists, just structural and
systemic racism. The herrenvolk democracy of a classroom writing assessment
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happens through a variety of means, such as valuing a local SEAE, but it produces a two-track system of privilege that rewards a white habitus exclusively. This
is why translingual approaches (Horner et al., 2011), world Englishes, and code
meshing pedagogies (Canagarajah, 2006; Young, 2004, 2007, 2011; Young &
Martinez, 2011) are important to develop; however, I have yet to see a serious
attempt at developing classroom writing assessments from such approaches. Understanding racial habitus as a set of historically generated discursive, material,
and performative structuring structures that are both subjective and projective
in nature seems a good place to begin thinking about how writing assessments
might understand the Englishes they attempt to judge and make decisions on.

RACE AS PART OF A GLOBAL IMAGINARY OF WRITING
ASSESSMENT
But if teachers are not consciously trying to be racist, and usually attempting
to do exactly the opposite in their classroom writing assessments, which I think
is the case, then what is happening? How can race affect a teacher’s practices if
she isn’t thinking in terms of race, or if she is trying not to let race be a factor
in the way she reads or judges student writing? How can my classroom writing
assessments be racist if I’m not racist and I try to treat everyone fairly, try not
to punish multilingual students or Black students or Latino/a students for the
languages they bring with them into the classroom? In fact, I try to celebrate
those languages. In short, the answer to these question has to do with larger,
global imaginaries about education and race that started long before any of us
were teaching our first writing courses.
Again, the Fresno Hmong are instructive in addressing these questions. There
are only two ethnic formations in Fresno that can be called refugees, the Hmong
and Armenians. The experiences of Hmong in Fresno are racialized. Hmong are
the newest, having arrived in three waves, between 1975 and 1991, 1992 and
1999, 2000 and the present (Yang, 2009, p. 79). The Hmong originally came
to Fresno not by choice but because it was the only way out of persecution and
the eroding conditions in the refugee camps of Laos and Thailand (Chan, 1994;
Dao, 1982; Lieb, 1996, pp. 17-20). Coming in three distinct periods and under
very similar conditions makes the Hmong racial formation quite consistent in
regards to living conditions, cultural ties and practices, employment, languages
spoken, and educational experiences. However because they share Asian physical
traits and come from Asia as refugees after the Vietnam war, Hmong tend to
be seen and treated as foreigners, as the racial other, despite the fact that most
Hmong in college are U.S. born citizens. This is historically the way all Asian
immigrants and Asian-Americans have experienced racialized life in the U.S.,
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including me (just consider my experiences in the trailer park). The U.S. government’s treatment of its territories of Guam and American Samoa epitomizes
this racialize alien othering. These territories are not considered sovereign states,
yet are governed by the U.S., and those born there do not receive automatic
U.S. citizenship, but they are allowed to join the U.S. military. American Samoa
has the highest rate of U.S. military enlistment anywhere (Total Military Recruits, 2004). Guam was acquired in 1898 as part of the Treaty of Paris after the
Spanish-America war, while American Samoa was occupied by the U.S. Navy
in 1900 and officially named a territory in 1911. A U.S. territory was originally
meant to be a short-term political designation that referred to areas that the U.S.
was acquiring, particularly during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The
long reluctance to make these territories (among others, like Puerto Rico) states
suggests the associations of Asians and Pacific Islanders as perpetual foreigners,
as racialized alien others.
Angelo Ancheta (1998) shows historically how Asians have been legally
deemed the other, denied rights, property, and citizenship. Robert Lee (1999)
demonstrates the ways Asians have been represented in U.S. culture over the
last century as the racial other, as the “Heathen Chinee” “Coolie,” “gook,” and
“model minority.” Vijay Prashad (2000) demonstrates the complex relationship
that the U.S. has had with the East as mysterious, filled with menageries, harems, and gurus, but these associations always reinforce the idea of Asians as perpetual foreigners. Christina Klein (2003) shows the way a cold war mentality in
the U.S. affected the Orientalism that constructed the ways Americans tend to
relate to Asians, most notably through narratives of “sentimental education” that
offered cultural and racial integration on a global scale after WWII. And this
sentimental education, one of parental guidance for the childlike Asians (similar
to the sentimentality voiced in Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden”) has bearing on Hmong students in Fresno. The parental language that says, “we know
what’s best for them,” is pervasive in schools and college and is the rationale for
the EPT and Early Start program, even though the test does not target Hmong
students. It does give teachers and schools reason to engage in such narratives.
Klein explains that sentimental education was part of a “global imaginary”
that connected and unified U.S. citizens to other parts of the world, most notably the more volatile areas of Asia after WWII, where the threat of communism
seemed to be most potent. Klein explains:
A global imaginary is an ideological creation that maps the
world conceptually and defines the primary relations among
peoples, nations, and regions … It produces peoples, nations,
and cultures not as isolated entities but as interconnected with
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one another. This is not to say that it works through deception or that it mystifies the real, material conditions of global
relations. Rather, a global imaginary articulates the ways in
which people imagine and live those relations. It recreates an
imaginary coherence out of the contradictions and disjunctures of real relations, and thereby provides a stable sense
of individual and national identity. In reducing the infinite
complexity of the world to comprehensible terms, it creates
a common sense about how the world functions as a system
and offers implicit instruction in how to maneuver within
that system; it makes certain attitudes and behaviors easier to
adopt than others. (2003, pp. 22-23)
Klein uses the film The King and I (1956), among others, as one example of the
way a sentimental education imagines social relations between whites and Asians
in a global imaginary. Not so ironically, these relations are gendered, with a
white female teacher (played by Deborah Kerr) teaching Asian children (the film
is situated in Siam, or contemporary Thailand) geography, English, etiquette,
and the like (Klein, 2003, pp. 2-3). It would appear she is teaching Asians their
place and relations in the world, to whites, and to English literacies, through
a kind of parental pedagogy.17 The film not only imagines relations between
whites and Asian school children, but maintains Asians as racially foreign by
associating them with all the tropes that U.S. audiences understand as the Asian
that Lee (1999) and Prashad (2000) discuss. In a pivotal musical performance
of the song, “Getting to Know You,” as the teacher sings the song of interracial
relations and etiquette, she is surround by the King’s children and his harem,
all decked out in colorful, exotic Siamese dress. At one point, a fan dancer performs. In the background, a map of the world with Siam identified, even central
in the map, is prominent. The only thing missing is a menagerie of animals.
The global imaginary that Klein discusses hasn’t changed much. It articulates
the ways teachers and schools in Fresno imagine and live the global relations between them and their Hmong students. This global imaginary offers a common
sense: we can all be full citizens of California and America if, like the Teacher
and her pupils in The King and I, we all speak and write the same particular
brand of English. But this set of relations demands a racial hierarchy, one that
imagines a white (female) teacher in charge of helping her Asian students learn
English, while she “gets to know them.” Thus we have the EPT and Early Start
programs, which spawn from sentimental, maternal logic. It’s only logical and
right, even fair, that the state provide an Early Start experience for underprepared students in Fresno, which happens to include almost the entire Hmong
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student population in Fresno. These students need more help with English so
that they can succeed in college. This global imaginary functioning in the EPT
writing assessment assumes that one key to success in college (and perhaps elsewhere) is a particular kind of English fluency, which is a dominant white middle
class English, similar to the kind that Deborah Kerr teaches her Siamese charges
in the film (she invokes a British accent in the film). Without this white hegemonic English, students will fail at their work in and out of school. This is the
script, the common sense, a part of a global imaginary that reinforces a sense
of maternal duty and obligation to straighten out those twisted tongues and
words of all Hmong students. I argue this same sensibility, this global imaginary
of sentimental education, grounded in past race relations, is alive and thriving
in many college writing classrooms, affecting (or infecting) their writing assessments because it determines the ways teachers read and judge writing and create the larger mechanisms for assessment. In one sense, our writing classrooms
could be labeled, “The Hmong and I,” with the “I” being the teacher, who often
is a white female.18
It should be remembered that Klein’s theory of a global imaginary comes
from Edward Said’s (1979) powerful and explanatory concept of Orientalism.
And the theory is instructive for understanding the Hmong racial formation’s
position in classroom writing assessments at Fresno State. Through an exhaustive
account of various Western scholars, the academy, and government institutions,
Said demonstrates how the West generally has constructed and dominated the
orient (our Middle East), what it means, what it is, etc. He explains that Orientalism offers the orient as a “system of representations,” which can be understood
as a “discourse, whose material presence or weight, not the originality of a given
author, is really responsible for the texts produced out of it.” Academics and
their related institutions primarily create this discourse and grant it authority
and “prestige” by their act of articulation and ethos as Western specialists. Orientalism, as a discourse, perpetuates itself by collecting, organizing, and recycling a
“catalogue of idées reçues,” or “received ideas” (Said, 1979, p. 94).
It isn’t that far-fetched to see writing teachers (from high school to college) in
Fresno participating in such Orientalist discourse when they read their Hmong
students and their writing. Who knows best how to understand and describe
the literacy practices of Hmong students? Apparently, the EPT, and those who
translate and use its scores: schools and writing teachers in California. This isn’t
to deny the expertise that many writing teachers develop by teaching multilingual students in classrooms, instead I’m suggesting we question the nature of our
expertise in and methods for assessing multilingual and locally diverse students
and their writing. We question what informs the judgments we make and what
those judgments tell us we should do as teachers, what decisions they seem to
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demand. Not only might we find a global imaginary of sentimental education
functioning in our writing assessments’ discourses, processes, and methods, but
we may also be constructing our locally diverse students and their writings by a
set of racist received ideas that determine the quality of their writing. If Orientalism is anything, it is a discursive field of assessment. It provides its specialists
with automatic judgments of the Orient and the Oriental. It is the discourse of
Asian and Middle Eastern racial stigmata. Is it possible, then, that there might be
an Orientalism occurring in our classroom writing assessments around Hmong
students’ and their writing, around other Asian racial formations?
In his discussion on early Twentieth century Orientalism, Said shows how
Orientalism accomplishes its tasks of consumption, manipulation, and domination by Western academics’ “visions” of the oriental and the orient, which has
a clear analogue to Hmong taking the EPT and writing teachers’ discourses on
their writing in college classrooms. Said provides an example in John Buchan, a
Scottish born classicist at Oxford in 1922. Buchan illustrates how vision works,
and displays several key features of American visions of Chinese during the same
period:
The earth is seething with incoherent power and unorganized
intelligence. Have you ever reflected on the case of China?
There you have millions of quick brains stifled in trumpery
crafts. They have no direction, no driving power, so the sum
of their efforts is futile, and the world laughs at China. (Said,
1979, p. 251)
Buchan’s “clarity of vision and analysis,” common during this part of the twentieth century, “selectively organize[s]” the orient and its objects (including its
inhabitants). The Chinese of Buchan’s vision is a massive horde of unorganized,
incoherent, half-crazed, quick-brained, brown-skinned devils, who might, as
Said says, “destroy ‘our’ [the Occidental] world” (Said, 1979, p. 251). The details
that build this analysis are not really details at all but the commonplaces that
hold currency in the Western mind, prefabricated judgments, predetermined
assessments, serving to uplift the West and suppress the Far East, recreating
hierarchical relations of power between whites and Asians. Buchan’s passage and
its commonplaces are driven by his vision. In fact, Orientalism, in all its manifestations (for Said acknowledges that it’s not uniform), is always guided by the
Western scholar’s vision, coloring all that he sees, helping him make judgments,
assess, augmenting his analyses and conclusions.
One might make a similar critique of the way Hmong student writing, or
any multilingual student writing, gets typically judged in classrooms, or on the
EPT? They are remedial because visions similar to the ones operating in Orien63

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talism determine what is most valuable, visions that are a part of a global imaginary that privileges a particular dominant English and its dispositions, then
assumes a parental role toward students. Take the sample 2-essay from the EPT
guide previously discussed. The ideal reader described in the guide sees the discussion of the “Great American Boycott” in paragraph three as merely “stream of
consciousness,” an unorganized, off-topic, and perhaps illogical discussion. The
vision required to see such details as stream of consciousness is similar to Said’s
Orientalist vision since it is reasonable to understand why a Latino/a or Hmong
student with a particular relation to advertisements and consumer consumption
in California might include this information. This vision fulfills the needs that
the narratives of sentimental education create and that circulate in California
and the U.S. generally.
The fact that Fresno Hmong students who take the EPT have parents who
recently immigrated to California in the last few decades from Laos as political
refugees, and who only spoke their native Hmong language upon arrival, and
are mostly low-income or living in poverty (Asian-American Center for Advancing Justice, 2013, pp. 20-21) seem not to matter to those who might judge
their writing, seem not to matter to those designing or reading the EPT. By the
logic of this global imaginary, which uses an Orientalist set of received ideas,
these historical exigencies are irrelevant to the assessment of English competency. These historical structures that continue to structure Hmong lives, while
not racial in the old-fashion sense of being essential to Hmong (similar factors
affect Chinese, Vietnamese, and other students), not biological, pool consistently in Hmong populations in Fresno because they are structuring in nature,
perpetuating themselves. But the structures are both subjective, as in the case of
Hmong literacies, and projective, as in the case of how those literacies are read
and judged by teachers who read them through a global imaginary of sentimental education. Seeing these structures as a part of Hmong racial habitus that then
work in concert with Orientalist visions of multilingual Asian students and a
global imaginary that cast teachers into parental roles in scripts of sentimental
education can help teachers rethink and reconstruct classroom writing assessments that do not play power games with students based on factors in their
lives they simply cannot control. So to be poor and multilingual are not ethnic
or cultural structures, but they are racialized as Hmong in Fresno, which is not
to say they are essential but deployed in ways that end up harming Hmong students in college.
It could be said that I’m being overly harsh to local writing teachers, of whom
I have been one, and the designers and readers of the EPT. I do not deny that
these are well-intentioned, good people, trying hard to offer a quality education
to all students in California. I do not deny that writing teachers in the area
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explicitly attempt to provide educational experiences to Hmong students, most
of whom are multilingual, in ways that will help them in their futures in school
and careers. But I wonder how many of us have considered the way a Hmong
racial habitus is or is not accounted for in our writing assessments, in the ways we
judge, in the expectations we have for writing, in the processes we design. I wonder if many have considered the white racial habitus clearly operating in most
writing assessments? I wonder if many have considered the function of a global
imaginary of sentimental education in their relations with Hmong students, or
Latinos/as, or Blacks? I wonder if many have thought explicitly about the ways
race in any way is already in their writing assessments?
A final example I hope will capture the way race functions in classroom writing assessments that cannot help but draw on a global imaginary of sentimental
education. For a time, I was the Special Assistant to the Provost for Writing
Across the Curriculum at Fresno State. In the first semester I took the job, the
dean of the College of Arts and Humanities sent me a package. In it was a memo
with an attached marked and graded student draft of a paper from a general
education course. The memo was from the professor, whom I’ll call Dr. X. The
dean said, “here, now you can deal with him. Apparently every semester, Dr. X
would send the dean another paper with a similar memo. The memo proclaimed
the illiteracy of “our students,” with the accompanying draft as proof, complete
with his copious markings of grammar issues and errors. Now, I would get his
memos and sample drafts each semester.
A few semesters later, Dr. X attended one of my WAC workshops, and I
asked him about his memos. I said that I appreciated his concerns for our students’ writing, but I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do, since he never made
any call to action or offered any ideas. He simply complained. Dr. X looked at
me without hesitation, and said, “I want you to feel bad about our students’
writing.” I told him that I could not feel bad, since what I saw in each draft were
opportunities to talk to the student about his or her writing choices. That’s what
writing in college is about, making mistakes and finding ways out of them.
The one thing I have not said about these memos and drafts is that almost
all of them were from Hmong students. I know this because in Fresno we have
about 18 Hmong clans represented and they have distinct last names. So if
the last name of the student on the draft is one of these 18 names, he or she is
almost certainly Hmong.19 Dr. X seemed to have an Orientalist vision that saw
his Hmong students’ writing as flawed and illiterate, so much so that he needed
to show someone else in power. He needed to show someone that we were not
doing our parental duty toward our Hmong students. We weren’t educating
them, and so we should feel bad because we were shirking our duties, or white
man’s burden. Dr. X wasn’t alone in his assessment of Hmong students’ writing
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abilities on campus, and there were certainly some who didn’t see things this
way. The point I’m making is that without a global imaginary of sentimental
education that determines teachers’ judgments, assessments, behavior, pedagogy,
and the like when confronted with multilingual Hmong student writing, Dr.
X likely would have had a different reaction to his students’ drafts. Perhaps,
the texts he saw from his Hmong students would have indicated that his assignments didn’t fit them very well, or his curriculum might need to be better
adapted to his students’ needs.
In many ways, this global imaginary creates a vision that may actually augment reality. For instance, I wonder exactly how many students of Dr. X’s fit
into the category of “illiterate.” I asked this question to another professor who
complained about a similar occurrence in his general education courses (note:
both of these vocal faculty were white males). So I asked him how big the class
was? He said 200 students. I asked how many students seem to have these deep
language problems in each class? After a few seconds of consideration, he said,
“maybe ten.” “So 5% of your class have these problems,” I reiterated. “Yes,” he
said. “So 95% of your students are essentially okay,” I asked rhetorically? “I don’t
see a pervasive problem,” and I left the conversation at that.

RACE AS A NEXUS OF POWER RELATIONS
Race, racial habitus, and racism are about power. So when we avoid it in our
writing assessments, we tend to avoid addressing important power relations that
create inequality. Paying attention to race in our classroom writing assessments
isn’t racist. In fact, not paying attention to race often leads to racism. Racism
occurs in the nature of assumptions, the production of racial hierarchies, and the
effects or consequences of racial projects. And using exclusively cultural or ethnic terms, such as Japanese or Hmong, without connecting them to race (thus
leaving them unconnected to racism) have their own problems. Doing so elides
the non-cultural and non-ethnic dimensions of human experience in society,
defining a social formation primarily by ethnicity or cultural practices that some
students may not have experiences with or practice yet still be associated with.
Race isn’t solely, or even mostly, about culture, as I hope my discussion above
about racial habitus and racial subjectivity and projection reveal.
Race as an organizing term is primarily about understanding power and privilege, not cultural differences. I’m a good example of the way race is about more
than culture or ethnicity. Ethnically I’m Japanese-American, Scottish, English,
and some Mediterranean (likely Greek or Italian). My father was Japanese from
Hawai’i, but I was raised by my mother, who has always identified as white. This
means that I was not raised in a Buddhist or Shinto home, nor did I have the
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chance to go to Japanese school, or speak Japanese. I wasn’t raised with many
culturally Japanese practices, yet I am mostly Japanese by blood heritage. I have
usually been mistaken for some kind of Latino, depending on the context. I
have been the target of many racist remarks, acts, and the like. This is my own
racial subjectivity, and I’ve had to come to my own Japanese-American cultural
and ethnic practices, history, and awareness as an adult. Racially, I identify as
Asian-American, given the power differentials I’ve encountered in my life, yet I
do this by repressing or denying to some degree my whiteness and white heritage, which I’m sure has helped me in some ways. I do not think that I’m such
a strange occurrence. Ethnicity simply is insufficient for me. Race, however, is
an identifier of one’s political position or relation to power in society, and better
captures such complexities of subjectivity.
And so, using ethnic identifiers can make us think that we are looking at
ethnic differences, when it is more important to see differences of power and
privilege, differences produced by social structures associated with sets of racialized dispositions (or discursive, material, and performative structures), ones that
may be subjective (self-identifications) or projected onto groups. Regardless of
the structures, we are always seeing differences in power and privilege. Using
Manning Marable (2002), Carmen Kynard (2013) explains clearly the relationship between race and power:
I also define race as the central, power-defining principle of
modern states and, today, as a “global apartheid” that has
constructed “new racialized ethnic hierarchies” in the context
of the global flow of capital under neoliberalism. This means
that white privilege can be more specifically understood as
the historical accumulation of material benefits in relation to
salaries, working conditions, employment, home ownership,
life expectancy rates, access to professional positions, and
promotions. (Kynard, 2013, p. 10)
The result of the historical accumulation of material benefits to those who inhabit a white racial habitus is structural racism that provides power, privilege,
and access to opportunities that most folks who inhabit other racial habitus
simply are denied, and denied for ostensibly non-racial reasons. And this racism
amounts to power differentials based on how an individual or group is situated
racially in society, school, and the larger global economy. And so, to have an antiracist agenda for classroom writing assessment means that writing assessment
is centrally about the construction and distribution of power in all the ways
that power is exercised in the classroom. But for the writing classroom, power
is mostly exercised through the ability to judge, assess, and grade writing. It is
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exercised mostly through the assessment ecology.

LOCAL DIVERSITIES
Writing teachers who wish to engage in antiracist writing assessment practices must address race at the local level, considering the racial and linguistic
diversity in their classrooms, something very few writing assessment discussions
have been able to do. Race is a tangled construct, a clumsy, slippery one. It is not
biological, nor even real in the ways that language use or citizenship status are,
but race is a way to understand patterns in lived experience that equate a social
formation’s relation to dominant discourses and a local white racial habitus, one’s
relations to power. If we assume that writing assessments are ecologies (I’ll make
this argument in the next chapter), then they are local in nature, as others have
discussed (Gallagher, 2010; Huot, 2002; O’Neill et al., 2009), and as NCTE
and CWPA have recognized as an important consideration for effective writing
assessments (CCCC, 2009; NCTE & WPA, n.d.). If they are local, then the
populations that participate in them at the local level are important to theorize
into our writing assessment practices. So, how can we understand local diversities in particular schools and classrooms in ways that help teachers to assess the
writing of racially diverse students in their classrooms?
On today’s college campuses, the local student populations are growing in
their racial and cultural diversity, and this diversity means different things at
different schools. According to The National Center for Educational Statistics
enrollment figures for all U.S. colleges and universities, the numbers of Black
and Hispanic20 students have steadily increased: Between 2000 and 2010, the
percentage of college students who were Black rose from 11.3% to 14.5%, and
the percentage of Hispanic students rose from 9.5% to 13%. For the same years,
they show that international (“nonresident alien”) student enrollment remains
virtually the same at 3.4% of the total student population (U.S. Department of
Education & National Center for Education Statistics, 2011). And this doesn’t
mention the variety of Asian and Asian-American students on college campuses,
or the very small but just as complex numbers of Native American students,
nor does it adequately complicate what each of these racial categories means at
particular schools.
Regardless of the local complexities, with all these students comes more English literacies spoken and written in the classroom. Paul Kei Matsuda highlights
the importance of these trends in composition as a field and the classroom by
arguing that composition studies must address more directly the “myth of linguistic homogeneity,” that is, that writing classrooms and programs work from a
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false myth in which the teacher’s or program’s normative image of typical writing
students is of “native speakers of a privileged variety of English” (2006, p. 638).
Matsuda extends a critique by Bruce Horner and John Trimbur (2002). Horner
and Trimbur argue that U.S. college writing classes hold assumptions about the
preferred English—the privileged variety of English—used in classrooms, which
they call “unidirectional monolingualism.” They argue for “an alternative way
of thinking about composition programs, the language of our students, and our
own language practices that holds monolingualism itself to be a problem and a
limitation of U.S. culture and that argues for the benefits of an actively multilingual language policy” (2002, p. 597). Matsuda and Horner and Trimbur are
talking about writing assessment without saying it. The myth of linguistic homogeneity really boils down to how we read and judge writing of locally diverse
students. A writing pedagogy that doesn’t assume a unidirectional monolingualism is one that assesses writing and writing students by considering more than
a single dominant English. But to incorporate their good ideas, to construct
writing pedagogies that do more than demand a dominant discourse, we must
begin by thinking about local diversities in classroom writing assessments.
In Jay Jordan’s (2012) discussion of multilingual classroom realities, he too argues that the Englishes that come to us in writing classrooms are more and more
global Englishes, a part of a “globally changing language,” and we “cannot afford
to continue ignoring the multiple competencies students have developed ‘on the
ground’ and often before entering our classrooms” (p. 53). These are conclusions that others have also made about world Englishes (Canagarajah, 2006) and
code meshing (Young, 2007, 2011; Young & Martinez, 2011). Claude Hurlbert
(2012) makes a convincing argument for considering “international composition,” or an English composition classroom that considers epistemologies across
the globe as valid and worth learning from and about (p. 52). The bottom line
is that the cultural, material, and linguistic diversity in our writing classrooms
demands a writing assessment theory that is robust enough to help teachers and
WPAs design and deploy writing assessments that are responsibly informed and
fair to all students, regardless of their pre-college experiences or cultural and
linguistic heritages. Furthermore, this theory of writing assessment should be
dynamic enough to account for the ways various racial formations may change
when participating in the classrooms that the assessments produce. I could use
the conventional assessment language to describe the kinds of writing assessments
that I’m speaking of, that the decisions from them be valid enough and reliable
writing assessments, or use other terms, such as ethical and meaningful (Lynne,
2004), but the point is that we understand what we are creating and what those
creations do in our classrooms to and for our students and teachers.
In our increasingly racially and linguistically diverse writing classrooms, a
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theory of writing assessment is robust if it can address the difficult question of
ethnic and racial diversity among students and teachers, a question addressed
publically in 2008 on the Conference on College Composition and Communication’s Diversity blog (http://cccc-blog.blogspot.com/). Diversity seems to
mean many things to many people. Much like the critique that Joseph Harris
makes of “community” in composition studies, that it has no negative binary
term (2012, pp. 134-135), an argument he actually draws out from Raymond
Williams definition of the term (1976, p. 76), “diversity” may have only positive
associations in academia. This isn’t a problem until we find that the concept is
deployed in ways that function to erase difference, or merely celebrate it without
complication (Schroeder, 2011), or as a commodity for institutions to measure
themselves by (Kerschbaum, 2014, p.44). In other words, we like to celebrate
diversity without dealing with difference. And these complications are different
at historical moments and geographic places, at different schools. So it may be
best to speak only in terms of local diversity around our writing assessments.
This doesn’t solve the question of the meaning of “diversity,” but it does give us
a place to begin understanding so that the writing assessments we have in local
places can be developed in ways that meet locally diverse needs.
In the abstract, the idea of designing a writing assessment in response to a
local set of diverse students and teachers is no different from best practices in
the field of writing assessment. Huot’s (2002) calls for “context-sensitive” assessments, meaning they “honor the instructional goals and objectives as well as the
cultural and social environment of the institution or agency” (p. 105), seems to
say the same thing. But looking closer at Huot’s explanation of this principle
reveals an absence of any concepts or theories that could explain or inform in
some robust way the racial, cultural, or linguistic diversity that any classroom
writing assessment might have. Huot explains:
Developing writing assessment procedures upon an epistemological basis that honors local standards, includes a specific
context for both the composing and reading of student
writing and allows the communal interpretation of written
communication is an important first step in furnishing a new
theoretical umbrella for assessing student writing. However,
it is only a first step. We must also develop procedures with
which to document and validate their use. These validation
procedures must be sensitive to the local and contextual
nature of the procedures themselves. While traditional writing
assessment methods rely on statistical validation and standardization that are important to the beliefs and assumptions
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that fuel them, developing procedures will need to employ
more qualitative and ethnographic validation procedures like
interviews, observations and thick descriptions to understand
the role an assessment plays within a specific program or institution. (2002, p. 106)
While it is clear in Huot’s discussion that teachers should be taking into account
their particular students when developing writing assessments, which makes for
“site-based” and “locally-controlled” assessments (2002, p. 105), he focuses attention on procedures and institutional needs, not the ethnic or racial diversity
among students who come into contact with those procedures and needs, both
of which have been designed before any student arrives on the scene. I don’t
want to be unfair to Huot. He is concerned with how locally diverse students
are treated in writing assessments, and places most of his solution on validation
processes, thus on local teachers abilities and intentions to look for and find
unfairness or racism. In a broad sense, local teachers have to weed out racism in
their assessments. Who else will? But do they? Will they if they aren’t prompted
to look?
Knowing or being prompted to look is vital. The validation of a writing
assessment’s decision21 is usually not designed, nor conceived of, as engaging
productively with difference or diversity in student populations or teachers. This
is likely why he calls for “qualitative and ethnographic validation procedures,”
but it’s hard to know what exactly these procedures would focus on or reveal.
What is the range of hypotheses that teachers begin with? While it is easy to
read into the above description of a site, say a writing classroom, as nearly uniform or homogeneous, I do not think Huot means this. But isn’t that often
the assumption we make when we look to assess writing or design a classroom
writing assessment of an essay or a written document of some kind? Procedures
and rubrics are usually designed to label and categorize student performances in
uniform ways, which means they identify sameness, not surprises or difference.
These kinds of procedures and institutional needs (like a need for a standard,
local SEAE to be used) enforces homogeneity, and punishes diversity, as we can
conclude from both Matsuda (2006) and Horner and Trimbur (2002).
Huot does offer alternatives to validation that could take into account local
diversities, procedures that work toward “qualitative and ethnographic validation,” but these procedures are mainly to “understand the role an assessment
plays within a specific program or institution.” This is a worthwhile goal, and
while the searching for student difference may be assumed in such procedures for
validating an assessment’s decisions, terms like “program” homogenize student
populations and erase difference. They keep us from thinking about it or seeing
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it, especially when we are designing such writing assessments. It is simply harder
to see local diversities if we do not explicitly name them, or look for them, or
account for them. This is even tougher to do in a writing classroom assessment
where it has been my experience running writing programs that teachers are not
thinking about ways to validate their own grading practices or even feedback
practices. Validation is usually a programmatic concern, not a classroom assessment concern. And since it isn’t, racism has fertile ground to grow in classrooms.
I should make clear that I believe that we always already are diverse in our
classrooms, schools, and geographic locations, which Huot surely is assuming as
well. But I’m also suggesting that writing teachers develop writing assessments
that explicitly engage with the local diversities in the classroom, that these local
diversities be a part of the designing of the assessment’s needs and procedures.
Designing with local diversities in mind means that we choose to see the inherent multilingual aspects of our students as something other than signs of
incomplete students, students who are not quite of the dominant discourses
and expectations for college writing (e.g., a local SEAE). I realize that this claim
pushes against Bartholomae’s (1985) insightful explanation of students needing
to “appropriate” the discourses of the academy in his famous essay “Inventing
the University,” but I’m less sure now that helping students toward the goal of
appropriation is a worthwhile social goal, less sure that it helps our society as
well as academia break the racist structures that hold all of us back, that limit the
work in the academy as much as it limits our ways with words.
This is not to forget or elide the real issues of representation that most people
of color face in the academy and U.S. society, nor the real concerns that many
have for learning the dominant English of the marketplace. Nor is it lost on
me how much I have benefited from a mastery of academic discourse, that this
book is a testament to that discourse and how I’ve made it my own, but I have
also been punished by not conforming to it in the past. And like most writing
teachers, I am not like my students, in that I have an affinity for language. I love
it. Thus I was resilient to the punishments. Most students are not so resilient.
The bottom line is that local diversity is something that once we assume it to be
a fact, it becomes essential to a healthy, fully functioning, and productive writing
assessment ecology.
At Fresno State, Hispanic (which means mostly Mexican-American, but the
institution uses “Hispanic”) student enrollment has steadily grown since at least
2003 and surpassed Whites in 2010—Whites are a numerical minority on campus. Asian (mostly Hmong) students have also increased in the same period, but
at a slower pace. Meanwhile, white student enrollment has decreased each year
since 2006. In Fall 2012, 38.8% of all students enrolled where Hispanic, 28.8%
were White, 14.8% were Asian (mostly Hmong), 4.4% were African-American,
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3.0% were International, and 0.4% were American Indian (CSU, Fresno, n.d.).
Furthermore, in the city of Fresno in 2011, the U.S. Census Bureau states
that 44.3% of people aged 5 and older spoke a language other than English
at home (Ryan, 2013, p. 13). Of this population, 76.2% spoke Spanish, while
15.5% identified speaking an Asian and Pacific Island language, likely Hmong.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention corroborate these numbers,
noting that in Fresno County the top three spoken languages in homes are English, Spanish, and Hmong (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2007).
The U.S. Census Bureau’s American Community Survey estimates that in 2011
in Fresno County 44.7% of those who speak Asian and Pacific Island languages at home, speak English less than “very well” (U.S. Census Bureau, 2011).
Not surprisingly, of those admitted to Fresno State in Fall 2011, 72.2% of all
Asian-Americans were designated as not proficient (remedial) in English (CSU
Division of Analytic Studies, 2013), the highest remediation rate of any racial formation, as previously mentioned.22 The story these statistics tell is one of local diversity, a diversity of people, cultures, and most importantly Englishes. It’s also a
story that reveals the problems bound to happen in classroom writing assessments
that do not account for such local diversity. These issues begin with the EPT and
its production of the remedial student, who is primarily Mexican and Hmong.
Now, one could argue against the validity of Fresno State’s remediation numbers—that is, the decisions that the EPT makes for Hmong students—especially
since they are produced by a dubious standardized test based on judgments that
pit student writing against a dominant white habitus, a test designed for all California students, a large and complexly diverse state. And the EPT’s placement
decisions’ questionable validity is exactly why local diversities need to be understood better and accounted for in writing assessments. How could it be that so
many more Asian-Americans taking the EPT are deemed remedial by that test
than any other racial formation at Fresno State? Are they all just bad writers?
If a recent survey of all Hmong students conducted in the Writing Across the
Curriculum program at Fresno State is accurate (266 students responded), only
10% of Hmong students say they use only English on and off campus on a daily
basis to communicate to others. Most (63.4%) say they use mostly English but
sometimes another language, while 23.4% say they use half English and half
another language. So if this is true, then it’s reasonable to say that the Hmong
formation at Fresno State is highly literate, at least functional in two different
languages. The EPT as a writing assessment doesn’t account at all for the local diversity of Fresno State, for the dual languaging of Hmong students. It only cares
about the institutional need to promote the myth of the monolingual, native
English-speaking student. Local racial diversity, which in this case is constructed
by home and school language practices and conditions of immigration to name
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a few factors, is ignored by the EPT.
The EPT clearly has problems adequately accounting for the multilingual
students in Fresno if over 72% of Asian-American students are designated as remedial by it, meanwhile only about 25% of white students are. And we shouldn’t
be fooled by arguments that claim the EPT, or any writing assessment, could
produce fairly such numbers in student populations, populations who come from
the same schools, all born in the U.S. The argument is that perhaps the EPT is
actually testing writing competency and not biased against Fresno Hmong since
it cannot be determined that the EPT measures something different in Hmong
students or measures the same construct differently in Hmong students (Inoue &
Poe, 2012, pp. 343-344, 352; White & Thomas, 1981, p. 280).
The trouble with this argument is not that it uses conventional, positivistic,
psychometric theories of bias (Jensen, 1976; Reynolds 1982a, 1982b; Thorndike, 1971) to determine if the EPT is not a racist test, which it does, but
that it ignores the fact that failure (low scores that mean remediation) pool so
cleanly, abundantly, and consistently in Hmong racial and linguistic formations
in Fresno. It shows us that larger structural racism is happening in schools and
classrooms, as much as it is in the test itself. Good writing assessments should be
able to identify such structural racism, not work with it to produce more racist
effects. Speaking of the EPT historically, Inoue & Poe (2012) explain why this
writing assessment can be considered racist:
The bias of a test, like the EPT, is not just a matter of finding
traditionally defined test bias. If this were the case, we most
likely must agree with White and Thomas’ original judgment
that the EPT is not biased against students of color. Bias can
also be measured through the consequences of assessments.
If an assessment is to respond fairly to the groups on which
it makes decisions, then shouldn’t its design address the way
groups historically perform on the assessment? Thus, we wish
to suggest that understanding an assessment as producing a particular set of racial formations produces educational environments
that could be unequal, either in terms of access, opportunities, or
possibilities. (pp. 352-353)
Thus it is the racial consequences of a test that can make it racist and unfair. And
these unfair consequences stem from the EPT not addressing local diversity, and
arguably only addressing a presumed white majority. So the classrooms at Fresno
State are not isolated from the larger structures and previous assessments that
construct the students who come. Classroom writing assessments must account
for these conditions, and we can do so by understanding better these factors as
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factors that construct the local racial diversity of our students.
But how do local diversities affect classroom writing assessments in those
classrooms? As a teacher if you noticed that 16 out of the 20 students in your
writing course were failing their essays, wouldn’t you re-examine your assignment, or expectations, or how you judged essays, etc.? Would you assume that
those 16 students are all bad writers, and only four in the class are proficient?
Of course not. Now, what if your school had a history of accepting students
who were conventionally less prepared for college writing, who tended to have
trouble approximating the dominant discourse expected, say urban Latino/a and
Black students from poor neighborhoods and schools? Given this context, what
would you assume? Would you check your methods, your assignments, perhaps
even talk to students about how they interpreted the assignment? Now let’s say
that of those 16 students 14 were Asian-American and multilingual, the rest
in the class were white. Now, would you still think your classroom writing assessment is potentially flawed, or would you engage with the global imaginary
of a sentimental education that says you know what is best for these less developed Asians, or Blacks, or Latinos/as? Would you imagine your role as parental?
Would you imagine that you had an obligation to help these students become
more proficient in the dominant English of the classroom for their own good?
Would this global imaginary keep you from critically examining the way your
writing assessment is or is not explicitly accounting for the locally diverse students you have in your classroom and their relations to a white racial habitus
that is likely functioning in your assessment? That is, would you change your
assessment so that it folded back onto itself instead of pushing back onto your
students? Could your assessment assess itself, assess the dominant discourse and
not just the discourses of your students?
If your assessment could do this, then it is necessary, vital, that other discourses, other perspectives, other epistemologies exist so that students can compare them to the dominant one the classroom promotes. Notice I’m not saying
that the classroom is not promoting a dominant discourse. I’m saying it promotes one alongside other non-dominant ones. And the non-dominant ones become the ways toward critical examination, toward critical assessment practices.
The concept of local diversity ultimately means classroom writing assessments must engage meaningfully with the diverse students in classrooms. It
means teachers really cannot develop assessment procedures or expectations
without their students’ literacies. And this means, local diversities should change
the academic discourse, change what is hegemonic in the academy, but this is
a difficult task, one requiring a more holistic sense of classroom writing assessments, a theory of classroom writing assessment as an ecology.

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CHAPTER 2: ANTIRACIST
WRITING ASSESSMENT
ECOLOGIES
It is not hard to think of a classroom as an ecology or to think of writing
as ecological. Others have discussed it already, and I’ll draw on them in this
chapter (Coe, 1975; Cooper, 1986; Dobrin & Weisser, 2002). But what exactly is an ecology, and how might we define an ecology in order to use it as a
frame for antiracist classroom writing assessments? This is the question that I’ll
address in this chapter. I’ll do so by considering Freirean critical pedagogy, Buddhist theories of interconnection, and Marxian political theory. My goal in using
these theories is to provide a structural and political understanding of ecology
that doesn’t abandon the inherent interconnectedness of all people and things,
and maintains the importance of an antiracist agenda for writing assessments. I
could easily be talking about any conventional writing assessment ecology, that
is ones that do not have explicit antiracist agendas; however, my discussion will
focus on understanding what a classroom writing assessment ecology is when it
explicitly addresses antiracist work.
An antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology provides for the complexity and holistic nature of assessment systems, the interconnectedness of all
people and things, which includes environments, without denying or eliding
linguistic, cultural, or racial diversity, and the politics inherent in all uneven
social formations. Consider the OED’s main definitions for the word, ecology:
1a. the branch of biology that deals with the relationships
between living organisms and their environment. Also: the
relationships themselves, esp. those of a specified organism.
1b. Chiefly Social. The study of the relationships between
people, social groups, and their environment; (also) the
system of such relationships in an area of human settlement.
Freq. with modifying word, as cultural ecology, social ecology,
urban ecology.
1c. In extended use: the interrelationship between any system
and its environment; the product of this.
2. The study of or concern for the effect of human activity on
the environment; advocacy of restrictions on industrial and
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agricultural development as a political movement; (also) a
political movement dedicated to this. (ecology, 2015)
Several themes from the above definition are instructive. First, the term “ecology” refers to relationships between biological people and their environments.
The classrooms, dorm rooms, homes, workplaces, coffee shops, computer labs,
libraries, and other environments where students do the work of a writing course
have relationships to those students as they work. When the desks in a classroom
are bolted to the floor, immoveable, it makes for a rigid classroom environment
that can seep into the attitudes and feelings of students as they work in that
room. When a dorm room is loud, busy, and cluttered with voices as a student
tries to write on her laptop, that environment not only can be distracting but
can affect her stance as a reader and writer, keeping her from being open to
new ideas, willing to entertain alternative voices or positions, or it may rush
her work. The same relationships affect teachers when they read, assess, and
grade student writing. The places we do writing assessment, wherever they may
be in a particular course, has direct consequences to assessment and the people
involved.
Furthermore, places may have important associations with particular groups
of people who typically inhabit those places, identified by class, social standing, language use, religion, race, or other social dimensions. Work done in such
places can be affected by these associations. For instance, work done at an Historically Black College or University (HBCU) may be done very differently by a
Black male student than if that same student was asked to do similar work at a
mostly white college in the same state. Being the only student of color, or one of
the only, in a classroom, school, or dormitory, can be unnerving, can affect one’s
ability to do the work asked, even when everyone around you is friendly. My
experience as an undergraduate at a mostly white university in a mostly white
state was filled with friendly teachers, eager to help, but I couldn’t escape the
feeling that when I wrote, I was writing at a deficit, that I always had to make up
for where I came from and who I was. It seemed obvious to me in class, a brown
spot in a class of white milk. Everyone talked and wrote differently than me, it
seemed. We shouldn’t forget that environments, places, are often (usually) raced,
affecting how discourses are valued and judged.
Second, ecologies (re)create the living organisms and environments that constitute them through their relationships with each other. If living organisms and
their environments create and recreate each other, then one cannot easily separate people from their environments and expect those people or environments
to stay the same. To put this in simpler terms: we are defined by where we live,
work, and commune. Places, environments, help make us who we are, and we
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help make places what they are. The issue that this observation brings up for an
antiracist writing assessment ecology is one about the historical relationships
between particular racial formations and institutions. White, middle and upper
class people have been associated more closely to those who go to college because
they have been the ones who have gone to college and who have controlled
those institutions. Colleges and writing classrooms have been places of white
settlement and communion. And this helps us understand why the dominant
discourse of the classroom is a white discourse, and informed by a white racial
habitus.
To work against this in our writing assessments, I find it helpful to think in
terms of labor, in terms of what people do. In one sense, we might think of a student as only a student because of the work she does and the associations she has
to particular places, locations, or sites, like a college campus, or a writing classroom. Those locations have certain labors associated with them as much as they
have certain people associated with them. A student’s relationships to classrooms
and a school helps constitute her as a student, and the school is constituted as a
school because she and other students like her inhabit and labor in that place.
As my earlier discussion of racial habitus explains, among other things, the ways
that environments affect people are discursively, performatively, and materially,
changing us as we dwell and labor because we dwell and labor in those places.
To acquire things by our labors is also seen historically as good and ethical,
especially in matters of learning. After making a rousing argument for his young
students’ willingness to study rhetoric for civic betterment by “disdain[ing] a life
of pleasure; when they might have saved expense and lived softly,” as many of
their contemporaries do, Isocrates argues that his students labor at their studies
to know themselves and learn, to be better citizens (2000, pp. 346-347). He
ends with an argument for an ethics of labor:
Pray, what is noble by nature becomes shameful and base
when one attains it by effort? We shall find that there is no
such thing, but that, on the contrary, we praise, at least in
other fields, those who by their own devoted toil are able to
acquire some good thing more than we praise those who inherit it from their ancestors. And rightly so; for it is well that
in all activities, and most of all in the art of speaking, credit is
won, not by gifts of fortune, but by efforts of study. (p. 347)
If our students’ gifts of fortune are the racial habitus they bring with them, and
some habitus provide some students an unfair inheritance in today’s academy,
then we must use something more ethical to assess them by, especially in writing
classrooms. Isocrates suggests that we already value in learning those who work
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hard to attain such learning and that in the study of rhetoric “credit is won” by
“efforts of study.” While I know Isocrates has particular things in mind that students might learn, but not too particular, since his rhetorical philosophy was at
its center kairotic, I read him at face value. What we might learn from the study
and practice of rhetoric will depend on the practical things that need doing in
the now. Our most important asset is the labor we do now, the effort we expend
on rhetoric, not our nature gifts, or our racial habitus. Adjusting our assessment
systems to favor labor over the gifts of racial habitus sets up assessment ecologies
that are by their nature more ethical and fairer to all.
Thus in antiracist writing assessment ecologies, it is important to focus on
labor, as we all can labor, and labor can be measured by duration, quantity, or
intensity, not by so-called quality, or against a single standard. This makes for a
more equitable ecology, particularly for those who may come to it with discourses or habitus other than the dominant ones. Thus, one important aspect of an
antiracist writing assessment ecology is an attention to labor, or more precisely,
a valuing of labor over so-called quality, even though often our goals may be to
help students become more fluent in the dominant discourses of the academy.23
Third, ecology often references systems of relationships in areas of human
settlement—that is, places people make and call home, or at least create and inhabit purposefully. Thinking in ecological terms is thinking about how we make
some place livable and sustainable. The point here is that because ecologies are
always in a state of flux, changing, they are in one sense a scene of settlement, a
process of constantly making some place livable. If our writing assessment ecologies in our classrooms don’t pay attention to the dialectical way those ecologies
affect students and the students affect them, or the way they affect and change
us as teachers, they may simply be ecologies of measurement, mechanisms of
pure accountability. They won’t really be doing their job, at least not in its fullest
sense.
Antiracist ecological writing assessment references a fuller purpose defined
through a set of relationships that form settlement and create sustainable places
that depend on local diversity for critical examination of writing and the habitus that produce that writing and readers’ expectations. I’ll explain this set of
practices below through Freire’s problem-posing methods, a set of practices and
priorities that I call problematizing one’s existential writing assessment situation. In
order for a classroom assessment ecology to be sustainable, fair, and resist racism,
it needs to question critically the structures and assumptions that make up the
reading and judging of all students and teachers in the classroom. To do this, it
requires that the assessment ecology is one of settlement, one in which everyone
has a stake in making it livable, fair, and sustainable. It doesn’t mean the ecology
is one that values consensus, or even agreement, about what is “good writing.”
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It means the ecology’s politics continually struggles through disagreement and
dissensus, in the way Trimbur (1989) discusses it. The ecology struggles through
the ways language comes to mean and be valued and how our bodies and environments affect that meaning and valuing. I’ll say more about this below.
Fourth, ecology refers to the actions, effects, and consequences of human
and environmental activity. Ecology implies action, or doing things and things
being done. It assumes activity and change. The idea that ecologies are fundamentally systems of change and action agrees with the way many have understood language as a system too. Arguing against Saussure’s conception of language as understood as either langue (a language system) or parole (individual,
unique utterances of language), V. N. Volosinov (1986) says that there is no such
thing as langue, only parole, that language is a “ceaseless flow of becoming” (p.
66). Volosinov’s conception of language as a constantly changing, unstable set of
linguistic norms seems a good metaphor for assessment ecologies. Ecologies also
are constantly becoming. And if the ecology is in constant flux, so are the people,
places, and relationships that form them. Intuitively, this makes sense. From our
assessments and feedback on student writing, through peer-review activities and
revisions, we hope that our students (and maybe even us as teachers) change, develop, become fuller. This feature of writing assessment ecologies can be turned
to antiracist purposes. First, it provides us with at least one rationale for why
using a single, static standard to measure student writing performances is unproductive in writing classrooms. Second, in antiracist assessment ecologies, it
may mean that we must consider other, larger purposes for our ecology, purposes
beyond or instead of measuring or ranking students. For instance, one might see
a purpose that aligns with Freirean critical pedagogy that demands the ecology
produce some output, some product(s) that demonstrate or observe the ceaseless
flow of each students’ language practices as it becomes something else. This kind
of descriptive assessment process has been promoted in various ways by many
already, although none have an explicit antiracist purpose (Bleich, 1997; Broad,
2003; Broad et al., 2009; Guba & Lincoln, 1989; Huot, 2002; Inoue, 2004).
Fifth and finally, the last definition listed above refers to the way all ecologies
are associated with political activities, with the ways that people and environments affect each other and the interests that particular groups may have to
change or maintain a given environment or place. And so, ecology is always a
reference to the political (or power) relations between people and their environments, between people in environments. This directly connects racial habitus
and racial formations to writing assessment ecologies, since both are centrally
defined by power relations. In fact, this last definition makes racial politics, as
relations of power that change the environment of the classroom, central to the
activities and purposes of a writing assessment. In simpler terms, all writing
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assessment ecologies are about consciously noticing and perhaps changing the
power relations involved so that a more sustainable and equitable ecology is
created. Thus antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies are explicit about
their politics, explicit about their attention to reconstructing hierarchical racial
power arrangements that are (re)produced through students’ performances, their
material conditions in which they labor and that affect who they are, and the
languages they use.
Putting these five important features together, we might initially think of
an antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology as a complex political system of
people, environments, actions, and relations of power that produce consciously understood relationships between and among people and their environments that help
students problematize their existential writing assessment situations, which in turn
changes or (re)creates the ecology so that it is fairer, more livable, and sustainable
for everyone. This definition is still incomplete however. It doesn’t explain the
nature of the ecology’s complexity as a system, nor how the relationships among
elements work. While this definition explains the political purposes for any antiracist writing assessment ecology, it doesn’t explain the nature of those politics
as constitutive features of the ecology.
In the following sections of this chapter, I’ll fill in these gaps in this definition
by discussing the way antiracist writing assessment ecologies are “more than”
their features or elements, making them complex systems through their holistic
natures, and systems that can produce critical or antiracist products and consequences. I’ll explain how the interconnectedness of people and environments
help writing classrooms understand the importance and necessity of antiracist
agendas in writing assessment, and how interconnectedness is vital to the use of
difference in discourses, values, and judging. Finally, I’ll show how it is best to
see antiracist writing assessment ecologies as Marxian ecologies, which reveals
the ways power relations work both historically and from the classical Marxian dialectic. Seeing writing assessment ecologies as explicitly Marxian ecologies
provides students with language to understand the way all assessment ecologies
determine our desires and expectations for discourse, and the evaluations of our
writing, and perhaps offers some ways to counter that determining.
What should be clear in the discussion so far is that all classroom writing
assessment ecologies are by necessity political, are by necessity racial in orientation, even when we try hard not to consider race in our designs or implementation. Therefore an antiracist project or agenda is crucial to all classroom
writing assessment ecologies. To engage in antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies is a revolutionary or transformative agenda, one akin to Freire’s
(1970) problem-posing pedagogy described in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, which
my definition above references. In fact, Freire’s description of the process of data
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collection in the community and its analysis by that community and his literacy workers (1970, p. 112) is strikingly similar to Guba and Lincoln’s famous
fourth-generation evaluation process that uses a hermeneutic dialectic circle to
acquire various judgments (what they call “constructions”) by stakeholders in
order for a socially constructed evaluation to emerge (Guba & Lincoln, 1989, p.
152). Their process produces a collaborative description that takes into account
as many of the stakeholders involved as possible. While they don’t focus on it,
this process allows for an evaluation to work with the locally diverse people involved and the inherent differences in language and judgment that those people
will produce. Freire’s pedagogy is very similar. The lens I am asking us to place
on Guba and Lincoln’s and Freire’s processes is an attention to the way language
practices participate in larger racialized discourses and habitus.
Freire’s pedagogy is assessment at just about every level. He says that the
dialogical teacher’s role is primarily to “re-present” the “thematic universe” uncovered by the team of researchers (which includes community members) as a
problem (1970, p. 109), which the community (or students) must take on or use
to pose their own problems. This is the heart of what Guba and Lincoln attempt
to offer in their assessment model, and at the heart of antiracist writing assessment ecologies. The central work of problem-posing for students in an antiracist
writing assessment ecology is to assess and make judgments on language, to
re-present colleagues’ texts to them from whatever subject position that student
inhabits, and to do so self-consciously, calling attention to their own habitus, all
of which leads to other questions that require more assessments by readers and
writers. This makes the assessments more important than the drafts and documents being assessed. Students don’t have to label the differences they notice in
language practices as racialized, but they can strive to understand the differences
as more than idiosyncrasies, more than individual differences unconnected to
larger discursive fields, larger social and cultural practices in their lives.
These judgments about language judgments that students exchange in antiracist writing assessment ecologies are focused not on what is right or wrong,
conventional or not, but on comparisons between a white racial habitus and
other habitus that students take on. The white racial habitus is not a standard
by which students must write up to or be judged against, but is understood as a
direction everyone heads toward at their own pace and in their own ways. Most
important, it is the heading toward, the movement, the “flow of becoming,”
that is the basis of measuring and grading in antiracist writing assessment ecologies. Because ecologies are fundamentally about change, movement, and actions,
judgments about student labor (the engine of movement and change) might best
be used to determine things like grades and define expectations for work. This
means that it is important not to use measurements of students’ approximations
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to a dominant discourse to determine grades (measures of so-called “quality”).
Labor is a more equitable and fair measure. Everyone has 24 hours in every day.24
I’ll illustrate what this problematizing can look like in an imperfect way in
Chapter 4 and offer some ideas toward assessment activities in Chapter 5 that
help students problematize their writing assessment situations. For now, this
short description is what I mean when I say that the larger goal of any antiracist
writing assessment ecology is to encourage students to problematize their existential writing assessment situations. To problematize means students must pose
questions about their colleagues’ and their own drafts, then investigate those
questions, which essentially are ones about the nature of judgment and language, leading students to understanding their own habitus and the white racial
habitus of the academy. This moves discussions and the work of the ecology
away from the drafts and into the nature of judgment itself. While I did not
use it in the course I describe in Chapter 4, I include in Appendix B an explicit
problematizing assignment (a problem-posing letter), which I have used since
the course. The problem-posing letter explicitly asks students to problematize
their existential writing assessment situations by using the feedback they and
their colleagues have written.
I realize the problems with transplanting a pedagogy designed to help illiterate peasants gain language and power in developing countries to a post-industrialized context like U.S. writing classrooms, where our students, even the poorest
of them, are not remotely in need of the kind of liberation that Freire is thinking
of. Our students are not oppressed in the ways Freire’s Brazilian peasants were;
however, most U.S. students can be a part of an antiracist, liberatory agenda in
the writing classroom. They might help us liberate ourselves from conventional assessment ecologies that keep (re)producing racism through an uncritical
promotion of a white racial habitus. I’m not saying we know what our students
need to know, and that we just have to get them to see things our way. I’m not
even saying we need to liberate our students. I’m saying, our classroom writing
assessment ecologies themselves need liberating. And our students must do this
work with us.
In other words, healthy writing assessment ecologies have at their core dialogue about what students and teachers know, how students and teachers judge
language differently, so that students are also agents in the ecology, not simply
objects to be measured. I realize that this statement may set up a troubling role
for the teacher, the role of liberator or savior, but like Freire’s account, the writing teacher in an antiracist writing assessment ecology simply does not have that
power, cannot liberate her students. They must do that themselves (Freire, 1970,
pp. 93-94). This is an essential part of Freire’s problem-posing pedagogy, and

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any healthy antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology.
Freire’s pedagogy works from an important assumption about language.
Words offer humans both action and reflection. Language provides us with a
mode by which we can transform our world. He explains, “[t]o exist, humanly,
is to name the world, to change it. Once named, the world in its turn reappears
to the namers as a problem and requires of them a new naming. Human beings
are not built in silence, but in word, in work, in action-reflection” (1970, p. 88).
Naming, for Freire, happens in dialogue with others. The act of naming alludes
to action and work and material environments that change through our wordacts, or what he calls “praxis,” which is “reflection and action which truly transform reality” (Freire, 1970, p. 100). But it’s not any dialogue that transforms
reality, but a dialogue that engages in critical thinking:
true dialogue cannot exist unless the dialoguers engage in
critical thinking—thinking which discerns an indivisible
solidarity between the world and the people and admits of no
dichotomy between them—thinking which perceives reality
as process, as transformation, rather than as a static entity—thinking which does not separate itself from action, but
constantly immerses itself in temporality without fear of the
risks involved. (Freire, 1970, p. 92)
Words as actions. Language as action. Action as reflection and reflection as action. To liberate oneself, a student must engage in such labor. And when focusing attention on one’s own habitus next to a white racial habitus expected of
students in classrooms, the labor creates the potential for an antiracist praxis.
They problematize their existential writing assessment situations. Thus, labor
seems the most antiracist measure for any writing assessment ecology because we
really don’t know what our students can or should ultimately learn.
This brief account of Freire’s problem-posing pedagogy offers a way to see
Freire’s account of language learning as similar to antiracist classroom writing
assessment ecologies. Both are defined as a set of relationships and critical dialogue among people, and between people and their environment; as transformative processes that change people and their environments by posing problems
through word-acts that name the world, which changes the world and begets
more naming; as a scene of settlement in which the ecological transformative
processes that occur are always at some level about making a place sustainable
and livable, as problem-posing events that liberate the ecology; as action, motion, and processes of becoming something else, as praxis; and as political in
nature, or as containing and dealing with power relations among people and
their discourses, or the cultivation of liberation and being fully human among
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others who are doing the same.

AS “MORE THAN”
Antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies are in one sense complex systems. Understanding this can help teachers and students engage more
self-consciously in all their mutual work. Dobrin (2012) and Cooper (2011) discuss the ideas of “complex ecology” and complex systems (respectively), which
explains writing as a complex system through theorists like George Van Dyne,
Bernard C. Patten, Humberto Maturana, and Francisco Varela. Complex ecologies, like writing assessments, are “holistic” in nature, accounting for the whole
as more than an assemblage of parts, yet maintaining a sense of the parts and
their mutual interactions. Thus, for Dobrin (and me), there is a “need to address
the complex relationships between parts in order to develop more holistic concepts of writing while understating that we will never be able to fully understand
all of the complexities and fluctuations of the system” (2012, p. 144). So while
an ecology may have aspects we can label and separate out for discussion and
design, these aspects and other elements do not account for writing assessment
ecologies in total. There is always a bit of mystery, some unknown variables in
the system. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies are always more than their
elements, more than what they may appear to be. They are always more than.
The idea that the teaching and understanding of the process of writing as
more than its parts isn’t new. While he doesn’t speak about writing assessment,
Richard Coe (1975) makes a very similar point when arguing for an “eco-logic”
for the teaching of writing. He offers this definition of eco-logic:
[from the modern English, ecology; from the Greek oikos,
house or habitation, as in oikonomia, economy; the prefix
eco- connotates wholeness] 1. A logic designed for complex
wholes. 2. Any logic which considers wholes as wholes, not by
analyzing them into their component parts. 3. Esp., a logical
model appropriate for ecological phenomena. (p. 232)
In a footnote, Coe explains that the Greek notions for household was of the
“smallest self-sufficient unit in the Greek economy,” thus “oiko- had a connotation of wholeness” (1975, p. 232). Teaching rhetoric this way, as an eco-logic, means for Coe that we not break up the art into smaller units that aren’t
whole, such as in the case of teaching modes. I doubt today we need to make
an argument against teaching writing as modes for many reasons, but for Coe
it is because rhetoric in the contemporary writing classroom deals with more
complex contemporary phenomena, phenomena less apt to being understood
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adequately by breaking it up for analysis or practice. From this, he argues that
one central eco-logical principle is that “meaning is relative to context” (1975, p.
233). Language gains its meaning and significance only in the context in which
it is uttered or used. Most critical in Coe’s eco-logical rendering of teaching
writing is that we teach it as a socially contextualized activity, something others
argue after him (Berlin, 1987). For him, context and relativity mean social context and social relativity. Coe does not make any connection to the judging of
writing, but when we think in terms of classroom writing assessment ecologies,
the contextual, relative, and contingent nature of language and meaning, at its
core, comes from the fact that meaning is derived from people judging and assessing it. To say that language is meaningful because it is contextual and social
by nature, because judgments about language can only be made contextually, is
to say that the nature of writing assessment is ecological. And to say this is to say
that writing assessment ecologies are more than the elements we might list that
constitute them.
Dobrin, however, recognizes how limited a biological and organic concept,
which Coe stays close to, has been in the past to writing theory (2011, p. 13233). In part, Dobrin identifies this problem as one of “anthropocentric ecology,
focusing on the human agent’s relationship with environment, both the agent’s
influence on the environment and the environment’s affect [sic] on the agent.”
While Coe places his interest in people interacting in ecologies, Dobrin’s critique is still applicable, as Coe is anthropocentric, centering only on people and
their interactions, disregarding their material environment, the classroom, or
other structural factors such as power differentials (i.e., race, gender, etc.). This
anthropocentric influence, says Dobrin, is usually “one tied more directly with
concepts of social interaction than with ecological relationships” (2011, p. 126).
I agree with Dobrin’s criticism of older versions of ecological theories of writing,
and attempt to focus my attention both on social interaction among students
and teacher, and ecological relationships among other elements in the complex
systems of writing assessment ecologies, such as processes, the places (physical
and figurative) that students and teachers create and inhabit, and the discourses
of judgment, all of which I’ll look at more closely in Chapter 3.
Thus in any ecology, the material aspects of environments and people in
writing assessments must be preserved and understood explicitly. We do not
live in conditions of pure theory or discourse. In any writing classroom, we
have never, nor could we, simply read and judge words as words that only matter on the page or on a computer screen. Freire’s problem-posing pedagogy in
both philosophy and method, exemplify this attachment to the material world.
Furthermore, the writing our students engage in and submit to be judged in
some fashion contains the shadows of labor done, traces of work, references to a
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body in motion, as well as to places and scenes of writing that produced drafts.
Because of this, when we read student writing, we read all of these things simultaneously. We read more than words, more than our students. In fact, as others
have discussed in various ways (Brannon & Knoblach, 1982; Sommers, 1982),
teachers usually think of their students as they read their writing anyway.
Thinking more intuitively about the scene of reading and responding to student writing (a place in the ecology), teachers have their material students in
mind to help them respond effectively. When we formulate feedback, an evaluation, or a grade, we implicitly or explicitly consider that material student, her
possible reactions, what she needs, how she needs to hear advice, even nonacademic aspects of her life (e.g., Is she a student-athlete? Does she work, take care
of a family, children, etc.? How many future drafts are expected in the course?).
And this doesn’t include other constraints that a teacher considers that will affect
her feedback, such as the amount of time she has to respond to her students’
writing, where she can do that reading and writing, the technologies she has
available to read and write her feedback, etc.
David Bartholomae’s (1985) influential account of students “inventing
the university” every time they sit down to write is also an essay that invents
those material students, racializing and norming them to a white racial habitus
through the promotion of a dominant white discourse, as he reads through the
excerpts he offers. In fact, Bartholomae’s essay can be read as an early primer for
inventing types of students through the reading and evaluating of their work.
And before Bartholomae, Wayne Booth’s (1963) The Rhetorical Stance provides
an explicit discussion on how to read and construct three types of students by
reading their writing, again against a white racial habitus. This phenomenon is
nowhere clearer stated than in Chris Anson’s (2000) discussion of teachers’ responses and their relationship to the social construction of error as teachers read
student texts. Anson shows how writing teachers construct the severity of the
same errors differently depending on the student’s ethos created by the teacher-reader (2000, p. 10). While he doesn’t say it, the factors Anson mentions,
such as the level of neutrality or objectivity of the writer and the writer’s perceived bias and “fair-mindedness,” are closely wedded to a white racial habitus,
fitting cleanly into the rubric of whiteness discussed by Barnett (2000), Myser
(2002), Brookhiser (1997), and others I discussed in Chapter 1.
While Bartholomae, Booth, and Anson are mostly textual in the ways they
suggest teachers invent such students behind their texts, folks like Sommers
(1982), Elizabeth Flynn (1989), Edgington (2005), and Scott (2009) in various
ways are more explicit about the act of reading being one that is an interaction
between reader, text, and student, and they imply actions and decisions by fleshand-blood writers in the world who work under material conditions that affect
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that work. Thus, at least in terms of feedback and response to student writing,
there is a tradition in composition studies that sees as important the presence of
the material student when the teacher is reading, providing feedback, or evaluating. However, if we see these assessment scenes as ecologies, then they are more
than the disembodied reading of texts, more than the material conditions that
make up students, teachers, and the environments in which they work. What
produces the judgments that Bartholomae, Booth, and Anson identify is more
than what seems to literally constitute a text and its reading.
What makes up this more than attribute of the assessment ecology? Coe
might call it rhetorical context. Faigley might say it was historically evolving
cultural and disciplinary tastes that affect readers’ judgments. Bartholomae and
Booth might argue it is the product of students trying to approximate the conventions of discourse communities. Anson might say it is a part of readers’ individual idiosyncratic constructions of writers. All of these scholars have at the
center of any writing assessment scene judgment and the text being judged. The
discourse itself, the writing in our classrooms, including the teacher’s discourse
of judgment, is an obvious part of the ecology. In short, all these accounts reveal
the ways that the social, cultural, disciplinary, and racial habitus of writers and
readers, with a white racial habitus as the standard, clash to form judgments on
student writing. This is nowhere clearer seen than in my previous discussion of
the EPT sample essay in which I argue it is being read through narratives of a
global imaginary of sentimental education that produces particular judgments
of the text as remedial and a student in need of help.
This theorizing of assessment agrees with “discursive ecology,” a pedagogical
approach to writing that argues that writing in the classroom should be seen
as such systems. Dobrin and Weisser (2002) explain this pedagogy: “discursive
ecology examines the relationships of various acts and forms of discourse …
see[s] writing as an ecological process, to explore writing and writing processes as
systems of interaction, economy, and interconnectedness” (p. 581). In a broader
sense, this kind of ecocomposition, Dobrin and Weisser say, allows writing theorists and teachers (and perhaps their students), to ask: “[w]hat effects do local
environments have on any kind of writing, any kind of writer?” (2002, p. 577). I
would add: What effects do local environments, which include the discourses of
judgment circulating in those environments, have on the assessment of writing?
Thus the substance of the more than in an assessment ecology changes and is elusive depending on who is present and where they are when they read and judge.
Thus, environments, like larger ecologies, are more than what they seem. In
their own defining of ecocomposition, which mimics Freire’s assumptions about
language and the world (although they do not cite Freire), Dobrin and Weisser state that “environment is an idea that is created through discourse … it is
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through language that we give these things or places [mountains, rivers, oceans]
particular meanings” (2002, p. 573). I agree. Our material environments that we
live and interact in are more than material. They are also made up of discourse,
of language. As Kenneth Burke (1966, 1969) reminds us about image and idea,
about the relationship between the symbolic and the material, people do not
live in worlds of words alone. Our world constructs our words as much as our
words construct our world. Thus each is more than the other. This is also the essence of Freire’s critical pedagogy, only he emphasizes that words and the world
constantly change because of each other. However, the link between the world
and the word is reflection that is action, which is labor, the engine of becoming
and change, the engine of ecologies. In antiracist writing assessment ecologies,
the more than in the ecology is also the evolving critical consciousness about
language and habitus that the ecology produces.
What shouldn’t be lost in antiracist writing assessment ecologies is the way
they help students focus on a fuller range of phenomena for assessing language.
Dobrin and Weisser explain that people make meaning out of their environments
as a response to that environment. The mountain or river is the occasion for discourse. So our lives and relationships with each other and to the environment
are connected materially as much as they are connected through our words. But
we are connected to our world in a number of other ways, each of which helps
us experience and create meaning, helps us assess. We make judgments through
emotion and sensation, through analytic and spiritual logics, through kinesthetic movement (e.g., Kroll, 2013), through felt senses and intuition. But we
build and articulate judgments through language. Antiracist writing assessment
ecologies are more than word-acts. They are emotional and sensual labor, bodily
labor that occurs in time and space. These aspects of the ecology teachers cannot
control, and often our students cannot either, but they should be accounted for.
We can experience them, take note, and articulate.
Through all this, we shouldn’t forget the writer or the reader/assessor and
their relationship. In Marilyn Cooper’s (1986) discussion of writing in the classroom as an ecology, she explains that it can been seen as a collection of “social
activities, dependent social structures and processes” (p. 366). She focuses her
eye, like many writing scholars at the time, on people and their interactions,
saying that “writing is an activity through which a person is continually engaged
with a variety of socially constituted systems” (1986, p. 367). These “dynamic
and interlocking” social systems are “made and remade by writers in the act of
writing” (Cooper, 1986, p. 368). The larger environment that she accounts for
in her ecological theory of writing hints at systemic things, but stays close to
the writer, making it vulnerable to Dobrin’s anthropocentric critique. However, Cooper explains that “writing encompasses much more than the individual
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writer and her immediate context” (1986, p. 368). It is an interaction with other
writers and readers, an interaction with at least five systems that people circulate
in (Cooper, 1986, pp. 369-370). The details of her systems are less important
to my discussion, except that in each case, she discusses them in social terms, in
terms of people interacting and exchanging.
While she speaks only of writing and revision, Cooper’s early articulation
of writing as ecology can be translated to a theorizing of writing assessment as
ecology. In fact, in her example of how an ecological model of writing changes
the way we think of and discuss writing in the classroom, she is really discussing
classroom writing assessment as ecology. After summarizing Ede and Lunsford
(1984), Ong (1975), Park (1982), and Kroll (1984) on audience, she says:
As should be obvious, the perspective of the ecological model
offers a salutary correction of vision on the question of audience. By focusing our attention on the real social context of
writing, it enables us to see that writers not only analyze or
invent audiences, they, more significantly, communicate with
and know their audiences. They learn to employ the devices
of audience-adapted writing by handing their texts to colleagues to read and respond to, by revising articles or memos
or reports guided by comments from editors or superiors, by
reading others’ summaries or critiques of their own writing.
Just as the ecological model transforms authors (people who
have produced texts) into writers (people engaged in writing),
it transforms the abstract “general audience” into real readers.
(1986, pp. 371-372)
Her example is one of material writers writing and material readers reading, of
exchanging drafts, providing feedback to peers, interpreting feedback writers
received from others, then revising. It is a more holistic view of most typical
classroom writing assessment activities. And what is learned about writing as
ecology is that writers learn to write in “real social context[s],” with real people in
mind as their audience, from real people’s words about their words and worlds,
from material action and exchange in material environments. And while she
mostly ignores the material classroom and other spaces where students do the
labors of reading and writing, the ecology of the writing classroom, according to
Cooper, makes students into writers because the ecology calls them to write to
real people, exchange ideas about that writing, and continue the process. People
and the places they read and write not only become important to the system, but
as Dobrin (2012) explains, they are the system. Writers in a writing ecology become assessors, readers of others’ texts and makers of judgments, making writers
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more than writers, and readers more than readers. In fact, if we accept Cooper’s
account as one also of writing assessment, and I don’t see why we wouldn’t, then
writing assessment ecologies make writers and assessors of writing through their
interactions. Without the ecology, you don’t have writers or readers. The difference in an antiracist writing assessment ecology is that all this is made explicit,
reflected upon, and used to understand the discourses of judgment as indicators
of students’ habitus and the dominant white racial habitus.
Cooper’s and Coe’s early renditions of writing as ecology, while limited to
mostly generic (white?) people’s interactions and speaking only about writing
(not assessing), are still useful precursors to a theory of writing assessment ecology as an antiracist project. None of the composition theorists I’ve cited so far,
however, discuss the ways in which the social, racial, and institutional contexts
and histories that follow students and teachers affect ecologies that those people
are a part of. How do we account for various racial formations, discourses, and
habitus in our reading and judging practices, or the privileging of a white racial
habitus that informs dominant discourses? Cooper and Coe do not make note
of the way all students are not simply the same kinds of writers or readers, that
where they come from, what languages and backgrounds they bring, what their
economic and other social factors are in their lives, affects their abilities to do
the work we ask of them in the writing classroom, which has implications to the
ways we might assess that writing or the ways they might judge their colleagues’
work. Their material conditions while taking the course also affect students’
various and uneven chances of doing the work we ask of them.
And yet, the locally diverse student-readers and teacher help any student-writer by being diverse, by essentially posing different problems about their writing
to the writer in their own ways, from their own perspectives, through their own
problem-posing about the writer’s writing. This should allow assessment to reveal judgment as more than meeting an approximation of a white racial habitus
found in a dominant discourse. In order for the assessment ecology to construct
that feedback as antiracist, problem-posing assessment can be the focus. Problem-posing by peers and teacher can help all involved see the local dominant
discourse as a part of a local white racial habitus, a part of the hegemonic. Thus
power and privilege are seen in the ecology as not evenly distributed and as the
subject of assessment processes and problems posed.
Thus, an antiracist ecology works differently to some degree for each student
and teacher. As Stephanie Kerschbaum (2014) emphasizes in her discussion of
the rhetoric of difference and diversity, noticing and using difference, say in a
problem-posing assessment activity, isn’t about a priori notions of difference but
differences that emerge through interactions. The substance of these interactions,
I argue, should be about the nature of judgment itself, about the word-acts of
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assessment. When this happens, when the ecology turns back onto itself, making
it the subject of assessment processes, of feedback activities, of reflections on
drafting and revisions, the writing assessment ecology takes advantage of the local diversity in the classroom. The local diversity of ideas, languages, judgments,
and material contexts that students bring to bear on a text allows for the writing
assessment ecology to be more than helping writers improve drafts. It becomes
an ecology in which students liberate themselves from conventional assessment.

AS INTERCONNECTED
Understanding explicitly interconnection is important in antiracist writing
assessment ecologies, because seeing the ways all aspects of the ecology are interconnected (including students, teacher, and their discourses) helps everyone
pose problems about language and judgment through their differences, through
the local diversity revealed in writing, assessing, and the material bodies in the
classroom. A white racial habitus that informs the dominant discourses expected
of Fresno State students, for instance, is interconnected to, depends on, local
Hmong, Latino/a, and African-American habitus. Seeing interconnection helps
students understand how dominant discourses need subaltern ones, how we all
need everyone and everything around us, how disagreeing with each other can
be a critical act of compassion and love.
In another more obvious way, interconnection is a social phenomenon integral to all classrooms. It takes the entire class to have a successful peer review
activity, for instance. It takes at least one reader in order for a writer to write
and receive feedback. It takes a school to dedicate material classroom space, or
virtual space on computer servers, for a writing class to function at all. It takes
time and labor on the part of students to do the writing and reading required
for a writing class’s activities to work. Any student’s success is determined by the
labors and actions of her colleagues around her in the classroom, by the commitments of institutions and people she may never know, by available space and
materials. Conversely, when any student is left behind or fails in some way, the
rest of the class fails to some degree, and an integral part of the ecology withers.
We all have experienced those classrooms where almost everyone is rowing in the
same direction, getting it, engaging in the course’s activities in the same spirit,
and everything seems to always work. I would argue that when this happens,
what we experience in the course is a tangible interconnectedness. In antiracist
writing assessment ecologies, this interconnectedness is made explicit, reflected
upon and discussed, then used toward problem-posing ends, helping create a
sustainable writing assessment ecology.
Robert Yagelski (2011) offers a powerful articulation of both interconnected93

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ness and the ecological nature of writing and its assessment in Writing As A Way
of Being: Writing Instruction, Nonduality, and the Crisis of Sustainability. Yagelski
argues for writing to be taught as an ontological practice that is opposed to
conventional process pedagogies that teach it as a purely transactional act, one
based on the Cartesian duality of mind vs. body. He calls this old view of writing
the “Cartesian view of writing,” in which students act as if they are autonomous
beings, separated from their environments (2011, p. 47), and from their peers
as well who are a part of their environments. In his chapter, “The Crisis of Sustainability,” Yagelski explains:
The basic lesson of conventional schooling, then, is less a
matter of learning what is outside us than learning that there
is something outside us that we can see, describe, and understand, a something that is fundamentally separate from our
selves. To put it in simpler terms, in school we teach separateness rather than interconnectedness; we see a world defined
by duality rather than unity. As a result we promote an idea of
community as a collection of discrete, autonomous individuals rather than a complex network of beings who are inherently interconnected and inextricably part of the ecosystems on
which all life depends. (2011, p. 17)
And where is the most obvious example in schools of this separateness from
each other and our environments in education? According to Yagelski, writing
assessment. He says accurately that “students are almost always assessed as individuals” (2011, p. 17). Grades and scores point to this Cartesian way of writing
when they define students as only “an intellectual entity, a collection of certain
cognitive abilities and/or sanctioned bodies of knowledge,” as a “disembodied
intellect” (Yagelski, 2011, p. 18). Ultimately, he concludes, “[a]ssessment becomes a process of disembodiment that both reflects and reinforces the Cartesian self ” (2011, p. 18). In Yagelski’s view, the Cartesian self in school, exemplified in Descartes’ cogito ergo sum (“I think, therefore I am”), is opposed to an
interconnected self, one that sees himself and his education as a part of all that
is around him, his colleagues, the teacher, the classroom, the desks, the campus,
the buildings, the decisions made in last week’s city council meeting, the nearby
reservoir, everything.
Although he does not discuss whiteness in his critique, we might hear in
Yagelski’s criticism of conventional assessment and classroom process pedagogies
as a criticism of a white racial habitus. The cogito is a typical logic in whiteness.
It is the logic of hyperindividualism that tends to be the rationale for assessing
students individually. Furthermore, the disembodiment of rhetoric from the
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person speaking (or writing) is not only a denial of our relationship to the material world and our words, but denies that rationality and logic are intimately
a part of thinking, feeling, breathing people. Whiteness as a discourse uses this
assumption too, one that says logic and rationality can be “objective,” are outside
of people. In fact, people taint logic and the rational.
While Yagelski isn’t making an argument for ecocomposition in the way Dobrin and Weisser or Cooper do, he is assuming a wider net of relationships and
actions that make up writing and how we might define it and teach it. He also
reminds us that we write from and with our bodies. I’m extending his argument
to include the fact that we read, judge, and assess writing in and outside of classrooms from and with our bodies. Our bodies connect us to the earth and each
other. Thus, Yagelski sees writing as an ontological act, as “a way of being in the
world” (2011, p. 3), which allows us to teach from the interconnectedness of all
people and their environments. He draws on post-process theorists, most notably Thomas Kent (1993), to explain that while language is essential to knowing,
“it isn’t the sole ground for knowing or meaning-making” (Yagelski, 2011, p.
64). In effect, knowing is a three-way exchange among at least two people communicating to each other and a “phenomenal world” that they both experience
and interpret together. Thus, communication is “inherently nondualistic,” according to Yagelski. He explains, “writing does not demarcate boundaries between the writer and others, because we cannot make meaning without others;
furthermore, it begins to erase the boundary between writer as subject and the
world as object, because the world is integral to meaning making” (2011, p. 65).
While he isn’t saying it directly, Yagelski defines writing, through post-process
theory, as an ecology, as a holistically experienced process of meaning making. It
takes many people, their interactions, a world and its motions to create a single
student paper, and equally as many interconnected relations to assess it.
Additionally, one can hear a problem-posing assessment strategy in Yagelski’s
theory of language. To assess writing ecologically means we pose problems to
the writer about what her words mean to the world and how the writer herself
is connected to that world being made through words, or we ask what problems
appear in her writing when we see it as a part of a white racial habitus, or as
opposed to one, or as one different from the habitus of the reader. In antiracist
writing assessment ecologies, local diversity is necessary for critical assessments
that ask such questions of writers and their texts. Difference between readers and
writers is used to form critical judgments on the reader’s and the writer’s dispositions in writing and reading. Difference is used to see the white racial habitus
as such, as just one discursive node in a larger network of interconnected nodes.
This antiracist agenda doesn’t just examine differences, but examines the ways we
interconnect, the ways an individual writer may have connections to—may de95

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pend upon—her world, the reader, opposing arguments and ideas. In this way,
problem-posing as an antiracist strategy for response or assessment of writing is
a process of reading for interconnectedness from various perspectives as much as
it is a process of seeing difference.
To give an example, consider two excerpts from student essays, one from
Lester Faigley’s (1989) “Judging Writing, Judging Selves,” a reprint of Rebecca
Faery’s submission to Coles and Vopat’s (1985) What Makes Writing Good, and
a similar kind of essay from a writing course of mine a few years ago. Faery’s
student essay comes from Lindsey Lankford, an advanced writing student, who
writes about communicating through letters to her family while she spends a
year in Paris. Faigley explains that Lindsey “shows awareness of the essay form,
beginning with phone bills and check stubs as images of writing in our culture,
juxtaposing scenes of intercontinental letter writing, then deftly returning to the
empty post office box at the end” (1989, pp. 407-408). Like myself, Faigley says
he is “touched by this essay” because of the ideas and images it invokes, familiar
ones of Paris and Lindsey as “teacher/critic” of the letters her family writes to her
(1989, p. 408). In the middle of the essay, Lindsey writes:
I loved their letters to me, too. They were never filled with
earthshattering news, but they revealed a lot. Actually, most
people’s lives are dull; it’s the way they perceive their lives that
is interesting. My sister Allison lives in the Negev Desert, in
a tiny trailer. Her world consists of her husband, their two
small children, and very little else. Her letters were always
wrinkled, smeared with something sticky, covered in crayons
and written over extended periods of time. They were a mess:
descriptions of the gingerbread village Allison had made for
the Christmas party, their plans for moving back to the States,
Lauren’s latest word, and details of Elizabeth’s third birthday
party. Allison’s letters were disjointed, but ebullient. Living
on an army base in the Israeli desert would seem a barren
existence, yet Allison’s letters describe a busy and happy, if
somewhat chaotic, life. (Faigley, 1989, p. 407)
Lindsey knows how to approximate the academic discourse well. In fact, her
essay offers a clear picture of a white racial habitus that informs her discursive
choices and the subject of her essay. She never mentions her own racial or class
subjectivity, but like all whiteness, she assumes it as a natural position that her
readers will align with and recognize. It is the voice of objective reasoning that
she invokes in her essay. Her analysis and voice are the epitome of hyperindividualism and the Cartesian cogito that separates Lindsey from her world and even
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her sister and family. She thinks in conventionally rational and logical ways on
the page that fit with the dominant discourse of the academy, allowing her an
objective stance that makes observations on her family. Her discussion of her
sister’s letters and life in an “Israeli desert” makes a stark contrast, one that pits
a romantic European city with cafes and wine-fueled discussions of philosophy
against a more “disjointed, but ebullient” and “chaotic” life in a “tiny trailer” in
a Middle Eastern desert.
It is hard not to read racial undertones in this comparison, one that creates
Lindsey as authoritative critic, one who makes interesting insights that construct
her as authoritative and detached from her family she discusses, such as “most
people’s lives are dull; it’s the way they perceive their lives that is interesting.”
Lindsey is outside her sister’s life, looking objectively at it, finding it “interesting.” Laced in this white racial habitus is a posture that is reminiscent of an Orientalist vision that Said (1979) and Klein (2003) theorize. From her topic choice
to the way she treats her examples (the letters from her family) to the vision she
has of those examples (what they mean), a white racial habitus informs Lindsey’s
writing. This doesn’t make Lindsey a bad writer or her essay a bad one. On the
contrary, it approximates an academic discourse well, and comes to some interesting conclusions. But an antiracist writing assessment ecology is not about
simply measuring how well a student approximates a dominant discourse. The
ecology is about problematizing the existential writing assessment situation of
writers and readers like Lindsey.
In an antiracist writing assessment ecology, this essay would be read in order
to understand the ways Lindsey takes on a white racial habitus, then through
assessments compares her habitus to her colleagues’ habitus. The comparison
would be one in which first interconnection is interrogated. How is Lindsey’s leisure, middle-class life in Paris connected to her sister’s chaotic life that has fewer
signs of middle-classness? How does Lindsey’s romantic, intellectual ethos in
Paris, exchanging letters in French to her father, need the chaotic, working-class,
darker, non-white example of her sister to be meaningful? How does Lindsey’s
discussion and its insights depend on her performing whiteness?25 Faigley’s discussion of this essay hints at such an assessment when he asks about whether
Lindsey could have written a similarly successful essay if she’d “visited a place
unfamiliar to us,” say the immigrant families from Mexico who temporarily live
in storm sewers near Austin, Texas (1989, p. 408). Faigley’s example is loaded
with implicit questions about racism, class, and capitalism that Lindsey might
explore, but in the antiracist assessment ecology I’m suggesting, racism would be
placed in the forefront of assessments, and to get at it, we pose questions about
her language, her assumptions and conclusions, and the nature of her discourse.
For example, as an Asian-American reader sensitive to issues of Orientalism,
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like associations of Asian locations and bodies as chaotic, exotic, and hoarde-ish,
I might pose questions that reveal such things to Lindsey, not to suggest that her
observations are wrong or inaccurate about her sister or the location or manner
in which she lives, but to reveal first the dispositions toward such bodies and
locations I hear in Lindsey’s words, how they work on me as an Asian-American
reader in order that Lindsey can pose versions of the questions to herself. How
might she tacitly need such Orientalist assumptions when thinking about civil
communication and letter writing. In her text, this Orientalist vision of the
Israeli desert home of her sister is in contrast to the serene, calm, intellectual
place of Paris, a white geographic location that I’d also want to ask about. We
can ask explicitly about Lindsey’s racial habitus that she performs in this essay.
How is it connected historically to larger discursive formations in other texts
and discourses that may have influenced her, such as Bret Harte’s “The Heathen
Chinee” (1870), Rudyard Kipling’s “White Man’s Burden” (1899), or Disney’s
films like Aladdin (1992) and Mulan (1998), or films like 300 (2006). So Lindsey’s locally diverse colleagues are necessary to help her see her own habitus, and
she is needed to help her colleagues see their habitus. They are needed together
to form a critical position toward the dominant discourse expected of everyone
in the academy. And the questions posed in assessments come directly from
students’ own racialized lives, their own material conditions that help them read
and judge language. And perhaps the best initial way toward comparing such
things in drafts is by working from the interconnection of students, their material lives, and their discourses, by investigating the ways our discourses and texts
need one another to be more fully meaningful and critical. So interconnection as
a tenant of an antiracist agenda for assessment becomes another way to say that
we always, out of necessity, live in and need diversity.
Now, consider Adam’s essay on a similar kind of research question that he
submitted in a junior-level writing in the major course for me a few years ago.
Adam’s paper is a research paper, so it’s different in scope from Lindsey’s, but
similar in the kind of question he asks about language and communication.
While I don’t claim that this course enacted an explicitly antiracist writing assessment ecology, it came close. And race and racism were topics that came up
in most students’ drafts and assessments of their peers’ drafts because that’s how
I designed the assessment activities. Adam begins his essay:
Growing up in California, I didn’t take much notice of what
other people thought of me or what they thought I would be
capable of doing. My neighborhood was comprised of mostly
low-income families but I didn’t recognize that because we
always had food to eat and clothes to wear. I remember
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learning to read and write at a young age, I was able to read
before starting grade school and was also capable of writing
a few words. I didn’t love reading but I did so when I was
told. When I started school I could already read pretty well
but I was very shy. I was a “mixed kid” who was considered
black to the white kids and not really black to the black kids.
I didn’t enjoy reading out loud to the teacher or to the class.
There was one other black kid in the class, and he wouldn’t
even attempt to speak out loud in the classroom. When I was
in front of the class everyone looked at me with such confusion, this was the first glimpse of black people for many of my
classmates. I was becoming a nervous wreck when it came my
turn to read or compose sentences aloud. I was so hesitant to
participate that my first grade teacher told my Mom that she
thought I needed more help with my reading. This talk with
my mother precipitated many afterschool reading programs. I
have seen my reading and writing skills develop over time but
I still have many questions about what lead me to where I am
today. This leads me to ask: Does race play a role in written
communication? I will review data spanning the past few
years, and review what others have published relating to this
topic.
Perhaps the most noticeable difference in Adam’s approximation of the white
academic discourse is his focus on himself as a political entity that stems from
his racialized experiences with reading in school. Unlike Lindsey, Adam doesn’t
begin his inquiry with abstract ideas or details that represent ideas, instead he begins with himself as a poor, “mixed” race kid, located in California. The tensions
in his reading practices come from his embodied habitus, one that places him
in different racial positions (racial projections) depending on who is perceiving
him. Adam’s research question (“Does race play a role in written communication?”) stems from his own racialized subject position in school as a reader, and
he doesn’t avoid this implication. In fact, it is interconnected with the white
racial habitus he knows he’s expected to take on in school, and the Black racial
habitus he is expected to take on around Blacks (in fact, he cites Vershawn A.
Young (2007) later in his essay). Adam’s discourse calls attention to his own
racial position, a contextualized and racialized body in time and space, as one
connected to his languaging. This is not the same as Lindsey’s discourse, which
is a white one, and focuses on where she is (location), and what others say to
her (others’ logos), not how others see her racially. In fact, Lindsey’s discourse
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divorces her physical, racialized body from the ideas and things she discusses.
Adam’s cannot. Adam reveals others’ racialized perceptions of him that form the
exigency for Adam’s inquiries about race and language use. But for Lindsey it is
the rumination on the page itself, one that begins with thinking about an empty
mailbox and the labor and care it takes for one to write letters to others, a ruminating that is disconnected from material, racialized bodies in time and space,
yet connected by her logos, the vignettes she offers of her mother, father, and
sister writing to her. Lindsey’s discourse is abstract, rational in the way a white
habitus tends to articulate things. Adam’s is contextualized, social in nature, and
focused on his own subjective meaning making, which centers on racial projections and communication. While there are aspects of Adam’s discourse that
shares in a white habitus (he uses a local SEAE), the nature of his question and
its exigency are not.
Adam’s discourse isn’t better than Lindsey’s, only different. And in an antiracist assessment ecology, the assessments that occur around these texts can use the
texts to compare habitus. For instance, Adam brings different things to bear on
his inquiry than Lindsey, such as others’ contradictory perceptions of his racial
subject position, which seems to have an effect on his reading practices. Lindsey’s discourse seems to assume that any student could have such thoughts as
she presents, that others might come to similar conclusions if they found themselves in the same places, doing the same things. Adam’s discourse suggests the
contrary, that only he can ask this question from this position. These two essays
and writers can offer a lot to each other, just by reading and posing questions
to each other, just by explicitly comparing their methods, if the assumption is
that they are interconnected. Lindsey needs Adam’s discourse as much as Adam
needs Lindsey’s. Lindsey’s habitus is one that favors telling details that might
help Adam see ways his discourse lacks this disposition. Adam’s habitus is one
that places importance on revealing the writer’s subjectivity and its connection
to others’ racial projections of him to his reading practices, which Lindsey avoids
but might do well to consider. In Chapter 5, I offer a heuristic and an example
assessment process that may shed light on how a classroom might take advantage
of such interconnectedness in order to form critical insights. For now, I hope
you can see that I’m not favoring one discourse over the other, but instead looking to show their differences as habitus and how those habitus are interconnected. This interconnection is important to make explicit and tangible for students,
if they are to help each other in assessment ecologies that do not simply promote
one racial habitus over others.
In a crude way, then, Yagelski’s explanation of the post-process theory of
Kent says that any act of meaning-making, any languaging that we do, is connected not only to our audience but to the world we experience around us in the
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act of writing or talking. This interconnectedness of all people and environments
is also taught by the Buddhist monk and peace activist, Thich Nhat Hanh. In
Peace Is Every Step, Hanh (1991) explains the concept of “interbeing” as one
centrally about interconnectedness. He asks his reader to consider the sheet of
paper in front of him. If one looks deep enough, one can see the trees, a cloud,
rain, and sunshine required to make the paper, but if one looks even deeper, one
can see the logger who cut the tree and the wheat needed for his meals. In this
material way, through the materials of writing, through a sheet of paper itself,
Hanh sees everything connected. But he goes further:
Looking even more deeply, we can see ourselves in this sheet
of paper too. This is not difficult to see, because when we look
at a sheet of paper, it is part of our perception. Your mind is
in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in
here with this sheet of paper. We cannot point out one thing
that is not here—time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat.
Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. That is why I
think the word inter-be should be in the dictionary. “To be” is
to inter-be. We cannot just be by ourselves alone. We have to
inter-be with every other thing. This sheet of paper is, because
everything else is. (1991, pp. 95-96)
Thus, for Hanh, like Kent and Yagelski, writing is an act that shows us just how
interconnected we are, not just to each other but to the material environments
we live in. Furthermore, in contrast to the Cartesian self in which mind and
body are separate, Hanh sees one’s mind and body as connected in the material
of the paper. Your mind and body are in this paper together. In order for anything or anyone to exist, everything and everyone else must also. So Lindsey’s
habitus is just as much a part of Adam’s paper as Adam’s habitus is to hers.
Hanh’s example is particularly salient for my discussion of writing assessment
ecologies. For Hanh, it is the materials, the paper, by which we can enact writing, connecting us to our environment and each other, including our minds. For
Kent and Yagelski, it is larger, more abstract connections they are thinking of,
yet ones with sensual, material, and phenomenological groundings. In fact, Yagelski draws heavily on Couture’s (1998) phenomenological rhetoric (Yagelski,
pp. 114-115, 132-134), as well as Merleau-Ponty’s (2002). What Hanh offers
us is a way to see how ecologies are more than environments, more than people, more than what and who is present at hand. And this more than quality
of ecologies also inter-is with the quality of interconnectedness. Our writing
assessment ecologies stretch out to other classrooms, places, people, activities,
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labor, all beyond the immediate paper in our hands that needs to be read because
everything and everyone inter-is.
Hanh also offers a way to see inter-being as more than an individual experience, and this is important to my conception of antiracist writing assessment
ecologies since much of my thinking about writing assessment has little to do
with the individual student working or acting alone. Writing assessment ecologies are a way to see writing assessment holistically, as a larger set of people, environments, relations, labor, and exchanges. Those with antiracist agendas need
this social dimension since racism is structural—we seek to change the rule,
rather than focus on individuals and exceptions. In Being Peace (1987), Hanh
explains the Sangha which provides a good way to see classroom writing assessment ecologies as harmonious communities:
The Sangha is the community that lives in harmony and
awareness. Sanghakaya is a new Sanskrit term. The Sangha
needs a body also. When you are with your family and you
practice smiling, breathing, recognizing the Buddha body in
yourself and your children, then your family becomes a Sangha. If you have a bell in your home, the bell becomes part
of your Sanghakaya, because the bell helps you to practice
…. Many things help us practice. The air, for breathing. If
you have a park or a river bank near your home, you are very
fortunate because you can enjoy practicing walking meditation. You have to discover your Sanghakaya, inviting a friend
to come and practice with you, have tea meditation, sit with
you, join you for walking meditation. All those efforts are to
establish your Sanghakaya at home. Practice is easier if you
have a Sanghakaya. (1987, pp. 26-27)
There are three things to notice in this description of a Sangha, or an ecology
of practice. First, similar to post-process ideas of writing as communicative exchange, the Sangha works best when more than one person is there practicing.
It is social. I think it is safe to say that as humans we thrive emotionally, physically, spiritually, and mentally when we are together. Sangha as a community
or family acknowledges this, but it does so because people are interconnected.
The Sangha is a way to see this interconnectedness among people in a tangible
way, in our daily practices. For example, according to Hanh, when we practice
mindfulness with our family members, our family becomes an ecology, a Sangha
who are interconnected. I believe, the same can be said for students and teacher
in a writing course. We all have the experience of feeling differently about our
students after we’ve gone through a semester in a course with them, after we’ve
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sat in conferences with them, exchanged ideas in class with them, read their
writing, responded to it, etc. And they too feel differently about each other,
feel more connected to one another because they’ve been with each other in the
Sangha-class, the Sangha-ecology.
Thus through assessment practices, the class can become a Sangha if explicitly identified as such and discussed. The benefit is not in the new label for a
classroom community. The benefit is in the discussions of what it means to be a
locally diverse community of interconnected people and practices. What does it
mean to think and act upon the idea that one’s colleagues inter-are with oneself,
that their reading and writing practices, their reflections, their labors in and out
of class inter-are with one’s own practices and labors? Identifying and discussing
the class and its practices as a Sangha allows for such discussions and reflections.
It is not easy, and takes repeated efforts at reflection and discussion, but it helps
students feel interconnected because they are.
The second thing to note in Hahn’s description is the assumption of inter-being of people and their environments. The home, river bank, and park are all
environments that harmonize with the practitioner, and through her practice,
the inter-being of these environments with herself and family members becomes
apparent. For instance, the bell one might use to signal the start of a mindful
practice each day is because we are. The bell inter-is with the Sangha, and is
a symbol of inter-being itself when used to initiate meditation together. The
bell symbolically and literally harmonizes one’s material environment with the
group. Practitioners inter-are the ecology they create with the bell. Classrooms
and other learning spaces form similar interconnected relationships with students and teachers through practices like freewriting and weekly group work.
But again, students must pause and explicitly reflect and discuss this inter-being
of their working environments.
Perhaps the best recent example of how a class might be a sangha is in Barry
Kroll’s (2013) discussion of his writing classroom, in which they take field trips
to a nearby Japanese Zen garden and practice modified Aikido techniques that
illustrate ways to argue respectfully with others. Kroll’s classroom space not only
is extended to other spaces, other environments, offering a wider net of interconnection with the natural world, but inside the classroom the typical activities of
learning to write are expanded to include kinesthetic movements and examining
the proximity of bodies. Students learn principles of argumentation by physically
grappling (and avoiding conflict) with each other in non-violent ways. Kroll’s interesting and wonderful class shows how writing and its assessment are labors that
are interconnected with our bodies, those around us, and our environments. And
when we pay attention to this interconnectedness, we can enhance the assessment
of writing, the making of meaning, by understanding how we make value and
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meaning in and through contexts, how our bodies and environments inter-are by
feeling, moving, interacting through our differences in a number of ways.
Third, for Hanh the practice of Buddhism and the Sangha are both practices, rituals and things done each day. They are labor done together with others.
We invite friends to join us in walking meditation. We have a family of others
whom we engage with and see the Buddha body through. We mediate, practice
breathing and smiling. We labor and notice our laboring. Throughout Hanh’s
description of the Sangha, the Sangha itself is synonymous with practices, acts,
doing things, and noticing that one is doing them. Much like the OED’s definition of ecology, through the doing of these practices, the Sangha is created and
recreated. In antiracist writing assessment ecologies, “labor” can reference this
doing of things (Inoue, 2014a), and I use it as a measure of expectations of the
classroom, so that we avoid using a dominant discourse as the measure of “good
writing,” when it’s really just one kind of good writing. Labor makes clear that
we are speaking of verbs, of processes filled with action that all can agree upon
and do. And in these ways, labor is an antiracist measure in classroom writing
assessment ecologies. It is through labor and practices that ecologies change, that
people interact and affect each other and their environments, so labor is useful to
measure, even useful to determine grades because it (re)creates the sangha-ecology. And because one’s labor inter-is with others’ labors, all classroom labor is
the material enactment of interconnectedness whether we see it as such or not.
Interconnection as a way to explicitly understand the relationship between
and among people, their labors, drafts, practices, and environments is vital to
a fully functioning antiracist writing assessment ecology. It offers students ways
out of simply disagreeing, simply seeing difference, or “agreeing to disagree.”
Seeing difference is a good start, but ultimately, we must work together, help
each other in writing classrooms and beyond. We must see how we all inter-are,
how we can be a Sangha. Once we act in ways that acknowledge the fluid boundaries between ourselves and others, between our writing and others’ judgments
of it, we become fuller.

AS MARXIAN ECOLOGY
Given interconnection, it might seem that antiracist writing assessment ecologies can be apolitical, even ahistorical. I don’t mean that the people in them or
even the environments in which those people interact can be read as apolitical
(they too cannot). I mean the ecology as a set of structures itself, as a system
itself, could appear to be apolitical, appear to have no politics of its own. This is
not true. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies (all assessment ecologies, really)
are political and historical by their natures. And these politics are important to
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make clear to students and be clear for teachers because of the goals or purposes
of antiracist writing assessment ecologies (i.e., to help students problematize
their existential writing assessment situations). The politics of any writing assessment ecology will determine what is valued, how it gets valued, who benefits
most, and the consequences or products of those benefits.
We know from experience that when people get together to judge and make
decisions, particularly in classrooms, they do so through relations of power, relations that are a part of larger social structures that come from the mix of languages, genders, racial formations, class, age, ability, etc. in society. We just don’t
agree about everything, and when we disagree, those with more power in the system have a louder voice. The systems in and through which we make important
judgments, such as grading and feedback systems—assessment systems—themselves are political and historical, which is to say they have a politics of their own.
To understand the way the politics of antiracist classroom writing assessment
ecologies work, I find that Gramscian “historic bloc” and “hegemony” offer sufficient explanations that can be used by writing teachers. In part, this is due to
the familiarity of Marxian critiques, even if cursorily understood by some.
Dobrin and Weisser explain ecocomposition as a set of systems in the world.
They explain that “humans occupy two spaces: a biosphere, consisting of the
earth and its atmosphere, which supports our physical existence, and a semiosphere, consisting of discourse, which shapes our existence and allows us to make
sense of it” (2002, p. 574). This binary of connected spheres in which humans
inhabit explains a number of important things about environments: discourse’s
influence on material places, places’ influence on discourse, and an accounting
of both the material and the discursive. But it doesn’t account very well for time,
change, or how particular power arrangements maintain themselves, such as unequal racial formations inhabiting the ecology, or whose words get to describe the
landscape or environment? Whose discourse shapes whose lived environments? It
doesn’t really explain, for instance, how a white racial habitus remains so universal, even in places where the teachers ascribe to critical and antiracist agendas, or
where students are almost all of color, multilingual, or working class.
Gramsci and Marxian theories help explain the grounds by which we can
understand the nature of ecological systems as political, material, and discursive ecologies that are inclined toward the hegemonic, or “determined” (in the
Marxian sense, discussed below) to produce particular outcomes or products.
Seeing antiracist writing assessment ecologies as Marxian systems can provide
powerful ways to critique and change unfair and unequal power relations among
racial formations in a writing course, and more consciously engage in antiracist
agendas in the assessment of writing. It offers language for teachers and students
to problem-pose, or problematize the existential writing assessment situations of
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students. Thus an explicit Marxian analysis of the classroom’s writing assessment
ecology is important to discuss with students.
Perhaps the most overarching and important term to offer students is one
that some may already know, hegemony. Antonio Gramsci, the early twentieth
century Italian political philosopher and theorist, articulated a theory of political economy that used the terms “hegemony” and “historic bloc.” The term “hegemony” likely comes from the Greek word egemonia or egemon, which means
“leader, ruler, often in the sense of a state other than his own” (Williams, 1985,
p. 144; as quoted in Mastroianni, 2012). As a concept, then, hegemony started
with having the flavor of rule and leadership. Written while imprisoned during
1927 to 1935, Gramsci articulates hegemony in his prison notebooks, which
were written in code to avoid being taken or destroyed by the prison censor.
Gramsci describes the term as the multitude of economic, political, moral, and
cultural relations of force that produce consent in society between dominated
groups (for Gramsci the proletariat and their allies, the peasant classes) for the
benefit of political leadership, or the dominant group (the bourgeoisie) (Williams, 1985, pp. 194-195, 200-201). Hegemony, then, is an historically based
set of conflicts or clashes of interests among social groups and forces, a gaining and losing ground, all of which produce benefits primarily for a dominant
group. Raymond Williams explains hegemony as
a whole body of practices and expectations, over the whole
of living: our senses and assignments of energy, our shaping
perceptions of ourselves and our world. It is a lived system of
meanings and values —constitutive and constituting —which
as they are experienced as practices appear as reciprocally
confirming. (1977, p. 110)
Thus hegemony in our lived experiences is both in our reconfirming practices
and in how we understand, justify, and talk about those practices. Hegemony
is a way to describe the constitutive set of practices, meanings, perceptions, and
values that make up one’s whole life, and a way simultaneously to describe the
constituting aspects of one’s whole life. In a much simplified way, hegemony
explains the product and process of culture and ideology. It explains one half of
the Freirean problem-posing strategy, the problematizing that is made concrete
through examining structures such as discourses and habitus, which as Althusser
(1971) tells us, is ideology that interpellates us as subjects.26 The concept of
hegemony theorizes the structural part of the problem posed about language,
explaining the nature of dispositions and discourses and how they are constituted in larger social and economic spheres, and how those discourses and habitus,
when deployed, create consent.
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Williams adds that hegemony is also “a process … a realized complex of
experiences, relationships, and activities, with specific changing pressures and
limits” (1977, p. 112). This means there is never one hegemony to understand,
even in one concrete historic moment, which is the only real way to explore or
investigate it. Instead, hegemony is always plural, always like Volosinov’s language, always in the historic act of becoming. Thus it is usually more accurate
to speak of the hegemonic, rather than the hegemony. Furthermore, as Williams
and others have pointed out, within any hegemonic moment, there is always the
counter-hegemonic. Hegemony is always in the process of being reproduced,
rearticulated, and revised.
In locally diverse classrooms, however, tensions in the assessment ecology
(a product of its politics) often come from an uncritical use of a dominant discourse in judging and assessing student writing. Gramsci’s hegemony explains
in slightly different terms why these tensions occur. Standardized assessments
usually are racist and hegemonic because they are standardized, that is, because
they use a tacit hegemonic white racial habitus as the standard for the test. By enforcing a standard, they measure and fit various shapes of pegs into a one-sized,
square hole. Once we see writing assessment ecologies as participating in the
(counter)hegemonic, we can see the ways writing assessments create desires and
expectations in students and teachers, or change them, shape our perceptions of
ourselves and others, or help us critique those perceptions, give us meanings that
we live by, or help us see how those meanings are constructed, and constitute
ourselves and our environments (interpellating us), or provide ways to reconstitute ourselves and environments. And we see that all these things are a product
of a clash of political interests.
As I’ve mentioned already, there is nothing wrong with a white racial habitus
in and of itself. What is wrong is that it has been used as a standard by which
to place people in hierarchies since the beginning of education itself, at times
suggesting people’s intelligence and ability, as well as determining their access to
future opportunities. Antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies works
against this hegemonic function of writing assessments by not using a standard
to rank students, and instead uses labor to focus on the interconnection of various diverse habitus that help make critical meaning. Problem-posing as an enactment of interconnection helps students problematize their existential writing assessment situations in the hegemonic by interrogating the ways their texts reveal
particular habitus and interpellating ideology. Furthermore, when hegemonic
writing assessment interpellates students as individuals (as Yagelski claims), and
not as interconnected, it reinforces politics and personal interests, constructing
difference in hierarchical terms, not on lateral landscapes that inter-are. This is
counterproductive to antiracist projects and critical ones that look to understand
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difference on its own terms.
Keep in mind that antiracist writing assessment ecologies should have a
strong ethics to them, but it comes from the entire ecology, not one node or
person in it, not the teacher only. Thus, we cannot place our trust in the benevolence of teachers as the key element for an appropriate, effective, and fair
writing assessment ecology? We cannot rely on our altruism to solve racism in
our classroom writing assessment ecologies. Because if we trust in this paradigm,
trust in focusing on teachers’ ethics as a good way to design and enact antiracist
writing assessment ecologies, then we have to believe that all writing teachers,
regardless of their training, backgrounds, ethics, pedagogies, idiosyncrasies, politics, constraints, and contexts in which they teach, will do the right thing most
of the time, or will know what to do. I don’t think this has happened, nor can it.
More important, no amount of good intentions can make up for a structurally
racist society, institution, or writing assessment ecology.
Don’t get me wrong. I strongly believe in writing teachers’ need for strong
and explicit ethics, and I believe most (if not all) writing teachers mean well.
I believe that a good teacher is like Quintilian’s ideal orator, the “good person
speaking well.” A strong ethical center is important for writing pedagogy and
central to what we teach in writing classrooms. Freire, in fact, discusses ethics by
saying that the foundation of any liberation or revolution is love, “a profound
love for the world and for people,” referencing Che Guevara’s sentiment that
revolution must be seen as “an act of love” by revolutionaries (1970, p. 89). But
judging and grading writing have other requirements beyond love in order to be
fair and equitable, for example, participation by those who are being judged, by
those who have the most stake in the assessment ecology. And participation by
those being liberated, by the way, is central to Freire’s problem-posing method
that leads to critical consciousness through enacting the counter-hegemonic.
Even when we love others and wish them the best, we often do not know what
that best thing is, nor how to achieve it. Most important, we (teachers) cannot
achieve it for students. It is their revolution, not ours.
The above discussion doesn’t explain well why such cooperative hegemonic
and counter-hegemonic projects and processes in an historic place and time, like
Fresno State today, either changes things in one direction, keeps them the same,
or simply rearticulates the status quo of social relations, practices, values, etc.
This is important because I’m arguing that antiracist writing assessment ecologies are at some level counter-hegemonic. Dominic Mastroianni’s explanation
of Gramsci’s hegemony as historically specific begins to help make sense of this
question and of counter-hegemony’s ability to change the ecology:
Gramsci’s “hegemony” refers to a process of moral and intel108

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lectual leadership through which dominated or subordinate
classes of post-1870 industrial Western European nations
consent to their own domination by ruling classes, as opposed
to being simply forced or coerced into accepting inferior positions. It is important to note that, although Gramsci’s prison
writings typically avoid using Marxist terms such as “class,”
“bourgeoisie,” and “proletariat” (because his work was read
by a Fascist censor), Gramsci defines hegemony as a form of
control exercised by a dominant class, in the Marxist sense of
a group controlling the means of production. (2012)
So the hegemonic is the mechanisms of control of the means of production of
something in a society’s historic moment, and it is a process that moves students,
teachers, parents, and administrators to consent to things in schools that benefit
primarily a dominant group, somehow masking the contradictory outcomes of
what they are consenting to. This is a bigger problem for multilingual, working
class, and students of color. In a locally diverse writing classroom where the goal
is the production of academic literacy practices in students, and where the teacher consciously engages in an antiracist project by asking students to read about
racism, racial formations, and whiteness, and even encourages her students to
use their own home languages, but still must grade based on a local SEAE and
set of academic discursive conventions, say ones found in the popular first-year
writing textbook, They Say / I Say (Graff & Berkenstein, 2014), it is difficult for
the classroom writing assessment ecology to escape reproducing the hegemonic,
since both the local SEAE and the textbook by Graff and Berkenstein are hegemonic, both are derived from a white racial habitus. The point is, you don’t have
to be thinking in racial terms for your writing assessment ecology to be racist or
only promote a hegemonic, white racial habitus. This is the default in most (if
not all) classrooms, schools, and disciplines. In fact, not thinking about racism
and the hegemonic allows for such things to flourish, allows for consent to be
unobstructed. Even in a classroom where the teacher has explicit antiracist readings and agendas, where students are encouraged to critique racism in society,
the racism in the classroom’s writing assessment ecology can still flourish if it is
not addressed explicitly as an ecology with its own unique racial politics that are
hegemonic, that move students and teachers to consent to a white racial habitus
as the standard, and even to desire it.
How does one escape a racist classroom writing assessment ecology? First and
foremost, students participation in grading and assessment in the entire ecology
is vital. They must liberate themselves. They cannot be liberated.27 So antiracist
writing assessment ecologies are counter-hegemonic in this way, in giving the
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means of grade production, assessment production, and the production of expectations, over to students, or mostly over to them. There are lots of ways to do
this. I’ll discuss a few in Chapter 4 (grading contracts) and 5 (a heuristic, and an
example assessment activity).
Another key to seeing how the counter-hegemonic can work in antiracist
writing assessment ecologies may be in Gramsci’s notion of civil society. Mastroianni emphasizes that in order to understand the nature of Gramsci’s historically situated hegemony, one needs to understand his concepts of state and civil
society. But to understand these concepts, one must understand the Marxian
concepts of base and superstructure, which define the structural relationships
that create the (counter)hegemonic and the conditions for civil society. We can
also see this classic Marxist dialectic (base and superstructure) as one overlay
that helps us understand one set of relationships that guide the material and the
discursive in an antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology.
Through analyses of the Russian and French revolutions,28 Gramsci works
from the traditional Marxist binary of an economic base (the material practices
and economic relations) and theoretical/cultural superstructure (the theories,
social relations, and articulations) that describes that base and springs from it,
but he doesn’t spend a lot of time on the economic. He’s more interested in superstructure, in the ways consent is reproduced through structures of language,
story, folklore, education, media, etc. He claims that domination in society
(Western Europe) doesn’t start with the economic base of practices of the proletariat, as traditional Marxism proposes; instead, our practices and theorizing
are a dialectical, “interrelated and reciprocal” unity, which he terms an “historic
bloc” (2000, p. 192-93).29 This means that the superstructure is equally important to civil society’s manufacturing of consent just as much as the state’s military
and economic structures are important to coercively regulating broad societal
divisions and labor markets when structures of consent break down. Gramsci calls the ways that superstructure works itself out in society as “relations of
force,” and there are at least three, which correspond roughly to Marx’s uses of
superstructure in society (Gramsci, 2000, pp. 204-207).
Williams defines these three uses as a way to define Marxian superstructure,
and I think also Gramscian superstructure. Williams explains that superstructure can be seen in three senses, as “institutions,” “forms of consciousness,” and
“political and cultural practices” (1977, p. 77). Thus hegemony is stubborn and
reproduced through a dialectic between base and superstructure, through the
superstructures of educational and disciplinary institutions, classrooms and the
like; through forms of consciousness that express a local SEAE and a set of
white racial habitus as the dominant way by which intelligent and civil people
communicate; and through political and cultural practices in schools and aca110

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demia, in our textual discourses, our journals, department meetings, and ways
we read and respond to our students’ writing in classrooms and in programs that
designate civil exchange. Thus the fight over and in the hegemonic is a complex
network of ecologies in which people “fight it out” for control and power, for
intellectual, material, and figurative territory over a number of terrains (through
institutions, forms of consciousness, and practices). An antiracist classroom assessment ecology, then, is a kind of Marxian dialectic of a base that consists of
the material environment(s) and forces that students and teacher enact and work
in—all the things we do in a classroom and outside of it—and a superstructure,
or a set of relations of force that explain and justify the classroom and its writing
assessment practices, (e.g., the use of the local SEAE, the use of a textbook, and
conventions privileged, the use of a portfolio, the discourses used to judge writing, a rubric used to explain expectations and evaluate writing, etc.). Antiracist
writing assessment ecologies gives students control over the superstructure and
by dialectical default also the base of activities and production, both of which
help construct that ecology. When students control most of what is called assessment, then the grounds for the counter-hegemonic is fertile.
If base and superstructure are the engine of civil society and its political
workings, then they can explain the way civil assessment is produced in a writing
classroom. Gramsci explains that
“civil society” has become a very complex structure and one
which is resistant to the catastrophic “incursions” of the
immediate economic element (crises, depressions, etc.). The
superstructures of civil society are like the trench-systems of
modern warfare. In war it would sometimes happen that a
fierce artillery attack seemed to have destroyed the enemy’s
entire defensive system, whereas in fact it had only destroyed
the outer perimeter; and at the moment of their advance and
attack the assailants would find themselves confronted by a
line of defence [sic] which was still effective. (2000, p. 227)
Why is society’s defense still effective, why is hegemony so stubborn? Why does
the EPT still control the educational futures of students when we have DSP, or a
somewhat critically aware WPA, or teachers who consciously do antiracist work
in classrooms? Perhaps part of the answer is in the fact that the dialectic of base
and superstructure in every classroom writing assessment ecology is hegemonic
and most ecologies are not designed to be counter-hegemonic, not designed to
see or criticize their own racial politics. This counter-hegemonic characteristic
begins with who controls the assessment ecology.
Furthermore, in classroom assessment ecologies, there are many superstruc111

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tural trenches behind the immediate ones we focus on. A white racial habitus is
reinforced by other discourses of empiricism: objectivity; neutrality; hyperindividualism; unsentimental, detached discussion; and the pervasive assumption of
a Cartesian Cogito in grading and assessing of writing. Behind those discourses
are ones we see on TV and in popular media that depict intelligent and educated
people who speak like Lindsey or as I do in this book. Behind our explanations
of our judgments in our classroom writing assessment ecologies (one trench)
are the explanations and justifications of the DSP (another trench), and behind
that are those that explain Early Start, and behind that are those that explain the
EPT, and it goes on. And all these trenches maintain to some degree, in various
overlapping ways, the civil society of academia, the civil literacies we teach, the
civil assessments we maintain.
Seeing a local SEAE or white racial habitus as the standard which classroom
writing assessments must use doesn’t simply come from the discipline of writing studies, from our journals, books, and conferences, or English departments’
agreements in meetings and program review discussions, nor is it simply a matter
of what our colleagues ask of us from other corners of the university and academy, nor is it just pressure from our local communities. It is all of these forces.
The superstructural relations of force, the hegemony of racist writing assessment
ecologies that promotes only one version of English, what Horner and Trimbur
(2002) called a “unidirectional monolingualism” and Matsuda (2006) explained
is associated with the “myth of linguistic homogeneity,” determine the standard
and its dominant discourse, and is reinforced by another trench, the local white
racial habitus. The trenches of the hegemonic are numerous and overlapping
civil writing assessment ecologies.
“Determination” is an important part of Marxian thought and helps explain
base and superstructure’s relation to consent in the hegemonic, and explains why
most civil writing assessments are racist in writing classrooms. I’ve used the term
above, but it demands a bit of explanation. Williams explains that the concept of
determination comes from Marx’s original use of the word bestimmen, which is
translated in English as “determine.” Williams points out that determine means
“setting bounds” or “setting limits” (1977, p. 84); however, “in practice determination is never only the setting of limits; it is also the exertion of pressures,”
a complex process in real, historic circumstances, something Marxism’s base and
superstructure often lose when used as abstract categories (p. 87) divorced from
real, concrete, historical moments in particular places. The point is that part of
the way the hegemonic functions is through processes and practices, values and
articulations that are determined in both senses of the word. They are determined in the sense of setting boundaries or limits on, say, choice in a DSP ecology (e.g., a student may choose the one- or two-semester option to meet the same
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writing requirement at Fresno State), and determined in the sense of exerting
pressure toward some end or outcome, such as the fact that there is no option to
not take a writing course. There is pressure and obligation to fulfill the university’s writing requirement. So while students do have a higher degree of agency
through personal choice in a DSP ecology than they would in other placement
ecologies, their choice is constrained and pressured. Students are free to choose
their courses, but not free to not choose a course or to choose just any course.
The determination built into classroom writing assessments, particularly
ones that produce grades on individual assignments, or that use a dominant
discourse only as a standard, have these same two aspects to them. As teachers,
we never simply ask students to write or read for us, or their peers, even when we
give them choices on what they may write about or read. Their choices are constrained, and they are pressured to labor or face the negative consequences. The
question an antiracist writing assessment ecology asks explicitly of teachers is:
How clear and explicit are the constraints and pressures that determine student
labor and the valuing of the products of those labors in the ecology? The clearer
and more explicit determination is in an ecology, the fairer it can be.
As a concept, determination also explains the relationship that our labors
and activities (base) and the discourses we use to explain, judge, and justify those
labors and activities (superstructure) have to the (counter)hegemonic. It explains
how everyone is complicit in the politics of the ecology. In fact, seeing, reflecting
on, and discussing with students the ways the classroom’s assessment ecology determines their desires and actions, their labor and expectations of writing, their
judging of writing, can offer ways to think counter-hegemonically, and perhaps
change the ecology toward antiracist ends. In this sense, seeing the way the assessment ecology determines student labor and desires provides a way to see the
problematizing that is at the center of the assessment activities in the ecology.
But we have not yet talked about the base, the other half of the Marxian
dialectic. If superstructure can be located in “institutions,” “forms of consciousness,” and “political and cultural practices,” base, according to Williams, is “the
real social existence of man,” or the “real relations of production corresponding to a state of development of material productive forces,” or the “mode of
production at a particular stage of its development,” or as Marx himself put
it, “productive activities.” Each of these ways of seeing the base in the Marxian dialectic is a bit different, but as Mastroianni, and Marx himself (as well
as Engels), makes clear, base isn’t a reference to an abstract category, rather it
is a reference to a particular instance of material production in “a determined
historical form” (Williams, 1977, p. 81). And so, base could be thought of as a
particular instance of material production in a determined historic moment that
is inextricable from the superstructure that dialectically creates and describes
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it. Base, then, is the material activities that make up writing assessment in our
classrooms. Superstructure is the language we use in our classrooms to explain,
rationalize, and explore those activities, or the discourse of assessment. The base
cannot be known for sure until a writing course begins, and its superstructure is
unique to that course’s material base of activities and labor. In short, base and superstructure in an antiracist writing assessment ecology are interconnected. The
base of activities inter-is the superstructural ways we talk about those activities.
Base and superstructure offer students and teacher an analysis, a critical
description, of the way the hegemonic reproduces itself in an antiracist writing assessment ecology, while also maintaining individual students’, teachers’,
and administrators’ agencies by incorporating the more nuanced notion of determine, which provides for choice, boundaries, and pressure. There is always
choice in the system. It is just constrained choice. So all must participate in
creating both the boundaries and the pressures. As Engels explains, “[w]e make
our history ourselves, but, in the first place, under very definite assumptions and
conditions” (Williams, 1977, p. 85). This insight, an insight that is the intersection between personal agency and structural constraints that determine one’s
agency, is what Freire’s problem-posing pedagogy attempts to reveal in particular
concrete, historical moments for his students. It is also the kind of problems I
believe antiracist writing assessment ecologies should encourage students to pose
to each other. How does our course, its activities, a student’s labors that produce
a text, the discourses around these activities and texts determine what ends up
on the page, and determine what various readers judge on that page? Are there
patterns in the classroom or in any given writing group that might be racial, or
that may automatically benefit some and harm others?
Let us not forget that we cannot really know for sure the habitus of any given
student or group of students, no matter how we group them. Racial habitus, like
all other dimensions of people, are dynamic and changing. Much like Omi and
Winant’s (1994) racial formation theory, Gramsci’s theorizing is historical and
local or specific in nature, accounting for particular dynamic, historical processes of social and economic maintenance and change in society. We can see this
in his insistence that base and superstructure form an “historic bloc” (Gramsci,
2000, pp. 192, 197).
“Historic bloc” describes the ways in which societal and economic practices
(base) both are created by and create the values, social relations, and theories
(superstructure) we use to rationalize and explain our material and economic circumstances. Conversely, the term also describes the ways our theorizing and values (superstructure) are created by and create the material and economic (base)
they explain and rationalize. Both elements reinforce one another dialectically,
move and slowly change in history, and so are simultaneously socially generative
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and explanatory. This is the Marxian dialectic of base and superstructure that
hegemony describes as processes of determination. The dialectic explains why
writing assessment ecologies are holistic in nature and more than their parts,
since each part is consubstantial to all others—that is, they inter-are. It should
be clear that the dialectic moves in both directions, so base is not simply the
foundation, the constitutive, and the superstructure the practices and discourse
below it that describe it. Both base and superstructure dialectically constitute
and are constituting historical elements. Sometimes it is our explanations of
things that instigate change or maintain the status quo, while at others, it is our
practices and economic relations that move us to rethink, revise, rearticulate, or
maintain how and why we do what we do. Thus because they are a dialectic, base
and superstructure inter-are. And because they depend on each other to be in
a writing assessment ecology, they inter-are. Gramsci’s articulations reveal how
even with good people and intentions classroom writing assessment ecologies
often reproduce relations of force that arrange people in unequal and unfair
ways, cultivate dominant interests, practices, and values, and engender consent
by all through particular practices and discourses that justify and explain those
practices, coercing some to act and speak in certain ways, and others to accept
“failure” or exclusion from the academy.

FEATURES AND PRIORITIES OF ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES
What I hope I’ve shown in this chapter is that any antiracist writing assessment ecology is one that contains three important explicit features. The first
feature is an attention to its holistic nature (it’s sense of being more than the
sum of its parts), an attention to critical production beyond itself, which gives
the ecology a purpose of helping students problematize their existential writing
assessment situations (see Appendix B for an assignment that asks student to
problem pose explicitly). This makes labor students do, the reading, writing, and
judging, most important. Labor is the engine for liberation or critical output.
Second, the ecology explicitly reveals the interconnectedness of all aspects and
elements in the ecology. The locally diverse people and their habitus, the environments involved, their feedback, and students’ labors are all interconnected.
They inter-are, making difference not a point of contention as much as a method of comparing and revealing critical insights, revealing how we language and
judge language differently, yet paradoxically need one another to be.
Third, Gramsci’s theorizing of hegemony and historic bloc offers a theory
students and teachers can use to help explain the political nature of the ecology
itself, of the way it determines particular practices, ideas, judgments, and hab115

Chapter Two

itus, so that the counter-hegemonic might flourish. The Marxian dialectic also
explains the holistic and interconnected nature of the relationships in ecologies.
The language and theory around ecologies tend to avoid the politics inherent
in our human and social world. When we avoid the political (power relations)
we often avoid race and other social dimensions that embody power differentials because race is an identifier primarily of power differentials, especially in
schools. The concept of ecology assumes that people and their environments
always form relationships between and among each other, that an aspect of
these relationships is one of inter-being, interconnectedness, but just because
we are interconnected doesn’t mean the nature of our connections to each other
are equal, that we each share the same power in a given context of judgment,
that how we speak or write is the same or exercises the same degree of power
in social settings. Yet despite these uneven power relations, antiracist writing
assessment ecologies strive to even power relations by focusing on labor and
not quality (determined by comparisons to a single standard) to produce things
like grades and expectations, and helping students problematize their writing
assessment situations.
However, assuming inter-being in all people and environments is not the
same thing as assuming that we are all alike. There is difference, local diversity,
but how we understand it and judge it in writing can come from a sense of
inter-being, a sense of one student’s success or failure as participating in all students’ success or failure, and for that matter, the teacher’s success or failure in the
ecology. We don’t need one standard to make judgments on writing in learning
contexts—in fact, it’s antithetical to learning to write—nor do we need categories and hierarchies, such as grades, which many have already argued against.
But let me be clear about it. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies understand
the conventional graded classroom as deeply flawed because it needs a single
standard by which to rank students and their performances, performances that
by their nature are unrankable because they inter-are. Thus grading is racist.
And so, the best learning happens in diverse contexts, in diverse environments, filled with multiple ways of understanding, seeing, and being that are not
judged or assessed against one standard of literacy, instead each writer explores
the nature of judgment in his own discourse and the dominant one (i.e., a local
white racial habitus) in order to problematize one’s existential writing assessment
situation. This makes the discourse of assessment and judgment, one akin to
reflection, more important than the drafts we might be judging. Through this
problematizing, students can come to an awareness of how they inter-are with
others and their habitus.
Antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies imply that people (re)create places of settlement, places we wish to inhabit or make habitable, Sang116

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has that involve mindful, habitual practices and other actions among groups
of people. Enacting classroom writing assessment ecologies as a way to create a
humane and inhabitable place for everyone is an antiracist project in intention,
process, and outcome. Ecologies are activity systems as much as they are people,
environments, and relationships. Thus all writing assessment ecologies imply
that our first job when designing and enacting them is to make a place livable in
ethical and humane ways for everyone.
Finally, I end with a summary of priorities that construct antiracist writing
assessment ecologies for writing classrooms that I’ve developed through my discussion in this chapter. These are priorities that teachers and students can keep
in mind as they design and enact their own ecologies. They provide the grounds
by which activities, labors, and discussions can be created or interrogated for
antiracist assessment agendas, and are in no particular order of importance.
• Ecologies by their natures are always political, so they should be explicit about the racial politics they promote.
• Places, especially in education, are associated with racial formations
and other social groups, which may affect some students’ abilities to
do the work asked.
• The assessment ecology of the classroom can be discussed as a Sangha
ecology in order to help students reflect upon the interconnectedness
of themselves, the classroom, and their practices, making difference
important to who they are and what they can do.
• Focusing on the amount or intensity of labor can offer fairer ways to
respect all students’ rights to their own languages, and avoid measuring students’ writing against a single standard.
• Focusing on change and movement in student discourses, not comparisons to a single standard in grading or evaluating of student writing,
even though students may wish to approximate a dominant discourse,
can reduce racism in assessments.
• Ecologies constantly change and with them, students, teachers, and
language practices change, thus ecologies can engage in a critical
documenting of each student’s “ceaseless flow of becoming” in their
language practices.
There are also priorities that provide ecologies ways to help students problematize their writing assessment situations, the central activity in antiracist
writing assessment ecologies. In Chapter 5, I offer a heuristic that helps teachers
and students construct antiracist writing assessment ecologies, and in Appendix
B, one assessment activity that does the problematizing I call for here. The following list is meant as a summary of the problematizing theme I’ve discussed in
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this chapter.
• Students can discuss how problematizing one’s existential writing
assessment situation is about making the ecology sustainable, fair, and
livable for all.
• Students can continually consider and work from the idea that words
are action, language is action, and reflection is action, which makes
language and the assessment of it both the means of cultural production (base) and the explaining of that production (superstructure) in
assessment activities.
• Assessments and their discourses are more important than the drafts
they assess, which means the assessment ecology focuses mostly on the
production of the discourses of judgment and assessment.
• Assessment activities use the local diversity in the classroom as a way
to create comparisons to a white racial habitus, asking students to
consider the markers and dispositions in and underneath the texts they
read and judge.
• Judgments and questions posed to writers compare habitus of students
to the dominant white racial habitus of the school, discipline, or classroom, or to the habitus of readers, not as static entities or dispositions,
but as evolving dispositions that change through interaction.
• Interconnection among locally diverse people and habitus in ecologies
are made explicit and used toward problem-posing ends in the assessment activities—students must reflect upon their need for others who
are different from themselves.
• Students need explicit Marxian language to help them understand
the politics of the antiracist assessment ecology they participate in
and to problematize their existential writing assessment situations; in
particular, students can reflect upon the ways rubrics, assignments, or
descriptive judgments of their drafts determine their expectations that
may have uneven benefits among students in the classroom, or that
determine their own desires for their writing or the writing of others.

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CHAPTER 3: THE ELEMENTS OF
AN ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGY
Now, I turn to discussing the seven ecological elements that constitute antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies, elements that can be used to
critique or transform ecologies as revolutionary antiracist projects in order to
do more productively the Freirean problem-posing I’ve already discussed. In my
discussion of each ecological element, I will attempt to offer ways that it can
be a focal point to design and engage in antiracist writing assessment ecologies,
particularly engaging students in problematizing their existential writing assessment situations. My larger argument in this chapter is to show how thinking in
terms of these seven elements can help writing teachers develop antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies that are more critical, sustainable, and fair
for everyone. There may be other elements at work in local writing assessment
ecologies, but these appear to be the seven basic elements that writing teachers
can consider when understanding their own assessment ecologies and turning
their efforts toward antiracist purposes.
The seven elements of antiracist writing assessment ecologies may seem commonsensical to many, but not many consider them holistically and interconnected when designing, engaging in, or investigating classroom writing assessments.
Furthermore, I discuss them in terms of their potential to explain or aid in
antiracist assessment agendas. Because they are inherently interlocking elements,
because they inter-are, because they are more than what they are, often sharing
in each other’s essences and transforming into each other, it easier to discuss
them separately, particularly when explaining or designing antiracist classroom
writing assessment ecologies. The seven interconnected and holistic elements
are: power, parts, purposes, people, processes, products, and places.
Before I discuss each element separately, it is important to consider their
complexity as a whole and interconnection to one another. In a recent article
in which she argues that agency emerges from actions and reactions among
people in the world, Marilyn Cooper (2011) uses complexity theory to explain the system of rhetoric and people, one more nuanced than the writing
ecology she explained in 1986. She says that “agency is an emergent property
of embodied individuals,” and is “based in individuals’ lived knowledge that
their actions are their own” (2011, p. 421). Emergent rhetorical agency is “a
response to a perturbation that is shaped by the rhetor’s current goals and past
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experiences,” but it’s also an “enactive” system—that is, individuals act without
knowing exactly what they are doing or that they may be changing the system
(Cooper, 2011, p. 426). Using complexity theorists, Cooper explains the way
agency emerges, a process of “structural determination” very similar to Marxian
determination in which changes in the system, such as persuasion, may be
instigated by a person who employs rhetoric but whose specific effects on the
system and the individuals who make it up are “determined by the structure of
the disturbed system’” (2011, p. 426). Thus large-scale or systemic changes may
not directly affect individuals’ behaviors, say changes in writing practices of a
student in a classroom. The system is not a linear system, a one-to-one causal
system. For instance, it is not always the case that when we give good feedback
to a student, the student’s draft gets better. Rather, Cooper argues, complexity
theory says that it is a circular causal system, termed “structural coupling,”
in which one person’s actions affects others’ and those others react, adapting,
which continues the chain of mutual adapting. All the elements in any writing
assessment ecology work the same way. Change one, and the others change
through mutual adapting.
Furthermore, reading these ecological elements as a part of a complex system
is important—that is, they are more than the whole of the ecology, but this does
not capture all of the complexity Cooper is suggesting. Cooper offers this definition of the way complex systems can be understood:
Complex systems (an organism, a matter of concern) are
self-organizing: order (and change) results from an ongoing
process in which a multitude of agents interact frequently and
in which the results of interactions feed back into the process.
Emergent properties (such as agency) are not epiphenomena,
nor “possessions” in any sense, but function as part of the
systems in which they originate. And causation in complex
systems is nonlinear: change arises not as the effect of a discrete cause, but from the dance of perturbation and response
as agents interact. (2011, p.421)
Thus the complex system of an antiracist writing assessment ecology is an assemblage of dancing elements, only one of which is people in the system, that
interact and mutually adapt because of the perturbations in the ecology. Consequences (or products, as I’ll discuss later in this chapter) occur because of the
ecology or complex system, not because of individual actions by students or
a teacher or a rubric alone. They may be instigators, causing perturbations in
the system, but it is the system, the ecology as a whole, that determines what
possible outcomes, effects, changes, or products there will be. Thus any learning
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or educational benefits to students one might hope from an antiracist writing
assessment ecology will be a product of the dance of perturbations and response
of elements in the entire complex system.
So while I discuss each element below separately, I hope you will see the
complexity in which they inter-are. In one simple sense, all elements create any
one given element. People and purposes, for example, help construct the places
of the ecology, just as places, power, and processes create people. Likewise, the
elements below always work in concert to create a complex system that continually evolves the limits and pressures that form what it determines as outcomes
or products.

ECOLOGICAL POWER
The first and perhaps most important element of any antiracist writing assessment ecology that might be considered and developed consciously is power.
Power, Foucault (1977) says, is a productive force that moves through society.
Thus, “discipline” is itself a technology and a “type of power,” which Foucault
shows in prisons, the military, and schools (1977, p. 215), each creating “docile
bodies” (p. 138) in similar ways. Discipline is made up of “a whole set of instruments, techniques, procedures, levels of application, [and] targets” (Foucault,
1977, p. 215). Foucault defines four strategies constitutive of discipline and
characteristic of a docile “individuality” (1977, p. 167), an individuality that
moves in power’s direction: one, discipline “draws up tables” by enclosing, confining, and defining bodies and “functional sites” (p. 143); two, “it prescribes
movements” and activity (p. 149); three, “it imposes exercises” and movement
(pp. 151-152); and four, “it arranges tactics” (p. 162), that is, “coded activities
and trained aptitudes” (p. 167). It is easy to see how Foucault could be describing any writing assessment ecology. When we design a portfolio system for a
writing course often what is most present in our minds as we design it is how we
will control students’ bodies, their actions, their movements, what they write,
how portfolios are put together, how many pages or documents to include, what
students should reflect upon, etc. In these material and textual ways, power is
exercised through the ways we ask students to labor and submit the products
of their labor to us for evaluation. However Foucault says that power is also
productive and generative, exists by acting on the individual, and is a “total
structure of actions brought to bear upon possible actions,” thus it “incites,”
“induces,” and “seduces” (1982, p. 220).
Foucault’s description of Bentham’s panopticon demonstrates how power
operates through the disciplining of bodies and creating spaces that reproduce
docile behavior as consent (1977, p. 200), which has clear applications to the
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typical writing classroom. He explains that power works in the panopticon by
Automatiz[ing] and disindividualiz[ing] power. Power has its
principle not so much in a person as in a certain concerted
distribution of bodies, surfaces, lights, gazes; in an arrangement whose internal mechanisms produce the relation in
which individuals are caught up. The ceremonies, the rituals,
the marks by which the sovereign’s surplus power was manifested are useless. There is a machinery that assures dissymmetry, disequilibrium, difference. Consequently, it does not
matter who exercises power. Any individual, taken almost at
random, can operate the machine (1977, p. 202)
What’s striking about Foucault’s discussion is how power is the environment,
which disciplines bodies in and through time and space(s). This disciplining
creates visibility and invisibility, docility, and the subjectivity of prisoners themselves. In fact, in the panopticon, the power exercised through the design of
the tower and facing cells, defines the inmates as “inmates,” as much as it helps
them self-regulate, consent to their own imprisonment. Power is consciously
constructed and manipulated, used by constructing spaces and experiences that
by their natures are or feel like surveillance, or a constant assessment of bodies.
Classrooms are also places in which power is constructed to discipline students and teachers. Desks in rows and facing the teacher are a physical arrangement that many have discussed as one that promotes particular power relationships that work against the kind of pedagogical environment we usually hope to
encourage in writing classrooms, one that places too much focus on the teacher as speaker and students as passive listeners. It constructs an environment in
which power is exercised as Freire’s banking model. This power arrangement is
seductive. Students are seduced into easier, passive roles as listeners, while teachers are seduced into attractive roles as knowledge givers, as “professors.” This is
even more true when it comes to writing assessment ecologies that figuratively
face the teacher, ones that demand students “submit” themselves and their writing only to a teacher for judgment, which has its most power(ful) employment
in feedback and grading practices.
Antiracist writing assessment ecologies make explicit this power arrangement
in grading practices between teacher and students as one that is also racialized
through the valuing of hegemonic discourses, dominant ones that use a white
racial habitus to form expectations and markers of success and failure. The use of
such standards is discussed explicitly as racialized and hegemonic, then perhaps
negotiated with students in order for them to understand their own relations
to power embodied in the valuing of the dominant discourse of the classroom.
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Interrogating power in an assessment ecology is important because it sets up
the rest of students’ problematizing practices. Questions that might be posed to
students early on about power could be: How are the expectations and standards
for grading writing, determining students’ progress, or evaluating students as
writers used or employed? Why use those standards in the ways that the class
or teacher has prescribed, have they been used before in other classrooms, why?
What alternative standards and ways might be used? Who exercises the power to
grade in the class, and who constructs or negotiates the expectations and standards that regulate evaluations and grading? Why do it that way? Where does
the power to grade and make judgments on writing circulate in the course and
by whom? How can the classroom productively and safely encourage students to
understand, complicate, and challenge the white racial habitus in the dominant
discourse (the course’s writing expectations)? How is the white racial habitus of
the dominant discourse compared to other habitus and discourses existing in
the classroom? What reasons are there for valuing some habitus over others, and
how can the class cultivate assessment practices that do not value one habitus
over others?
As discussed already, the felt sense of race by students is in part a racial formation’s relation to hegemonic power in society or school. Languages are a part
of these relations to power. And white discourses (and their habitus) have been
markers of power, who exercises it, who benefits from its movements, etc. But
it is not the use of such discourses that exercises power in writing classrooms. It
is the ways in which any discourse is evaluated or judged, making the habitus
that informs those judgments important to investigate, more so than the drafts
that are evaluated in any given moment. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies
constantly probe these power relations around the judgment of writing. Who
has historically been in this classroom, and who is in it now, being judged and
by whom? What kinds of racial habitus inhabit a college classroom space in the
past and now, how have they submitted to power differently, and which habitus
are markers of power or of the ideal discourse?
Thus it is important to take note of the local racial diversity in the classroom, the elephant in the room. I know this can be tricky, as race is not a clear
feature to notice about anyone, and one’s self-identified racial designation does
not tell us much about one’s linguistic background or heritage, so taking stock
in the local diversity of one’s classroom might begin with students self-assessing
their own language backgrounds and where those backgrounds came from. Then
they might trace socially and historically how they and their families, how their
churches and local neighborhoods, came to practice the language(s) they do.
Finally, students can compare their own language practices and their sources to
what they’ve experienced in writing classrooms as the expected discourse, the
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ideal discourse. When I do this with my students, I offer them a description
of my own language background that uses a history that labels race and racism
in my own language practices, and I tell it as an evolving language, one different now than it was when I was 19 years old. I focus on one or two language
practices that I engaged in then, and now. For example, the practice of cursing
or swearing in public as a way to be emphatic that I picked up while living in
North Las Vegas (a poor and almost all-Black community), or the practice of
using the double-negative for similar rhetorical reasons that was prevalent in the
white working class neighborhood and schools I went to in middle school and
high school. I end my narrative with questions about the way these practices’
are judged by various people and in various situations, particularly when used
by certain racialized bodies. This allows me to open questions about the way
my discourse would be judged next to a dominant white academic discourse,
revealing its relation to power.
In my language background document, which I sometimes call a literacy
narrative or language narrative, I acknowledge that race isn’t a biological reality,
nor does it tell us essential truths about me, but it does help us talk about larger
social linguistic patterns in my life, and U.S. society. It helps us talk about such
patterns as Black English Vernacular (BEV), southern U.S. vernaculars, Latino/a
Englishes (e.g., Spanglish), and Asian Pacific Islander Englishes (e.g., Chinglish
and Hawai’ian creole). Once we do this, we can begin to understand better
where we come from when we judge writing, both our own and our colleagues’
drafts, which help us begin to identify and reflect upon the habitus we enact in
judging texts and its relation to the dominant white racial habitus that often is
used to judge our writing. Collecting such diverse language stories and looking
for racial references in them helps us see commonality in our relations to power,
in our struggles with a dominant discourse, even as those commonalities are
rooted in linguistic and cultural difference. I want to be very clear at the outset
of this chapter about the focus of the problematizing I’m speaking of. What antiracist writing assessment ecologies ask students to interrogate and problematize
is not language as a discourse or set of practices, although this may happen to
some degree. Instead as my description of the language background document
above shows, antiracist writing assessment ecologies ask students to interrogate
and problematize the judgment of discourses and language as they are occurring
in their lives.
Often then, if not consciously identified, reflected upon, and rethought,
power can reproduce conventional looking hierarchies when grading student
writing, hierarchies that are racist. In antiracist writing assessment ecologies,
hegemonic power, power that overdetermines (in the Freudian sense)30 expectations for writing, can end up being rearticulations of a white racial habitus that
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do not see the negotiation of classroom expectations and norms as an historical
landscape of conflict, as a negotiation that doesn’t have equal parties, but should.
Gramsci’s hegemony leaves plenty of room for power to be reconfigured through
the counter-hegemonic. But in order for the counter-hegemonic to occur productively in antiracist writing assessment ecologies, power must be reconceived.
While choice and actions are explicitly determined, they are not overdetermined.
Fairness and more equitable outcomes and products can occur through students’
explicit participation in and articulations of the ecology. Students get to be fully
involved in the setting of expectations, processes, and the making of judgments
and grades, which is what I hope comes out of the questions and investigations
of power I’ve described in this section. The reconstruction of power relations
in an assessment ecology is, however, first set up by their nature as explicit, negotiated relations, relations that are racialized but not racist. In short, power is
explicit and negotiated with students, then exercised by them and the ecology
they help create. These conditions will be made clearer through my discussions
of the other elements below, which help create power.

ECOLOGICAL PARTS
The second element of antiracist writing assessment ecologies that can be
examined and developed consciously is the parts. Parts refer to the artifacts, documents, and codes that regulate and embody writing, which include the judgments made by people in the ecology. In his discussion of a “critical theory of
technology,” Andrew Feenberg defines the literal materials of technology, which
is a good way to explain the ecological parts of any antiracist writing assessment
ecology. He offers two useful elements: (1) “artifacts,” or the sum of all objects
and processes involved; and (2) a “technical code,” or networks of cultural, institutional, and personal values, rules, and decisions (Feenberg, 1991, p. 80).
When we talk about writing assessment, it is the instruments, scores, grades,
portfolios, essay prompts, students’ and teachers’ responses, or scoring rubrics
that we often refer to. The parts of an antiracist writing assessment ecology are
what is most visible about it, and often become a synecdoche for the entire
ecology, potentially eliding the relationships those parts have to other ecological
elements.
For instance, a portfolio as an ecological part of an assessment ecology can
exist for a number of reasons or purposes. It can also be read in a number of
ways and by a number of different people. It can be understood to represent a
number of different constructs and student dispositions, behaviors, or competencies. It could be a demonstration of knowledge, of development of writing
competencies in the course, or of the best work accomplished. It could function
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to produce the final grade, or simply inform discussions on students’ writing development. Thus, the portfolio itself is just a part, a part in the ecology that has
significance and meaning only when it interacts with other ecological elements,
such as people, their purposes, or the products (outcomes and consequences)
their decisions intend to encourage. Another way to put this is to say that like
all the other ecological elements, any part of an assessment ecology, a rubric,
some feedback, a paper, inter-is with the other ecological elements. Thus the part
in question can only be meaningful, can only be what it is, when all the other
ecological elements are as well. The easiest demonstration of this is to consider
the changes in students’ attitudes (people) in a course in which a portfolio (part)
is graded (another part) next to the same course when the same portfolio is not
graded. The presence of the grade-part changes students’ attitudes, the portfolio,
processes, and the entire ecology.
One important aspect of the parts that can be the focus of students problematizing in an antiracist writing assessment ecology is the biases that are inherent in
those parts. While there can be many kinds of biases, I’m particularly interested
in racialized biases, or biases that have historically in the U.S. and academia
been associated closely to particular racial formations and their language practices. Again, Feenberg’s discussion of technology can help us. Through a careful consideration of Foucault and Marcuse, Feenberg rejects the instrumentalist
view of technology and claims that all technology has inherent biases toward the
hegemonic, which have been articulated in Madaus’ (1990, 1993, 1994) and
Madaus & Horn’s (2000) descriptions of testing as technology. Feenberg’s “bias”
draws on Marcuse, who explains that
[t]echnology, as a mode of production, as the totality of
instruments, devices and contrivances which characterize the
machine age is thus at the same time a mode of organizing
and perpetuating (or changing) social relationships, a manifestation of prevalent thought and behavior patterns, an instrument for control and domination. (Marcuse, 1998, p. 41)
This is strikingly similar to Gramsci’s theorizing of historical bloc and hegemony,
only Feenberg focuses on the instrumentality of technology, on the instruments,
devices, and contrivances that make up technology. While he is making the
point that technology is not simply machinery, he is revealing how the instruments, how the parts of technology are themselves loci of networks of other devices and contrivances, of biases. This means that a part in an antiracist writing
assessment ecology is not bias-free and is interconnected to many other devices,
contrivances, social relationships, and instruments of control. These biases are
what gets explored and form the problems that students pose to themselves and
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their colleagues. One important set of biases I’ve already discussed in detail is a
dominant white racial habitus that informs writing rubrics and expectations for
writing in classrooms, even ones that ask students to help develop expectations
for their writing.
Feenberg further argues that “all action within its [technology’s] framework
tends to reproduce that hegemony” (1991, p. 65). To explain why technology
has hegemonic bias built in, Feenberg draws on Marcuse’s notion of “technological rationality,” which “constitutes the basis for elite control of society,”
by being “internal” to the “structure” of technology itself. When translated
to writing assessment ecologies, bias is built into an assessment’s ecological
parts, its artifacts and technical codes (Feenberg, 1991, p. 69). Thus parts have
ecological biases that often amount to racial biases, such as the biases of a
local white racial habitus or a local SEAE. Marcuse himself uses the illustration of a highway, perhaps a technology better understood as an ecology, that
directs drivers to various destinations, prescribing routes and norms of behavior through signs, cement, and laws (1998, p. 46). Marcuse explains that
if one must get anywhere, one must take the highway in a car, which automatically “dissolves all actions into a sequence of semi-spontaneous reactions
to prescribed mechanical norms.” Everything appears “perfectly rational” and
“reasonable” (Marcuse, 1998, p. 46). The technology of the highway defines
what is rational, such that “individual protest and liberation appear not only as
hopeless but as utterly irrational” (Marcuse, 1998, p. 48). Through parts, with
their ecological biases, writing assessment ecologies construct power, as in Foucault’s panopticon, but do so hegemonically because the parts come with biases
that tend to be determined by the hegemonic. Yet like Marcuse’s highway,
people’s actions and behaviors may be determined, but they aren’t prescribed
completely. One could take a number of routes to get to one’s destination, but
there are only so many routes to that destination. This is Marcuse’s way of theorizing Marxian determination, and it is explained through the biases inherent
in the system’s parts.
Resistance, then, to an assessment ecology’s rationality, to a teacher’s demanding of a portfolio in a classroom or the use of a rubric to grade writing—
just like a California high school student resisting the demand to take the EPT
or the ACT—appears utterly irrational. You want to get a grade in the class,
don’t you? You want a college degree, don’t you? Then you take this test, or submit a portfolio in this prescribed way. The bias in the assessment ecology that
the classroom creates, makes such resistance or questioning of whatever part is
used (i.e., a portfolio, an essay, a series of documents, a rubric, etc.) unreasonable since the reasonable responses are dictated by the biases in the parts of the

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assessment ecology.
Consider, for instance, the ecological parts of a rubric, say, the construct
of reflection, a typical expectation in writing classrooms for portfolios or other
reflective writing that one might find on a rubric or an assignment sheet, or
even in course goals or outcomes statements. Often reflection is thought of as
a discourse that women perform more fluently than men (at least in popular
cultural contexts), which suggests possible gender biases, and a particular kind
of rationality itself built into the parts of portfolio assessment ecologies.31 Once
enacted, the judgment on “reflection” provided to students becomes “rational.”
Additionally, like the cells and tower of the panopticon, one important bias in
reflective parts is the way in which power is generated by and moves through
them in very distinct directions, which is the nature of bias. As an artifact of
power, the portfolio letter itself is a “functional site” in which the body of the
student is controlled and made to obey. Write the letter in a particular way and
pass the portfolio, then the student may take the next course. Fail, and she must
take the present one again, or perhaps leave the university.
As the teacher, I have not forced her to do anything by failing her portfolio, yet the portfolio, as an ecological part has drawn up a site that disciplines
the student, and controls her material, bodily movement in the university and
possibly elsewhere. The reflection letter also disciplines her, arguably in a more
explicit way, pushing her to claim a progress narrative, something many (Conway, 1994; Inoue & Richmond, in press; Scott, 2005; Weiser, 1997) mention is
common in their research on portfolios. It subtly urges the student to consent
through its naturalized rationality, norming students, making individual resistance or difference irrational (unnatural). Power is often exercised through the
bias of parts in an ecology.
In an antiracist writing assessment ecology, however, the class would consider
the construct of reflection as an explicitly racialized set of dispositions, ones that
likely have biases formed from a white racial habitus. When judging instances
of reflection in portfolios, readers would not use comparisons to a white racial
habitus in order to determine student success, grades, or progress in the course
and portfolios. Instead, the class might use labor as a marker of success, completion, or development. This doesn’t mean teachers do not discuss ways to reflect
that push students toward demonstrating reflective habitus that match a local
(white racial) dominant habitus. It just means students aren’t graded against that
dominant habitus when they reflect in ways that do not match the dispositions
in it, instead assessment is an occasion to discuss choices, audience expectations,
and diverse ways of judging reflection, connecting those judgments to possible
racialized habitus with no consequences to their grade. Assessment is an occasion
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tices. This kind of problematizing centers on the biases of parts in an assessment
ecology that create the valuing of reflective discourse in particular ways.
The literature on reflection offers us plenty of evidence for the assumption
that most reflection in writing classrooms asked of students is of a white racial
habitus. The scripts and codes of reflection as a classroom discourse and habitus
that many scholars have described (Beach, 1976; Dewey, 1910; Pianko, 1979;
Schon, 1987) match most if not all of the dispositions of a white racial habitus.
This is evident in the research I’ve done on the Hmong racial formation at Fresno State (Inoue & Richmond, in press). For instance, as I mentioned earlier,
the Hmong racial formation has the highest percentage of students who are
designated as remedial by the EPT. Between 2007-2012, based on average EPT
scores, 77% of all Hmong students taking the EPT were designated as remedial
(the white population was roughly 23%). In the Early Start English program in
the summer of 2013, the average rating on reflection in Hmong final portfolios
was just below proficient (2.97 out of 6, with 3 the lower threshold for proficient), which seems to coincide with their EPT scores.32 However, in the final
ratings of similar portfolios in Engl 5B (the second course in a two-course sequence of FYW), Hmong students averaged the highest ratings among all racial
formations on the same scale in final portfolios (Inoue, 2012, p. 88).
So what happened? The construct of reflection as a discourse didn’t change.
The same teachers taught both the Early Start and the FYW courses. The curricula of both programs matched, using the same outcomes and language. By
all accounts, both portfolios in the Early Start English and in Engl 5B measured
the same thing, the same construct (reflection). What might best account for
the change? Time? Instruction? Practice? Perhaps. But there are many teachers
and sections, some TAs, some adjuncts, all with a variety of teaching experiences
and different assignments and readings in their courses. There is one thing that
is constant in both programs and curricula, one thing that dictates the nature of
time, instruction, and practice: the classroom writing assessment ecology, which
I’m arguing leaned toward antiracist ends.
Here’s how. All teachers in the program used a grading contract and a portfolio in both the Early Start English course and the Engl 5A course, the course before Engl 5B. In my own program reviews, about 80% of all teachers continued
to use grading contracts for their Engl 5B courses. Most students stay with the
same teacher for 5A and 5B. Portfolios are required in all three courses. So the
apparent linear progression from just below proficient (2.97) in Early Start to
well within the proficient category (between 3.47-3.81) by the end of their FYW
experience is associated with consistent classroom writing assessment ecologies
used. Those ecologies are created by the use of two ecological parts: a grading
contract, which is provided to all teachers in template form and negotiated with
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students; and a portfolio system, which requires only that there be a certain
amount of polished writing in it and a letter of reflection.
The most obvious feature of the contract is its focus on labor, not quality, to
determine course grades.33 The contract and portfolio kept grades off of day-today and major assignments in all courses, and focused students’ attention toward
the labor they did each day or week, which is a feature of assessment ecologies
that can be antiracist. The rubrics and assignments, the parts (the codes and
documents), did not produce grades, rather they were used differently in the
classroom. Writing, rubrics, feedback and other ecological parts circulated in
different writing assessment ecologies, making reflection in portfolios different
in nature, and learning different (arguably better).
The contract constructed labor as the main criterion for determining course
grades, while their writing itself was used to help form writing practices and discussions about how to value that writing, which comes close to my description
of problematizing the existential writing assessment situation of students. Thus
the assessment ecologies at Fresno State tended not to be overdetermined by
rubrics and other ecological parts that have a bias toward a white racial habitus
through their grading and ranking of students. This, I argue, allowed multilingual students, such as Hmong students, to find confidence, perseverance, and
other non-cognitive writing dispositions that helped them succeed and excel in
reflection, a key program outcome, even though that outcome was still informed
by a white racial habitus. I’ve made a more complete argument for contracts concerning the Hmong racial formation in another place (Inoue, 2012a), and the
way they can change the nature of failure in writing classrooms (Inoue, 2014b),
which confirm this conclusion.
What should be noted of antiracist (or any) writing assessment ecology is
that the hegemonic nature of its parts’ biases is self-reinforcing. This self-reinforcement offers a response to criticisms about lowering or ignoring standards in
antiracist assessment ecologies, such as the one I’ve just described. Feenberg addresses this phenomenon by explaining that “the ‘universe of discourse,’ public
and eventually even private speech and thought, is limited to posing and resolving technical problems” (Feenberg, 1991, p. 70) —that is, problems the system
creates in order to solve them itself, problems it can solve with the same old results. Thus, hegemonic writing assessment parts present to us problems we solve
with hegemonic solutions because we are given only the hegemonic. This helps
us defend antiracist assessment ecologies like the one I’ve described above from
criticisms that question its ability to keep standards. Standards are specific codes
(hegemonic parts) in an assessment ecology, which I argue are always racialized
to some degree because they are informed by a white racial habitus. When one
invokes them, they assume particular racial habitus that are the standard, which
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are hegemonic. Questions about writing classrooms not keeping standards tend
to be the same old hegemonic questions that assume (require) hegemonic answers, or a particular set of biases.
Thus a question like, “how can the above assessment ecology that doesn’t
grade students’ reflective writing on quality guarantee that students will be able
to meet particular writing standards?” is really a question that asks, “how can
we maintain the hegemonic if we are not judging and grading it, if we aren’t
holding students accountable for it?” Another way to say this is: “how can we get
students to reflect like white, middle class language users if we don’t grade them
on that standard?” I could reply to this criticism by saying that just because a
teacher doesn’t grade writing doesn’t mean students aren’t held accountable for
particular standards, or better yet, are not responsible for such standards. But a
better response is that this question of standards is the wrong question to ask
in our increasingly diverse classrooms. In fact, its premise (that we need a standard to judge students against) is racist. When our classrooms were homogenous
and white, when most students came from a particular socioeconomic strata,
it might have been fair to enforce standards through writing assessments, but
it’s not today. In fact, it is overly limiting, binding students and the academy,
holding us back. Perhaps better questions are: what are our students doing when
asked to reflect? How do our students reflect in writing differently from what
we initially expected? What are the biases in the reflective discourse produced
in classrooms? How do those reflective ways meet (or not) the challenges we
understand reflection addressing for students? In what ways do our students’
reflective ways innovate our old ways of reflecting? How do our initial biases in
the reflective discourse we ask for create unfairness and limit the cultural and
linguistic production of the classroom?
These questions not only help reveal the hegemonic biases in the parts of
our assessment ecologies, but are good ways to focus student assessment activities that lead to problematizing their writing assessment situations in the class
around reflection as a practice. I realize that some will not accept conceiving
of classroom writing assessment practices as explorative and descriptive of the
hegemonic and other habitus that students bring. They will say that such ecologies do not necessarily help students become successful writers in our current
world. Instead these critics may say that the writing classroom is meant to prepare students for future success in writing in either school or civic life, which
isn’t a completely false assumption, but it is an assumption about a dominant
white racial habitus, as well as what direct instruction on a dominant discourse
will offer students. We can and should have other biases, other discourses and
habitus, which all can be equally productive. Furthermore, there is no guarantee
that using language in particular ways in society or the academy will guarantee
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success to any given student, however one wishes to define it. But the definition
of successful writing, or a successful writer, is a product of all antiracist writing
assessment ecologies. In fact, the definition of success in writing is central to the
larger ecological purpose of antiracist writing assessment ecologies. Success is
explicitly investigated and defined as certain ways of judging writing or writing
practices that are relate to dominant and non-dominant habitus.
My example of the construct of reflection shows that one way to radically change the parts of an assessment ecology is to rethink the terms by which
course grades and credit are given so that reflection, both as a practice and as
a racialized bias in rubrics and assignments, functions differently than to hierarchize students. In the above case, the classroom writing assessment ecologies
in question used labor, not quality of writing, to determine course grades. This
sufficiently changed the biases in the parts and what was done with them, like
the portfolio, feedback from the teacher, or daily assignments. So there are no
unbiased parts, but parts that have explicit biases that students and teacher explore and discuss together, then use to pose problems about the judgment of
language (in this case, reflection as a construct). The contract and portfolio have
their biases too, and they are different, depending on how they get constructed,
situated, and used in classrooms. Thus in antiracist writing assessment ecologies,
students become aware of the biases in the ecological parts they use, work with
them more than against them, and discuss them and negotiate them with other
students. Furthermore, this problematizing allows them to realize the nature of
the judgment of writing as overdetermined, as hegemonic.
In one sense, what I’m arguing for in antiracist writing assessment ecologies
are parts that are counter-hegemonic. The biases of a rubric that articulate local
SEAE expectations for a writing assignment in a course, or a grading contract
that uses labor to determine grades, can potentially be counter-hegemonic structures. For instance, a rubric could be translated or used to identify and question
deviations of a local SEAE but not as error or writing done wrong. Instead, the
rubric could be a way to notice and validate local non-SEAE practices, first by
not penalizing students for using such subaltern discourses, and second by allowing the rubric to be a heuristic for asking questions about ways of knowing
and articulating that are open-ended, not closed and narrowing. Thus differences from the dominant discourse are read as meaningful and productive.
Teachers and students may co-construct evaluation rubrics, which may articulate expectations that are not “standardized” to the larger writing assessment
ecologies of the program or school, then use those rubrics to examine and critique not just their own writing but more conventional rubrics and texts that
adhere to a local SEAE, or to a local white racial habitus. Students may respond
in original or alternative ways to conventional calls for a portfolio, and engender
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a teacher’s response that moves her to compare the portfolio next to (not against)
the local SEAE or white racial habitus. A classroom might incorporate critical
and other pedagogies that focus students and teacher interaction on negotiating
the meaning of error (Horner, 1992; Horner & Lu, 1999) or articulating and
using alternative and code-meshed discourses (Young, 2004, 2007; Young &
Martinez, 2011). The bottom line is that ecological bias and counter-bias should
work side by side in the parts of an antiracist writing assessment ecology so that
power doesn’t simply overdetermine what students do, or how well they do it,
but allows the determination in the system to function both hegemonically and
counter-hegemonically. In short, the parts of any antiracist classroom writing
assessment ecology are the places where students and teacher can generate problems to writers and readers about the biases that those parts inherently have.
In order for these kinds of biases to work counter-hegemonically in the rubric, they must be reinforced superstructurally, reinforced in the ways the class
explains them and justifies them to each other, in the ways they use the rubric
in feedback and reflection activities, in other words, in the base of the class, in
the processes and labors of students and teacher that produce writing and its
assessment. Students have to understand how to read the rubric, why they are
doing this kind of questioning, what it means to question in this way, and have
reading and judgment practices that keep them away from making judgments
that penalize or assume deviations to a local dominant discourse are error or
wrong. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies do this kind of work through the
parts they set up, which determine much in the classroom.

ECOLOGICAL PURPOSE
The third aspect of antiracist writing assessment ecologies to reconsider and
design is purpose. Most who discuss writing assessment tend to place this first,
or as a key element in any writing assessment that determines its effectiveness,
products, outcomes, and even existence (CCCC, 2009; Huot, 2002; White,
1994, 2007). George Madaus explains that agents’ purposes and uses for a test
are defining elements of it as a technology, calling a test technology “something
put together for a purpose to satisfy a pressing or immediate need, or to solve
a problem” (Madaus, 1993, pp. 12-13; see also Madaus, 1990, p. 6). Teachers
and WPAs always have purposes for their writing assessments, just as students
have purposes or reasons for taking (or not taking) such assessments, and institutions have reasons for imposing writing assessments. In writing assessment
ecologies, these various purposes may be different for different people (stakeholders) in the ecology, and usually fall into a few categories for teachers and
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ing, to place students in courses, to predict future performance in college writing generally, to motivate students to do work in a class, or to provide feedback
for revisions and future practices. For students, the purposes may be similar and
may also include: to get a good grade in the class, to follow orders (like a good
student would) or because that’s what you do in school, to get feedback for
revisions for future writing practices. For institutions, purposes often deal with
their needs for accountability, consistency, and maintaining the institution itself: to find out how many students are remedial writers, to gain funding from
various outside sources, or to produce evidence of the institution’s effectiveness,
value, and worth. These may not be the only possible purposes for teachers,
WPAs, students, or institutions, but the point is that purposes are determined
by the people and institutions involved in a writing assessment, and in fact,
even within these groups of people, purposes will vary (I’ll say more about
people in the next section).
Everyone has some evolving sense of why they are involved in a classroom
writing assessment ecology, even if they may feel coerced into it. And that’s
important to keep in mind. Not everyone, including teachers, are always crazy
about being involved in an assessment ecology, so their purposes for the ecology
are shaded by these feelings. Furthermore, many of these feelings and purposes
come from society, the school, personal histories, and from cultural, racial, or
other social formations’ practices stemming from the local diversity in a school.
The hegemonic, then, is a strong force in producing the needs and purposes for
classroom writing assessment ecologies. While I’ll say more below about the
shaping effects of people (stakeholders) on classroom writing assessment ecologies, here I would like to focus on the larger purposes that shape antiracist writing assessment ecologies, which influence students’ evolving purposes.
As you might expect, antiracist writing assessment ecologies have explicit
purposes that students and teachers negotiate. This negotiation helps share power, albeit still unevenly, with students by providing them with the opportunity
to discuss and articulate the larger purposes of the assessment ecology, affecting
all assessment activities in the course. Thus, I am not talking about the purposes
for writing particular drafts or assignments, nor the purposes for an individual
assessment activity of a draft. The purposes for an antiracist writing assessment
ecology address the larger problem that the ecology means to confront, in the
present case, racism in the assessment of writing in the class. More generally, we
might call this larger purpose fairness. A student’s purpose for participating in an
assessment ecology may be to get a grade, but the expressed purpose of the ecology itself is to problematize the student’s existential writing assessment situation.
To address the gaps between purposes of students and the ecology, it should
be noted that all ecological purposes change or evolve. For instance, consider
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the purposes for Lake Mead, the human-made reservoir outside of Las Vegas.
There is Hoover Dam that provides hydroelectric power and water to mostly
California, but it also is the “Lake Mead National Recreation Area,” where millions of tourists and visitors come every year to see the dam and use the lake.
The purposes are multiple and the area, the terrain, was designed over time to
accommodate multiple purposes that serve local communities, tourists, and the
cost of its own maintenance. However, much of the terrain was already there
before humans came along and built the dam, made roads, etc. In fact, the dam
was built by Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration (renamed Work Projects Administration in 1939). The dam’s initial purpose was to employ people
during the Great Depression. We responded to the environment and our own
economic needs, as much as made the Hoover Dam environment, which later
served energy and recreational needs. One lesson we learn from this is that all
ecologies have purposes that shape them, then those purposes evolve, which
continue to shape the ecology. The act of making or shaping usually dictates an
environment’s purposes, such as a classroom or a course website, but once it is
made, other purposes can be placed onto or evolve out of the ecology that forms
there. Writing assessment ecologies are no different.
Antiracist writing assessment ecologies take advantage of the evolution of
purposes by taking time out to consider, reflect, and articulate the evolving individual purposes within the ecology. This helps classrooms determine effects on
the larger purpose of the ecology, which may also evolve. Thus not only do students negotiate and articulate the larger purpose of the ecology, but they pay attention to the way their own personal purposes for their assessment work evolve.
They learn to look at their own judging practices and see important problems
that help them understand the way language is or can be valued, which evolves
their purposes if they are given the chance to reflect upon those problems as ones
that pose alternative purposes for their labor.
Let’s say a teacher has assigned writing to her students. If you assign writing,
you have to collect it and evaluate it, grade it. That’s what teachers do with writing. It’s almost a knee-jerk reaction on the part of teachers, and even students
come to expect that anything assigned will be graded or have “credit” attached
to it, meaning it is “submitted” to the teacher. Peter Elbow (1993) discusses
this phenomenon at length and offers several ways out of the conundrum, all
of which take grading, ranking, and evaluating out of the assessment activities,
leaving only description, response, and dialogue, modes of judgment that resist
hierarchizing students’ written performances. Most students feel that if an assignment is not graded, it’s just busywork, not worth doing, which is counter to
the impulse that produced the writing assignment (writing for writing’s sake, or
writing for some other purpose). The catch is, students are correct. When grades
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are present and calculated by points and percentages, an assignment that isn’t
graded is busywork. It is work that keeps them busy until they do something
that is graded. Grades become the purpose, not the labor involved in producing
the things that get grades.
But what if there were an explicit, larger purpose, one discussed and negotiated with students, one that may evolve as students’ figure things out over time.
If the larger purpose of the assessment ecology is to help students problematize
their existential writing assessment situations, then assessment processes and
practices in the ecology should have related purposes, ones that provide ways
to develop that problematizing. The content of these purposes, as I’ve said, is to
help students see the hegemonic in our language practices and standards—to
become critically conscious of the ways their writing practices are valued—then
make writerly decisions from this knowledge, while the method of this antiracist
purpose might be to engage in assessing as an act that is itself edifying by the
mere doing of it over and over.
How does this assessment-for-assessment’s-sake method lead to problematizing? Because if we are to problematize our existential writing assessment situations, we must read and judge writing (our own and others’) in self-conscious
ways. This takes practice and repetition to do it self-consciously, and to see the
patterns that begin to emerge. Assessment is then articulated as method, as labor, as processes with content and goals. This method is essentially assessment
for assessment’s sake, since it is through the labor of assessment that students
learn the lessons of the hegemonic, lessons about white racial habitus, lessons
about their own critical awareness of how their language practices and habitus
are valued and judged. You cannot become critically aware of how you value
and how others value your languaging without problematizing those language
practices, making judgments about them over and over, then discussing such
judgments over and over—without repeatedly engaging in assessing as method
for its own sake. The purpose of all assessment has to begin as labor worth doing
because it is good to do it, because it is the labor of problematizing, because it
is the process that gives students more power in the ecology and over their own
languaging.
However if ecological purposes evolve, then we must be prepared for the
changes in our classrooms. For example, the EPT was originally designed then
instituted in 1977 by CSU English faculty (most notably Ed White) and ETS to
determine English writing competency in order for CSU campuses to determine
writing course placements. And because each campus has always had different
courses and requirements, the EPT couldn’t simply provide a placement. It had
to provide a score that would then be translated to a placement. Because the
EPT uses a timed writing component—real student writing—it was argued that
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it was more valid for making placement decisions than the old tests that were
only multiple choice tests. The new EPT assessment ecology’s purposes were
more in line with what students did in the classes in which those scores helped
place them (White, 2001, p. 309). Over the next twenty years, the cut-scores
for remedial status determined by the EPT became reified, although the actual
numbers changed. The EPT assessment ecology no longer was thought of as
just a way to place students in writing courses, but as a way to find out who was
remedial and who not.
This came from institutions making sense of and using the data that the EPT
produced in response to periodic literacy crises that cropped up cyclically, as
many have discussed (Fox, 1999; Hull & Rose, 1989; Soliday, 2002). Defining
remediation was not the EPT’s primary purpose when originally designed. It
was a placement test. The cut-scores used have changed, so they too are artificial.
A few years ago, the CSU Chancellor’s Office required all incoming students
who scored below the cut-score that designated them as remedial to take an
Early Start English course in the summer before their first fall semester. If they
didn’t take the summer course or didn’t pass it, they could not be admitted into
the university. By default, this makes the EPT an entrance exam, a new and very
different purpose than determining competency so that individual campuses
can then decide course placements. Not only did a new purpose evolve for the
EPT ecology, but that purpose changed the ecology, and changed the ecologies
of writing classrooms, since it designated new places to which students must
go (e.g., Early Start courses in the summers), and other uneven consequences
(e.g., added costs to some students, mostly students of color and multilingual
students). Because of these evolving purposes for the EPT ecology, racist effects
occur, most notably the higher cost of education for students of color and multilingual students.
In antiracist writing assessment ecologies, the larger, explicit purpose is to
engage students in problematizing their existential writing assessment situations,
which means the focus of most activities is on the labor of writing assessment,
the labor of judging writing and understanding that judgment as connected to
larger discursive fields, dispositions, biases, and values, or habitus, some of which
are hegemonic and some not. This purpose should be negotiated with students,
and discussed with them periodically, so that the purpose of all assessment in
the ecology is clearly understood and articulated by students, and so that the
ecological purpose has a chance to evolve as students learn more and understand
more about the nature of judgment. Because many students may find it difficult
to understand this larger antiracist ecological purpose, or use it to guide their assessment labors, a focus on method seems most prudent. With gentle guidance,
asking students to assess for assessment’s sake can lead to posing the kinds of
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problems that work best in an antiracist writing assessment ecology.

ECOLOGICAL PEOPLE
While Madaus doesn’t say it, assumed in his “purpose” and “problem” that
constitute a testing technology (1990, p. 6; 1993, pp. 12-13) is whose purpose
and whose problem. People, social pressures, and institutions define the purposes
of writing assessment ecologies. And so, people is the fourth ecological element
in an antiracist writing assessment ecology that might be designed or considered.
When I say designed, I don’t mean that a teacher or program should try to engineer who enters writing classrooms, particularly by markers of local diversity,
such as by racial formation. What I mean is that students in any classroom
will constitute an element of the assessment ecology that is quite diverse racially, culturally, and otherwise, therefore this element of the ecology will require
some discussion and articulation to understand its relation to the ecology by the
teacher and students.
People always inhabit spaces and places on any terrain. They often change
that very terrain. It may be obvious to say that people live and work in ecologies. Sometimes those people move or migrate to particular places, and some
have long histories in a particular place. The local diversities that make up the
students and teachers of a writing assessment ecology have their own purposes
for the environment and may even design the assessment ecology itself. These
same people, such as students, could also be the ones being assessed, while
others in the ecology may have some other stake in the ecology or its consequences. When discussing the similar ways writing and ecological systems
function, Cooper (1986) cites Lewontin, Rose, & Kamin’s (1984) critique of
sociobiology, which explains how ecological systems and the people in them
work together:
all organisms—but especially human beings—are not simply
the results but are also the causes of their own environments
…. While it may be true that at some instant the environment poses a problem or challenge to the organism, in the
process of response to that challenge the organism alters the
terms of its relation to the outer world and recreates the relevant aspects of that world. The relation between organism and
environment is not simply one of interaction of internal and
external factors, but of a dialectical development of organism
and milieu in response to each other. (p. 275; as quoted in
Cooper, 1986, p. 68)
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So according to the way sociobiological ecological systems work, people (organisms) are simultaneously the result and causes of their environments. These two
ecological elements, people and places, form a kind of Marxian dialectic, and are
closely interconnected.
We should be careful with such a proposition. When we consider the local
diversities in any community and writing assessment ecology, saying that people
and their environments dialectically cause and are the result of each other could
be misleading. In fact, it could be a version of blaming the victim, or blaming
African-Americans or Hmong students in Fresno for inhabiting the remedial location in the EPT ecology or remedial classrooms. Is it true that African-Americans and Hmong are remedial because they are not prepared to write in college,
or is it true that the designation of remedial, among other elements in the system, such as the bias toward a white racial habitus in the EPT, constructed such
racial formations as remedial? There’s too much research that reveals remediation
as an historically complex construction (Fox, 1999; Horner & Lu, 1999; Hull
& Rose, 1989; Soliday, 2002; Stanley, 2009), produced by larger institutional
and other forces that explain it as more than simply referring to the illiterate or
semiliterate in our midst. Regardless, my point is that a variety of people move,
interact, and change the landscape of a writing assessment ecology, each person
may have a different relation to the environment (place) than his peers. Not
everyone controls the same degree of power in the ecology. Antiracist writing
assessment ecologies attempt to take these multiple relations into account.
It should be clear, then, that I am not saying that people are their environments, nor am I saying that people who reside or congregate in particular places
and spaces in an environment are “naturally” supposed to be there, want to be
there, or belong there. But I am saying that people who inhabit places in a writing assessment ecology tend to be influenced by those locations, and those locations, because particular people inhabit them, are influenced by those people.
The phenomenon of particular racial formations inhabiting particular places in
most conventional writing assessment ecologies—white, middle class students
in areas of success, African-Americans and Latinos/as in areas of failure—should
be expected (but critiqued and resisted) since, as Charles Mills (1997) convincingly argues at the societal level, the racial contract of Western society norms and
races spaces (discussed below), and thus norms and races bodies as well (pp. 53,
61). Understanding this phenomenon can be the beginning of discussions with
students about them as an element in an antiracist writing assessment ecology.
To do this, one can use simple grade distributions from classes in the writing
program (not the course), disaggregated by racial formation (among other locally important dimensions of diversity), to begin discussing the relations each
racial formation seems to have to the assessment ecologies in the program. What
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might cause such differences (if there are any)? How might the present class’
antiracist assessment ecology take these data into consideration?
But students also need some theory, even if translated by the teacher to help
them make sense of the numbers and material conditions in classrooms that they
might bring up. I find Charles Mills (1997) account of the racial contract to be
easy and helpful. Mills explains that in Western society the aesthetic and somatic norm is the white male body, which gets continually rearticulated over time
(1997, p. 72), something the hegemonic and Omi and Winant’s racial formation theory (1994; 2015) have helped us see. He demonstrates this historically,
particularly through the social contract theory of Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, and
Kant that dictate civil and savage societies, reasonable people and “wild beasts.”
Mills argues that people are raced through white norming processes of history,
which are underwritten by social contract theory that regulated the minds and
social conflicts of Western societies. Mills’ argument agrees with others who have
written accounts of how race was historically constructed, justified, and maintained for particular social hierarchical purposes (Baker, 1998; Goldberg, 1993,
Takaki, 2000). This idea of norming and racing bodies also agrees with accounts
of the construction of white populations and whiteness in the U.S. through
particular groups’ conflicts and self-articulations of whiteness, most notably the
Irish (Ignatiev, 1995; Lipsitz, 1998; Painter, 2010; Roediger, 1991).
Thus the ecological parts of antiracist writing assessment ecologies often
compose one node in the system that function as a self-conscious site of norming and racing (usually to a white racial habitus) the people of that ecology, while
in conventional assessment ecologies this norming occurs with little attention
paid to it, as Matsuda’s (2006) myth of linguistic homogeneity, and Horner
and Trimbur’s (2002) unidirectional monolingualism each suggest. In antiracist
writing assessment ecologies, this norming of people is made a topic of ongoing
discussion, since it influences students’ judging practices and abilities to problematize.
The point that all bodies are normed to the white male body and raced in
particular ways complicates the way one can understand people as an ecological
element in an antiracist writing assessment ecology. The obvious observation
that all people inserted into an ecology will be raced differently and normed
against the white male body hardly needs arguing. Thus all people will not have
the same relations to the other ecological elements in the ecology, nor have the
same relations to power, but they should. Therefore, the consequences of the
ecology will be uneven.
This means the ecological element of people should be discussed by students
as an element that creates that assessment ecology in the classroom. They might
discuss the ways labor (processes) and judgments (parts) are generated in diverse
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ways because of who is in the classroom. These discussions do not attempt to
form consensus over how to judge or translate things, but understand the diversity of ways of judging that may happen and why. Giving students the ability
to articulate and figure out how to handle uneven power relations that stem
from gender, race, language practices, or other dimensions of diversity is key
to avoiding stereotyping and other assumptions that can harm or misrepresent
students. It’s not important that students identify themselves racially when discussing their own relations to, say, a rubric used, or a process put forward as the
method for producing assessment labor, instead such reflection on people could
begin with students’ individual responses to such ecological elements that move
them to do a tiny bit of research that informs and deepens their response.
One reflection activity that asks students to consider their various positions
as ecological people with different relations to power and parts in the assessment
ecology might ask for an individual response in class, say in a five minute writing prompt. The prompt might ask them to look at their rubric, the expectations for the writing assignment ahead, perhaps one they’ve helped create, and
consider: (1) what their individual labor will look like if they are to meet those
expectations; and (2) what problems they foresee in that labor and in producing
the ideal draft they believe the rubric asks for. The class might then share these
responses and discuss the sources of their expectations, translations of the rubric,
and assumptions about labor and its written products or outcomes.
As homework, the teacher might offer a short list of resources, each about
three to five pages in length, excerpts from academic discussions on whiteness
and language diversity, ones that can encourage discussions about judgment of
diverse language and diverse racial habitus. Students would choose one that most
interests them and helps them either rethink their initial response to the rubric
or consider more deeply their expectations, translations, or assumptions about
judging drafts with it. They would go home and do more prompted reflecting
after reading their chosen text. Here are a few sources I’ve mentioned already
that could be excerpted:
White Discourses
• Barnett, T. (2000). Reading “Whiteness” in English studies
• Delgado, R., & Stefancic, J. (Eds.). (1997). Critical white studies:
Looking behind the mirror
• Faigley, L. (1992). Fragments of Rationality: Postmodernity and the
Subject of Composition
• Frankenberg, R. (1993). White Women, Race Matters: The Social Construction of Whiteness
• Morrison, T. (1992). Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary
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Imagination
• Myser, C. (2003). Differences from Somewhere: The Normativity of
Whiteness in Bioethics in the United States
African-American and Latino/a Discourses
• Ball, A. F., & Lardner, T. (2005). African American Literacy Unleashed:
Vernacular English and the Composition Classroom
• Fowler, J., & Ochsner, R. (2012). Evaluating Essays across Institutional
Boundaries: Teacher Attitudes toward Dialect, Race, and Writing
• Young, V. A. (2007). Your Average Nigga: Performing Race, Literacy,
and Masculinity
Asian-American Discourses
• Inoue, A. B. & Richmond, T. (in press). Theorizing the Reflection
Practices of Female Hmong College Students: Is “Reflection” A Racialized
Discourse?
• Lee, R. (1999). Orientals: Asian Americans in Popular Culture
Linguistic Diversity and Racism
• Greenfield, L. (2011). The “Standard English” Fairy Tale: A Rhetorical
Analysis of Racist Pedagogies and Commonplace Assumptions about Language Diversity
• Lippi-Green, R. (1997). English with an Accent: Language, Ideology,
and Discrimination in the United States
• Villanueva, V. (2006). Blind: Talking about the New Racism
The lists above are not meant to be exhaustive, only illustrative. They illustrate the kinds of discussions that might help students consider their responses
to the rubric and the accompanying labor that the rubric assumes for them as
practices and as habitus that are connected to larger social and racialized structures in their lives. Subsequent discussions about these reflections might focus
on the relations that each student has to the rubric, and what it may mean in
terms of that student’s judgments of writing in the future. The focus would be
on understanding how the student comes to make particular kinds of judgments and do particular kinds of labor (i.e., the sources of their labor practices).
These discussions would only be the start of ongoing discussions about students’
habitus, continuing once they begin engaging in assessing each other’s drafts.
Furthermore, it should be clear that as Kerschbaum (2014) argues, difference
is complex and evolves through interactions (pp. 6, 69). So the reflective labor
I’m suggesting above focuses less on static notions of racial habitus and more on
dynamic, evolving racial habitus in the classroom.
It could be productive, for instance, in a classroom with white, Hmong and
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Latino/a students to read Myser’s (2003) discussion of whiteness as a discourse
in bioethics. Myser associates whiteness to a “hyperindividualism,” to a persona
who is detached, objective, and demonstrates abstract reasoning (2003, p. 6).
She includes a table (2003, pp. 6-7) identifying non-cognitive and cognitive dispositions of whiteness that characterize this discourse. The table could be used by
students to help them think about the sources of their own assumptions about
their labor and what that labor is assumed to produce in writing. Furthermore,
this new information may offer students ways to deepen their understandings of
the problems they originally reflected upon in class. The teacher might lead discussions in critiquing her own assignment instructions and expectations, given
these white dispositions (one articulation of a white racial habitus). How might
seeing whiteness in the assignment expectations help students and the teacher
problematize the judgments of writing implied by—determined in—the writing
assignment at hand? In what ways might students write with or against the white
racial habitus inherent in the assignment? How will students’ dispositions, their
habitus, harmonize and conflict with the white racial habitus of the assignment?
At this point, I think it important to heed Mills’ own words concerning the
effects of the racial contract on people, which includes those in writing assessment ecologies, no matter how those ecologies are designed, who deploys them,
or for what purposes:
the norming of the individual also involves a specific norming of the body, an aesthetic norming. Judgments of moral
worth are obviously conceptually distinct from judgments of
aesthetic worth, but there is a psychological tendency to conflate the two, as illustrated by conventions of children’s (and
some adults’) fairy tales, with their cast of handsome heroes,
beautiful heroines, and ugly villains …. George Mosse points
out that the Enlightenment involved “the establishment of a
stereotype of human beauty fashioned after classical models
as the measure of all human worth …. Beauty and ugliness
became as much principles of human classification as material
factors of measurement, climate, and the environment.” The
Racial Contract makes the white body the somatic norm, so
that in early racist theories one finds not only moral but aesthetic judgments, with beautiful and fair races pitted against
ugly and dark races. (1997, p. 62)
Thus the norming of bodies is often ambiguously confused with the aesthetic
and moral. What this means for writing assessment ecologies is hinted at in
Mills’ own words. The norming and racing of bodies influences people’s judg143

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ments of aesthetic and moral worth. Aesthetic and moral worth, often linked to
nationalist values, certainly have a tradition in our writing pedagogies and histories of judgments on student writing, which some have discussed as taste and expectations (Faigley, 1992; Miller, 1991; Watkins, 2009). Thus when we discuss
people as an ecological element, it is important to remember that all people are
not socially or linguistically constructed equal, nor do they have equal relations
to other elements in the ecology. It’s not a fair situation, but it is one the ecology
is explicitly trying to make fair. Just as important, what Mills reveals through
the focus on the norming and racing of bodies as a function of and influence
on the various human judgments made in the world is that writing assessment
ecologies are themselves ecologies of norming and racing. This is why all writing
assessment ecologies are racial projects of some kind.
Antiracist writing assessment ecologies will be resisted by some students.
This should be expected. For instance, at Fresno State, often white, middle class
students in my writing classes had more problems than students of color with
our use of a grading contract, while Latinos/as and Hmong students had fewer
resistances to the contract. They generally found it fair and reasonable.
Spidell and Thelin’s (2006) study on student resistance to grading contracts
confirms the white, middle class resistance I’ve experienced, which they do not
link to race, but I explain elsewhere can be seen as a white resistance (2012b).
Spidell and Thelin assume an unspoken, silent, white student norm in their
conclusions (Inoue, 2012b, p. 131). They say students find the contract too
much work and possibly unfair. They find that (white) students are still too
attached to conventional grading systems. In another place (Inoue, 2012a), I’ve
discussed the difference in responses to contracts by various local diversities at
Fresno State. The point I’m making here is that many white students would reasonably have difficulty with a writing assessment ecology that seems at its face to
not reward them for the normed discourse (a white racial habitus) that many of
them have been rewarded for in past writing assessment ecologies. Since they are
not the aesthetic or somatic norm in this new ecology, and they’ve always been
the norm, everything seems unfair, which is what their Hmong and Latino/a
colleagues have felt all along. White, middle class students would, of course,
yearn for conventional grading systems that produce grades on papers, since
higher grades have always had a direct, positive relationship to their uses of a
local SEAE and their own instantiation of a white racial habitus in their writing.
They no longer exist in the ecology in a privileged position. These resistances, as
we’ll see in a few cases in Chapter 4 in my own classroom, are soothed through
continual reflection on people as an element in the assessment ecology.
Reflection on people, or more precisely on habitus, offer ways to understand
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enced by students through past teacher evaluations. In her socio-historical discussion of technology, Ruth Cowan (1997) can help us consider the role people
play in forming or enacting habitus that affect the valuing of writing in an ecology. Cowan explains that in order for a technology, like a cup, to be meaningful,
it requires people to make, use, manipulate, and change it (e.g., I drink out of
a cup, or I may put pencils in it and use it as a pencil holder, etc.). This has an
interesting by-product for Cowan: people’s ideas about a technology, how we
conceive of, value, and use it, are always in “relation to something else,” often an
abstract value or concept. For instance, the social and historical outcomes of a
cup, car, or cell phone are shaped by the ways in which people conceive of each
technology’s relation to, say, social status, skill, progress, function, gender roles,
God, or politics (Cowan, 1997, p. 204). Thus the abstractions people use to
make meaningful a device binds them to that device.
If there’s one lesson we learn from many of the U.S. histories of composition
studies and the teaching and testing of English (Crowley, 1998; Miller, 1991;
Ohmann, 1996), it is that various writing assessment ecologies have been developed as responses to people’s relations to abstractions like “taste” and “bourgeois
reason” (Crowley, 1998, pp. 41-44, 57; 76; Faigley, 1989, 1992; Miller, 1991,
p. 54), and merit and progress (Ohmann, 1996, p. 130). People’s responses that
are linked to abstractions like these produce ecological purposes, which are often
simultaneously hegemonic in nature because the values tend to be hegemonic.
These abstract values are articulated and used by people, as well as bound to
them. This is not to say that all African-American students will engage in some
kind of Black English Vernacular (BEV) and associated habitus, nor would we
say the same about white students and the dominant white discourse, or Latinos/as and stereotypical Latino/a habitus, but an antiracist assessment ecology
would encourage such discussions and the noticing of such patterns historically.
It would consider how such discourses and habitus have been valued in writing
classrooms, in drafts, without linking such patterns to individuals in the class a
priori (or as essential to students who may seem to fit into racial formations that
match those habitus). The important thing is to reveal just how important the
racialized body has been to the valuing of discourse and its success in assessment
ecologies.
Additionally, one might discover local values that can affect how various
people behave and interact in the assessment ecology of the classroom, what
purposes they may wish to evolve, etc. For example, Hmong have particular historical associations, narratives, and stories about language and “The Book” that
symbolize freedom, escape from prosecution, and a king who will bring back
their book and free the Hmong people from oppression and return them to their
homelands (Duffy, 2007, p. 40). Language holds a sacred place in the minds and
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hearts of many Hmong. A Hmong faculty colleague, Kao-Ly Yang, who teaches
Hmong and French at Fresno State, explained to me at a WAC workshop that
many Hmong think of language, particularly written language, as sacred, so
being concise is best—no wasting of words—and revising text can be seen as
disrespectful or irreverent. People in writing assessment ecologies bring their
own abstractions and values that can shape their purposes in the environment,
their responses to it, and create various, uneven consequences.
Still some teachers may feel uncomfortable paying such obvious and explicit
attention to students in their classrooms as racialized subjects that may judge
writing differently because of such racialization. Others have articulated ways
to talk with students about dominant discourses, what I’m calling a white racial
habitus, without linking it to whiteness or the white body. To address such concerns, I now turn to Ed White’s popular rendering of stakeholders in classroom
writing assessment, the closest term to people who are racialized in antiracist
writing assessment ecologies.
Ed White (1996) offers a conventional and useful way to see the various
kinds of people involved in a writing assessment ecology, using the familiar assessment term, stakeholders, which I’ll critique in a friendly way in order to
show why we must focus more attention on the relations made with local diversities that inhabit writing assessment ecologies (why the term should be people,
not stakeholders). White organizes his discussion around the wants or purposes
that help construct each group of people, connecting the various (and sometimes competing) purposes for a writing assessment ecology with the people, or
stakeholders, involved. He identifies four groups of stakeholders: (1) teachers,
(2) researchers and theorists, (3) testing firms and governing bodies, and (4) students, identifying particularly students of color and other marginalized groups.
White explains that teachers tend to experience two kinds of purposes for writing assessment: “evaluation as an administrative sorting device, to make institutions more efficient, more accountable, and more objective; and evaluation as a
personalized teaching device, to help students learn more effectively” (1996, p.
12). This causes, he explains, a tension or conflict in teachers. Teachers realize
both the problems with testing and grading students, yet also find it necessary
in their classrooms to evaluate, even grade, their students’ writing (1996, p. 13).
The bottom line is teachers want writing assessment to do at least four things:
“suppor[t] their work” in the classroom, “recognize[e] the complexity of writing”
and how it is taught, respect teachers as professionals and students as individuals, and not be misused in ways that cause damaging or misleading information
about the classroom, students, or program (White, 1996, p. 14).
This is an accurate account of teachers, I think, if we assume that all teachers
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selves homogenous in their racial, ethnic, and even disciplinary backgrounds.
While I doubt that the local diversities of teachers at Fresno State and those
at Pennsylvania State University, for example, would disagree with a statement
like, “recognize the complexity of writing” in their classrooms and students, I
do think that a purpose like that (or any of the one’s White lists) change dramatically when particular racialized teachers step into particular classrooms of
racialized students.
“Recognition” and “complexity” will mean very different things, and where
such values come from matter since some people, by luck or birth, have had more
access to the habitus that produce them in the ways expected in school. A teacher’s purposes could be in part to establish her as an authority in the classroom, or
as a coach and guide, or as mentor who questions, pushes, and instigates deeper
thinking and more research, or as a past professional working in a particular
field. Thus at a general level, White’s teacher purposes surely work, but at the level of actual, living teachers, each of these things mean something quite different.
As a new teacher, I recall feeling enormous pressure to be “hard on my students,”
to demand a lot of effort and high quality from them. So much so, that my first
term’s course evaluations were the lowest in the writing program. This ecological
purpose of mine, a version of White’s second one, came from my tacit and lived
experience as the only person of color in any English classroom at that university. I knew how students would see me and what kinds of assumptions they’d
make just from my name printed on their schedules. My response was to reshape
the purposes of the writing assessment ecology to ones that demonstrated me as
authoritative and knowledgeable, which I thought meant I had to be rigorous
and have overly demanding standards. My purpose, in part, was to demonstrate
that I belonged in front of them as their teacher. These were values cultivated
from my racialized experiences with writing assessment in school.
The next group of people, researchers and theorists, says White, tend to ask
questions that cause teachers to feel uneasy by interrogating current practices,
not necessarily upholding them or supporting them (1996, p. 15). While I’d
argue against White’s contention that researchers and theorists are concerned
more about critiquing current practices, more about measures and theories, and
less about students (1996, p. 15), it is important to see that researchers and
theorists do have other primary interests and purposes for writing assessments,
which White reveals. For theorists and researchers, the immediate purposes for
the work at hand is not to teach students, but usually to support such efforts.
However, theorists do not critique current practices because they are there or
because they can. They do it because they assume that the act of critiquing
will help develop better or more careful writing assessment practices, thus better pedagogies and fairer practices for students’ benefit. This focus on students’
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benefit can be heard in what White identifies as the four things that researchers
and theorists generally want writing assessment to do, even if he denies this
underlying purpose: “suppor[t] the gathering of reliable data,” “recognize[e] the
complexity of writing and of teaching writing,” “not privilege existing practice
but … explor[e] a variety of potential practices,” and “produc[e] new knowledge
and theories” (1996, p. 17).
I won’t belabor this point, since I’ve made it in another place in a slightly
different way (Inoue, 2012b), but White misses an important problem within
the discipline of writing assessment (although to be fair, this isn’t his goal in
the chapter). The problem is that there are no people of color doing research or
scholarship on writing assessment, except for myself. It is mostly white men, with
a few white women. There are one or two scholars of color like Arnetha Ball who
have done some important work in the field, but they tend to be scholars who
do other work first. For instance, I would characterize Ball as one who primarily
does work in literacy studies, learning environments, and research on impact on
students and secondary educational settings. The lack of any scholars of color
doing sustained work in college writing assessment is a big problem, particularly
since composition studies and the academy tend to acknowledge the need and
importance of having diverse voices and people on problems and in disciplines.
Would White’s purposes change if we had some African-American, or Latino/a
scholars working on writing assessment theory? Would the “potential practices”
“explored” by White’s researchers look different than they do now, if scholars of
color were involved in that work? This isn’t White’s fault, of course, and I do not
blame any current scholars in the field for the lack of writing assessment scholars
of color, but I think we do have an ethical responsibility to encourage and bring
new scholars and researchers into the field, and part of this responsibility is paying attention to who those people are, what cultural and educational experiences
they have, and how they may help make the field more racially diverse.
Testing firms and governmental bodies make up White’s third group, and
are mostly involved in writing assessment ecologies to make money or to find
out “how many students failed a particular test and who should be blamed”
(1996, p. 19). According to White, these stakeholders want writing assessment
that: “produces scores quickly and cheaply,” “reduces the complexity of writing”
and teaching that “impl[ies] complex measurement,” “weighs heavily surface
features” and a local SEAE, “sort[s] … students according to existing social patterns,” and leans on “statistical explanations, of sufficient complexity to invite
misuse of scores” (1996, p. 20). While framed mostly in the negative and implying possible nefarious motivations, White’s expressed purposes likely would be
framed differently by actual testing firms and governmental bodies. And while
I agree with White that surface features of a local SEAE likely do not tell us
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enough about the writing competencies of locally diverse students, yet when
used tend to sort students according to racial and class-based patterns, or rather
against linguistic dispositions characteristic of a white racial habitus; and those
complex statistical analyses invite misuse of scores in writing assessments; testing
firms want to use such purposes because they are more reliable ones to measure
given the available large-scale writing assessment options, or so they think. Testing firms likely would argue from different disciplinary assumptions about how
to measure writing competencies (say, from psychometric ones), or predict future success in college, assumptions that most composition theorists and writing
assessment theorists do not agree with (Huot, 2002; Lynne, 2004).
Arguably his weakest discussion, students, White’s fourth and final stakeholder group, is characterized by White as diverse (although this diversity is not
explained). Students are seen as anxious. He explains a student response to a
writing prompt in a “remedial English class” that was titled, “Why Write?” One
student responded, “They make you write … so they can getcha!” (1996, p. 21).
Thus, students in White’s description are said to be diverse but are described
as homogenous in their anxieties, purposes, and needs for assessment. And the
purposes that shape White’s version of the student stakeholder group is equally
homogenous. White says that students want at least five things in writing assessment: a stressing of “the social and situational context of the writer,” “maximum
and speedy feedback,” a breakdown of “the complexity of writing into focused
units,” the production of “data principally for the use of learners and teachers,”
a focus on “critical thinking and creativity” that also “places surface features of
dialect and usage in a large social context” (1996, p. 22).
While I think that White’s rendition of student purposes seems reasonable
enough, and certainly if we polled random students across the nation on whether they agreed with this list of wants or purposes for writing assessment done on
them, many would agree. But I wonder about the disagreement and who might
disagree and why. For instance, I’m not convinced that all or even most students
uniformly want a focus on critical thinking and creativity that places surface
features of dialect and usage in a large social context, which I think means that
they want the substantive thinking parts of their writing to be most important in any judgment of their writing and not superficial errors or deviations to
the local SEAE. This sounds more like what teachers want students to want.
However, I know many students every semester in my upper-division writing
intensive course for all majors who ask for and demand surface-level correction
or feedback on how their writing can better match the local SEAE that most of
their other professors demand and expect of them, and that they know will be
expected of them in their jobs in industry and society. Furthermore, this need
by students is patterned. That is, it’s mostly asked by white students and multi149

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lingual Hmong students, but for very different reasons. For white students, it is
a part of their reaction to the grading contract’s use of labor and not quality. For
Hmong and other multilingual students, it’s often a response to what they hope
to get or expect from a writing course, and their desires to write better in the eyes
of other teachers. Meanwhile the rest of the class, the majority, who are mostly
Latino/a, have no strong opinion about the matter.
Furthermore, when I consider the local diversity in the classrooms at Fresno
State generally, there are patterns. When surveyed at the end of their first-year
writing courses, Hmong students still express anxiety and concern about their
“grammar” and other superficial linguistic markers in their writing, and for good
reason. They know how they are read by others in the university. They know
that their next professor will see those markers as signs of illiteracy or failure. So
I’m sure most Hmong students likely want feedback on such superficial features
of their writing, as problematic as this is for writing teachers. They want direct
instruction and feedback on the local SEAE because whether they can identify
it or not, they know that to succeed in a society that values and rewards a white
racial habitus, one must take on the markers and dispositions of whiteness. That’s
why they are in college in some sense.
To many faculty at Fresno State and to those in the community at large, the
Hmong racial formation tends to be seen as one linked to illiteracy and remediation. In this case, Hmong students tend to want feedback in writing assessment
ecologies that help them directly learn the local SEAE, a white, middle-class
discourse, a discourse that most Fresno Hmong and many (maybe most) Latino/a in Fresno do not practice outside of school. But even those who do feel the
problems of walking around with other dispositions, non-linguistic ones that
mark them with a different racial habitus than the white one, find a tension in
what they expect from any writing assessment ecology that is intended to be
educative. From personal experience, I know that one must appear more than
white, or as my Japanese-American ancestors used to say after World War II and
internment (American concentration camps), we had to be “more American”
than others, particularly whites. This mentality surely played a part in the “model minority” stereotype.
We could make similar arguments about each group that White (1996)
defines, and it would require that we know the local diversity of a particular
writing assessment ecology. What can be pointed out in White’s description of
these kinds of people in an ecology is that they are defined by their purposes for
the ecology. Their purposes are formed usually from very different disciplinary,
economic, and social origins, but people should be defined as more than their
purposes, since their judging practices are influenced by more than purposes. If
students investigate their own habitus, then compare it to the dominant one of
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the classroom, they can see their assessment practices as more than subjective,
more than personal opinion, more than “just what I think,” but interconnected
to larger, social, cultural, and racial habitus.
The people in ecologies are always a complex, classed, gendered, and racialized set of formations with particular historically and locally constructed
concerns and conflicts, who also have different relations to power and to the
hegemonic. One hint of how seeing the people of a writing assessment ecology
as more than homogenous stakeholders can be seen in Arnetha ball’s (1997)
important study of African-American and European readers (teachers) who rated student writing along several dimensions. European-American teachers rated
European-American student writing higher (both holistically and on each dimension) than African-American student writing; however, African-American
teachers rated African-American student writing higher (both holistically and on
each dimension) than European student writing (Ball, 1997, pp. 177-179). This
suggests that the racial formations that make up the teachers in a local program
affect how they read and respond to student writing. By the same logic, teachers’
racial habitus (and their students’) affect what happens in the assessment ecology. Similar patterns of judgment were found in feedback on midterm portfolios
in the first-year writing program at Fresno State. The results of that study were
presented at CCCCs in San Francisco in 2009.34
Antiracist writing assessment ecologies pay close attention to the people who
change it, asking students to reflect upon their own habitus and judging practices, and examining the interconnection of those habitus to larger social, cultural,
and racial habitus. The ecology doesn’t assume a priori or essential notions of the
racial habitus of students, but it does ask them to look for patterns of judgment
in their own histories in order to find the sources of their dispositions toward
valuing language, and look for difference through interactions with colleagues.

ECOLOGICAL PROCESSES
In Maxine Hairston’s (1982), “The Winds of Change: Thomas Kuhn and the
Revolution in the Teaching of Writing,” she argues that at that time the field was
entering a paradigm shift, one that focused on writing as a process. The herald
to this change that she mentions is Donald Murray’s (1972/2011) short piece,
“Teach Writing as Process, Not Product.” Since then, this is a given in the field,
so much so that no one questions how important teaching process(es) is, or that
writing itself is a process. Just like writing, assessing writing can be understood as
a process, which is the fifth designable element in antiracist writing assessment
ecologies.
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ing, Ruth and Murphy offer an important conception of the “writing assessment
episode” (1988, p. 128) as their way of making sense of the moments of reading
and interpretation that occur in any writing assessment. Their writing assessment
episode makes explicit the way writing assessment is also a process. The three key
moments in any writing assessment episode starts with (1) the test-maker, who
designs a writing topic or prompt; (2) moves to the test-taker, who reads and
interprets the topic, then writes a response; and (3) the test-rater who reads and
interprets, both the initial topic and the response in order to produce a rating
or score (Ruth & Murphy, 1988, p. 129). While the process may change with
different kinds of decisions, purposes, parts, and people, the important aspect of
the writing assessment episode that shouldn’t be lost is the simple fact that classroom writing assessment ecologies, from their conception and the identifying of
a dominant need or purpose, to development and use, involves processes that
move chronologically, as all life does. Thus processes make up the fifth ecological
element, and makes writing assessment ecologies historical in nature in the ways
historical bloc helps us understand them as political.
In one sense, processes of a writing assessment ecology are the labor and actions that happen in the ecology that have some import. Chronology, or the order in which these actions happen, is important, at least in terms of understanding their influence on the other ecological elements, particularly the products
(explained in the next section). For instance, the simple truism that feedback
and revision helps students’ drafts get better proves my point. Implied in this
truism is a process that starts with one draft, moves to some kind of feedback
activity (a process itself ), then moves to a revision activity or practice (another
process), which produces a second draft that may be judged or graded. If the
entire process is designed well and focused in the right places, places that match
what students need most help improving in their drafts at that time, then the
process may produce better drafts, so goes the logic. Thus, even if we do not explicitly ask students to engage in them, teachers always assume by necessity that
students will engage in processes of assessment.
As post-process theorists have argued, however, teaching a particular process
is not the key to learning to write better, since there is no one process to master, rather ideas about the nature of writing as public, interpretive, and situated are more important when constructing writing processes (Kastman Breuch,
2002/2011, p. 104). For antiracist writing assessment ecologies, assessment processes, which are typically exchanges among teachers and students about drafts
and the judgments made on those drafts, are at least public and situated through
their negotiated manner. The grading contract is a good example of how negotiating processes can work toward antiracist ends. Students gain power and
control over how they do their work, as much as over the nature of that work.
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Negotiating labor, or the processes of assessment, provides access to power and
opportunity to reflect. This makes the articulated processes students negotiate a
description of their ideal labor, at least as it is initially conceived.
As one might guess from my discussion so far, the key to improvement in
antiracist writing assessment ecologies is students’ engagement in the assessment
processes of their work. The best way to maintain that engagement is reflection
activities on judgment and assessment processes. The literature on reflection in
writing (Belanoff & Dickson, 1991; Black, Daiker, Sommers, & Stygall, 1994;
Hamp-Lyons & Condon, 2000; Yancey, 1998; Yancey & Weiser, 1997) and on
reflective practices (Brookfield, 1995; Dewey, 1993; Schon, 1987) suggests some
processes that could be inserted into such writing assessment ecologies in order
to help writers at least become more self-aware of their practices. I’ve written
on ways to insert reflection and self-assessment into larger writing assessment
processes in other places (Inoue, 2004, 2010). However, one should be mindful
of the ways that reflection as a discourse may be a racialized discourse informed
by a white racial habitus (Inoue & Richmond, in press). This isn’t a reason not
to use reflection, only to make it a part of the problem-posing processes of the
ecology—that is, as discussed earlier, reflection as a construct should be examined as a set of dispositions that may be different from the way some students
already reflect in writing.
Using labor to determine progress and grades can provide for ways to more
effectively ask students to reflect upon their habitus. The processes that students
negotiate will be what the class uses to determine grades. Do the labor that the
process dictates and you get full credit for the assignment. What students produce from the assessment processes and their reflection activities is less important than them self-consciously engaging in the process and reflecting upon that
doing. This can produce problematizing of their existential writing assessment
situations.
Some teachers may worry that they can’t be sure that students are doing the
labor that they say they are unless they grade drafts. Students have to be accountable if teachers are to know in some reasonable fashion that they have done the
labor, goes the argument. If our main criterion for grading is how many hours
of labor a student engages in, then we’ve set up a system in which we cannot
know how well a student is doing (we cannot really grade them), since we have
little access to students’ out-of-class labors. The problem with this argument is
that it is based on an assumption about students that is negative and caustic to
the ecology. It assumes that the norm will be for students to lie or be dishonest
when they say they’ve done the labor asked of them. This assumption creates
writing assessment ecologies that have no faith in students, no trust, and so little
room for them to build their own ways of intrinsic engagement and interest in
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the course’s labors. These kinds of ecologies interpellate students as suspect and
untrustworthy, and students feel this interpellation, then either live down to this
subject position or against it. Not trusting students in the most fundamental
aspect of any course is counter to healthy, sustainable ecologies. Often, what’s in
a draft doesn’t come close to explaining the labor and thinking involved—this is
why we have reflection components in portfolios, to explain the gaps, to reveal
some of what is not there.
But there are ways to make more visible student labor. It still requires that we
trust our students though. Students can keep labor journals that keep track of
labor sessions for the class in terms of their time of day, duration, location, and
even their level of engagement. Recently, I’ve used spreadsheets on Google Drive
(Google Sheets) that are accessible and can be easily filled in during the week
when students labor for the class. Twitter is another way to see labor as it happens. A teacher can ask students to tweet their labor. I do this by incorporating
in my labor instructions for every assignment moments when students pause in
their reading or writing and tweet something to the class with our hashtag. The
tweets usually help us see something they are engaged in, a question, an interesting quote, an idea. This archives a bit of their labor as they do it, and provides a
moment to pause and reflect on what they are doing, a method that helps them
be more mindful of the labor process they are engaged in. My point is not that
one needs to use Google or Twitter, but that if one uses labor as a way to grade,
there should be mechanisms that students use to keep track of labor, reflect upon
it, and make it visible to the class.
It is important to keep in mind that as Ruth and Murphy (1988) show us,
processes of writing assessment are fundamentally reading and interpretive activities. Even writing drafts is a set of reading and interpretive processes. One
must read the prompt, figure out the assignment, its goals, and how to proceed.
As writers draft, they often reread sections or paragraphs they’ve just written in
order to see continuity, logic, structure. Proofing and polishing are also reading
processes. These are things that Nancy Sommers (1980) and Sandra Perl (1979)
found in experienced and successful writers, that they draft and revise using
recursive processes, going back over their texts, reading them over and over. At
their core, all these reading processes are assessment processes, judgment processes, which means even when we are teaching writing processes, we are really
teaching assessment processes. Antiracist assessment ecologies simply make this
relationship explicit for students through a focus on processes of assessment.
Many assessment processes can have uneven consequences on different local
diversities. In Fresno, for instance, the mostly affluent white (and some Latino/a) students of the nearby Clovis school district come from classrooms that
heavily emphasize testing and scoring high on standardized tests, so they prac154

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tice timed-writing exams a lot. But at most of the Fresno unified schools, where
most of the Latino/a, Hmong, and African-American students attend, and where
most are poor and on free-lunch, there is less of a focus on standardized testing
(but they do still engage in a lot of testing). The consequences of a timed-writing
exam process for students, then, from the Clovis-Fresno area are clear.
Clovis students score higher than those from Fresno unified.35 Of those students from Clovis High who took the EPT for entrance into a CSU for the Fall
2012 semester, 73% of them scored above a 147, which is the cut-score for a
remedial designation, thus they were deemed “proficient in English.” At Clovis
North High School and at Clovis West High School, 83% of students at each
school were designated by the EPT as proficient. Meanwhile at Fresno High
School, only 35% of their students for the same year scored proficient on the
EPT. At Sunnyside (another Fresno unified school), 36% of their students scored
as proficient. At McLane High, 41% of their students are proficient according
to the EPT—and McLane is just blocks from Fresno State. Even a school that is
situated in a more affluent neighborhood in Fresno, in some ways similar to the
affluence in Clovis, but still in the Fresno unified school district, Bullard High
School, has lower EPT scores than those in Clovis schools, achieving a more
respectable 67% proficiency rate.
What are the differences beyond curriculum that create such uniform performances on the EPT? The answer is surely complex, but part of it I’m arguing
has to do with how student populations from these schools, which are defined
in large part by the local racial and economic diversities in Fresno and Clovis,
are trained and practiced at timed-writing exam processes. Thus, the processes
students experience in any classroom writing assessment ecology have consequences, but do students from these schools understand that their performances
on the EPT are affected by the writing and assessment processes they practice in
high school? Antiracist writing assessment ecologies attempt to make this connection explicit: assessment processes are the labor students do to understand the
nature of judgment about their language. Thus understanding and controlling
one’s assessment labor offers students the opportunity to form critical writing
and reading practices, which is another way of saying assessment practices.

ECOLOGICAL PRODUCTS
Products make up the sixth designable element of an antiracist writing assessment ecology. Like the term suggests, products refer to all of the direct and
indirect consequences that occur in and from writing assessment ecologies. Direct consequences typically are things like scores, grades, decisions, the language
that constitutes the actual feedback given on a draft by a teacher (which can
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also act as a part), etc. In other instances, direct consequences could be the
written articulations of students that explain to peers, the teacher, or themselves
how well theirs or others’ drafts meet the expectations of a writing assignment.
The indirect consequences are those that typically occur because of the direct
consequences. Because a draft is graded (direct consequence), students focus on
superficial editing in the draft (indirect consequence), or the grades tell them
something about their abilities (good or bad) and that in turn affects their confidence or future performances in the class. The low score on the EPT that designates a student as remedial places that student in a mandatory, summer Early
Start English course, which costs her more money, time, and perhaps erodes
her confidence, suggesting to her that she is not ready for college. Clearly the
indirect consequences of writing assessment environments appear more severe
and have more long-term effects as the direct ones. But the two are connected.
You cannot have indirect consequences without direct ones. Both kinds of consequences, however, are ecological products because they are produced by the
ecological processes, parts, people, power arrangements, and purposes of the
writing assessment ecology.
In a classroom, the grade on a portfolio isn’t the final product of the portfolio assessment ecology, the course grade or decision is, since typically that
is the real decision the portfolio makes. However, my version of an antiracist
writing assessment ecology doesn’t produce grades from portfolios, but it does
use portfolios. In my writing classes, the portfolio assessment ecology produces
a set of articulations (usually five assessment documents: three from peers, a
self-assessment, and my own) that are pitched not toward justifying a grade, or
even a simple assessment of meeting expectations from a rubric, instead peers
and I articulated three things to the writer and myself for discussion in a final
conference: (1) what picture of the writer as a learner do you see in the portfolio;
(2) what did you, the assessor, learn from this writer in this portfolio; and (3)
what potential do you think the writer has as a writer and should most work on
in the future? The articulations of these questions are used only for discussion of
the writer in a final, one-on-one conference that discusses what she has done in
the portfolio and where she might go as a writer in the future.
Because grades are determined already by a grading contract that bases
course grades on labor only, these articulations are not about justifying grades,
or figuring out the course grade. The main product I hope to encourage from
the portfolio assessment is to allow writers and assessors to learn something
about themselves as writers and assessors from various diverse perspectives, what
I call a landscape of judgment. Like all classroom writing assessment ecologies,
I do not control much of the indirect consequences, but I can control the direct
consequences, in this case, the production of grades and articulations of learning
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by writers and readers. Antiracist assessment ecologies mostly produce complex,
descriptive products that focus on the local diversity in judgments, such as my
portfolio assessment, and resist hierarchizing judgments (like grades).
While I’ll discuss this final assessment process in more detail in the next
chapter, it is important here to point out the fluidity of ecological products and
parts. In the larger writing assessment ecology of the course, the final assessment
documents by group members that are discussed in our final meetings are both
parts and products. They are an ecological part because they are the artifacts the
writer and I use to understand the landscape of judgment about her as a learner
in the class. The individual assessment documents about the writer are parts to
larger assessment processes that only chronologically finishes at the end of our
conference, which produces a more complex set of judgments about the writer—that is, once all the documents are read, then we discuss the differences and
similarities. We discuss the landscape of judgment, which only then becomes
the direct product of several processes. While this scenario may seem atypical, if
one looks more closely at the way articulations of judgments and other artifacts
function in any writing assessment ecology, even very conventional ones with
grades and with only the teacher reading drafts, we’ll likely find parts morphing
into products, and products, like the feedback on a draft, morphing into parts
of subsequence processes, in the same fashion.
Note, however, that the key to figuring out whether a document or portfolio
is a product or a part (an artifact) in the process that leads to another product
is in figuring out the relations between the document, the process of judging
the writing, and the purpose for the assessing process. This is the nature of all
ecological systems, transformation, or the inter-being of all elements, which is
why products also are more than decisions, grades, or culminating judgments.
Furthermore, all ecological elements are productive in some fashion—that is,
they have some influence on the ecological products that come from an ecology.
They are productive. They produce things in the ecology. For instance, bringing
in different, perhaps atypical people into the writing assessment ecology of the
classroom as judges can change the products of that environment in unexpected
ways. A technical writing class could bring in technical writers and managers
working in the field to offer formative feedback on student writing. This in turn
could alter the way teacher feedback is enacted, perhaps making it more collaborative, focusing on how to meet the demands that the outside professionals
have placed on the writing. In antiracist writing assessment ecologies, this might
be an occasion to examine habitus outside the classroom that arguably exist in
professional settings. Students might interpret teacher feedback as coaching, or
collaborating, and less evaluative. The product of teacher feedback could be an
investigation or inquiry into why this technical writer or industry manager val157

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ues these particular things in this kind of document for this audience. What habitus can be described in the judgments and how do those dispositions compare
next to the ones the class has negotiated in its rubrics or assignment? What indirect products or consequences to students do these habitus reasonably encourage
when used to judge writing/writers?
As mentioned already, Arnetha Ball’s (1997) research suggests that who the
teacher is, what racial formation she participates in or what racial habitus she
enacts in the assessment ecology matters and can produce different products,
different grades, scores, and perhaps feedback. I see no reason why this same
claim cannot be made about students as well. The same can be said about using
different ecological parts, say a new rubric or prompt, a different process, such as
a different kind of feedback method, etc., or different power arrangements (e.g.,
who gets to grade, or how students interact with each other).
The ecological products of an antiracist writing assessment ecology are products and not parts because they are the learning that occurs because of the ecology. Sometimes, however, the products of an ecology may get circulated back into
the ecology as parts, in which case, the ecology may change. Using reflection
activities to “close the loop” is one way classrooms can do this. The best recent
examples of closing the loop processes that I’ve seen are from dynamic criteria
mapping (Broad, 2003; Broad et al., 2009), in which the point of the assessment
process is to produce a document that exemplifies what the participants have
learned about the writing program and its values (an articulation of products),
which then helps the program understand and perhaps change their practices by
its use of the document as a part.

ECOLOGICAL PLACES
Using Plato’s Gorgias, as an opening example, Nedra Reynolds (2004) offers
this introduction to thinking about the importance of place in the teaching of
writing: “[p]laces evoke powerful human emotions because they become layered, like sediment or a palimpsest, with histories and stories and memories …
they become embodied with the kinds of stories, myths, and legends that the
spot beside the Ilissus holds” (p. 2). Place, however, is more than geography that
acquires meaning. In considering a “macro-view” of writing as process, James
Reither (1985) re-explains writing in terms of systems and contexts, and sees
writing as an ecology, which helps us understand place as a part of that ecology:
writing is not merely a process that occurs within contexts.
That is, writing and what writers do during writing cannot
be artificially separated from the social-rhetorical situations
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in which writing gets done, from the conditions that enable
writers to do what they do, and from the motives writers have
for doing what they do. Writing is not to context what a fried
egg is to its pan. Writing is, in fact, one of those processes
which, in its use, creates and constitutes its own contexts. (p.
621)
Reither’s identification of writing as a generative force that constructs contexts
is very similar to Ede and Lunsford’s (1984) claim a year earlier about audiences
constructing writers and writers constructing audiences (p. 158). In short, the
people and their labor and processes of writing create contexts that dialectically
create that very writing. Writing creates contexts as much as contexts create
writing.
These earlier versions of writing as contextual tend to see context in the above
rhetorical ways, bound in or around the text itself, or in the superstructural, but
it is also in the base of the classroom, in the material production of culture
and ideas, namely the processes and environments in which assessment occurs.
While context is rhetorical in the ways Reither and Ede and Lunsford describe,
it is also material in nature. So I use the term place to identify both the rhetorical
context and material conditions of the production of assessment (judgment) of
writing in the classroom, which includes places like writing groups, the remedial location, an evaluation rubric, success, failure, a course’s Internet discussion
board, the classroom, the dorm room, etc. The ecological places, the seventh
and final element that makes up an antiracist writing assessment ecology, can
also be explicitly examined and designed. In fact, the places of an ecology may
be the most important element in the system because they inter-are the entire
system. Just like Reither’s writing situations, we (teachers and students) create
conditions and places of assessment through our interactions with the other
ecological elements. Additionally, material bodies make up locations and define
them by occupying places.
Drawing on Lefebvre and geographer Yi-Fu Tuan, Dobrin (2012) explains
the way space and place have been defined relationally. Space, the larger more
abstract term, is “freedom” and “movement,” while place “offers security” and is
“pause,” according to Tuan (Dobrin, 2012, p. 36). Dobrin uses Tuan: “The ideas
of ‘space’ and ‘place’ require each other for definition. From security and stability
of place we are aware of the openness, freedom, and threat of space, and vice versa.” (Tuan, 1977, p. 6; as quoted in Dobrin, 2012, p. 36). For de Certeau, “place
is the ‘order (of whatever kind) in accord with which elements are distributed
in relationships of coexistence’” (Dobrin, 2012, p. 39). Dobrin highlights an
important aspect of place that de Certeau explains. Place is created by whatever
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occupies it, but “occupation is limited.” Ultimately, Dobrin says that the order
that is imposed through occupation is “imposed through power” (2012, p. 40).
His conclusion, then is that “[s]pace is the site of ideological struggle; place is
the result of that struggle. Place is the hegemonic made visible, readable. Space
is where bodies combat to make meaning and, in doing so, make place, produce
the location of hegemony” (2012, p. 42).
I’ll come back to this idea of combat and conflict in places (not spaces) shortly, but I want to call attention to past theorizing of place as a site that is a result
of ideological and physical conflict. I do not wish to engage in the interesting
distinctions between space and place, except to reveal that before places are created in an antiracist writing assessment ecology, they are broader, often more abstract, ideological and material spaces of conflict, which continue to get worked
out through conflict and difference once they become identifiable places. It is, I
think, enough to know that places in an antiracist ecology are not produced out
of thin air. They come from larger, more abstract spaces of conflict.
Dobrin (2012) makes much of the way place is defined by the notion of
occupation. Occupation, in fact, constructs places through an association with
the bodies that rest in those places, that occupy and have occupations in those
places. Ultimately, he says, this means that occupation is “a struggle of power”
to “inscribe meaning”; it is a result of the action of occupying a place; it is a
“taking up or filling up of space,” that is, occupation is spatial and temporal in
nature; and it is “the manner in which individuals occupy their time through engagement or the pursuit of an activity” (2012, pp. 43-44). And so according to
Dobrin (who cites Lefebvre), by this logic, bodies cannot define the space they
occupy because it is through bodies’ deployment and occupation of space that
they then create places, which are more ordered, hierarchical, and hegemonic.
As I’ll discuss below, this seems to contradict Charles Mills’ important theory
of racing places and bodies. While bodies may not define spaces, they do define
places, and places tautologically define bodies.
But even at face value, the material places in which the processes of writing
assessment ecologies occur, the schools, dorm rooms, and offices where students
are judged or judge themselves, are important to negotiate and make clear in
antiracist writing assessment ecologies. If assessment only happens outside the
classroom in the privacy of teachers’ offices, what Belanoff described as “the dirty
thing we have to do in the dark of our own offices” (1991, p. 61), then those
private processes and perhaps private products define the classroom as a public
space in the assessment ecology in which grades and the evaluation of writing
are not done. If teachers use student work to discuss and evaluate patterns in all
students’ writing in a class, then the classroom or the Internet discussion forum
become material places where such interactions, or public assessment, are ac160

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ceptable. In antiracist writing assessment ecologies, assessment processes and the
parts and products they produce are usually public. There is no private learning
or private assessment, because any given product associated with a student or
her writing inter-is with the places that learning comes from. Students and their
learning inter-are in ecologies. Everyone must come to benefit from everyone
else’s assessments in the Sangha ecology.
In some ecologies, assessment happens in lots of places. In others, it happens
in only one place. Is it okay to make judgments of worth on student writing in
public places, such as a classroom or in a writing group with other students? To
ask this question more broadly: where are the appropriate or condoned places in
which a student, or all students, may be graded, evaluated, or given feedback?
Where are the places in which that feedback or those evaluations are generated initially, or shared individually or publically? Who in those places have authority, by the nature of those places, to give evaluations or assess writing? The
classroom is an institutionally authorized place for teachers to say pretty much
whatever they want about student writing, but are students also authorized in
that material place to do so, should they be? How might they become authorized? What about their dorm room or their home, an Internet discussion forum? What about in someone else’s class? Places matter to how antiracist writing
assessment ecologies function and what they produce, which includes producing
different notions of authority in the assessment ecology for students and teacher.
The questions above should be asked and negotiated with students, explicitly
inquired into, so that students can see that there are other options for how the
places of assessment are created, which can make a difference in how fair and
equitable the ecology is for everyone.
We should also keep in mind the nature of places as discussed by others
in composition studies, which work from concepts like community, consensus,
conflict, difference, negotiation, and borderland. For instance, likely working
from Pratt’s (1991) contact zone metaphor, Ed White (2001) argues that assessment is “a site of conflict” (pp. 315-316) and illustrates this in his narrative
of the establishment of the EPT in California in the 1970s. He urges writing
teachers and administrators to acknowledge that they come to places of writing
assessment with particular values, perspectives, and needs, while administrators
and others come with different ones. There will be a difference of opinion on
many things, but to get the work done, negotiation is needed. In some sense,
this is common sense in composition studies, where we hardly contest the idea
that within students’ drafts and in the classroom itself there are “contact zones”
(Pratt, 1991), ones filled with conflict and difference, ones that demand we
understand different perspectives that simply do not agree with one another.
The field has pedagogies and theories about contact zones and borderlands
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(Anzaldúa, 1999/1987; Horner & Lu, 1999), about how teachers create differing personae and assumptions of students (Anson, 2000; Williams, 1981), and
about how to use difference and negotiation productively (Horner, 1992; Trimbur, 1989). However, within Pratt’s own example, one of the Spanish imperial
conquest of Peru, we see the problem presented by such a view of the classroom
community, or rather the problem that “contact zones” can reveal to students
in antiracist writing assessment ecologies that construct various diverse places in
the ecology from the bodies of students.
For Pratt, contact zones are “social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and
grapple with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of
power, such as colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths as they are lived out in
many parts of the world today” (1991, p. 34). She explains that “[t]he idea of
the contact zone is intended in part to contrast with ideas of community that
underlie much of the thinking about language, communication, and culture
that gets done in the academy” (1991, p. 37). Likely, Pratt is referring to—and
criticizing—discussions like Bruffee’s (1984) on collaboration and community
building in the classroom that work from unqualified versions of Oakeshott’s
“unending conversation” (1991, pp. 638-639) and Rorty’s concepts of “normal”
and “abnormal” discourse in communities (1991, pp. 640-641). A similar critique of “community” was put forth around the same time by Joseph Harris
(1989). Harris promoted a way of seeing the classroom space, for instance, as a
conflict-filled, diverse, public space, like a city (1989, p. 20), not a cozy place
where people can simply come to agree or find consensus. But Harris finds problems with Pratt’s contact zone too. He sees Pratt giving conflicting messages
in her text, and concludes that the idea of a contact zone promoted by Pratt’s
argument tends to be a mostly harmless, exoticizing of the multicultural other,
in which students and perspectives harmlessly bump into each other, “banging
or sliding or bouncing off each other” (Harris, 2012, p. 163). In line with his
public city metaphor, Harris urges us to find pedagogical ways “to make such a
meeting of differences less like a battle and more like a negotiation … to learn
not only how to articulate our differences but how to bring them into useful
relation with each other,” which moves him to focus on negotiation that doesn’t
entail full agreement (p. 165).
Others have made similar arguments about the problems of consensus in collaborative activities and unqualified notions of community in classrooms. From
a Marxian perspective, Myers (1986) argues against Bruffee’s (1984) notions
of collaboration and community by discussing the way any society reproduces
ideology through acceptance and consent of mundane ideas and actions, then
argues that conflict is thus necessary for change. When we see a community as
mainly one in which folks agree or only search for agreement, Myers argues, we
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blindly reproduce ideology (or the hegemonic), and miss how the system changes or can change (1986, p. 156). Trimbur (1989) also disagrees with the clean
and unqualified notion of community that Bruffee claims can support a collaborative classroom, and thus writing processes. He argues, similar to Harris, that
conflict is necessary and can be used for students’ benefit, and puts forth the idea
of “dissensus,” “a process of identifying differences and locating these differences
in relation to each other” (1989, p. 610). The product of such writing classroom
processes is not about “an agreement that reconciles differences through an ideal
conversation,” instead it is about “the desire of humans to live and work together
with differences” (Trimbur, 1989, p. 615). Thus one key to designing ecological
places that resist norming everyone to a white racial habitus is to see them as sites
of negotiation in which students focus on their relations to others through an
attention to their evolving differences.
The places that are constructed by and make up an antiracist writing assessment ecology are not benign mini-communities, or less benign but ultimately
harmless contact zones. These places in the ecology are places of true conflict
and irreconcilable differences, places of colonization. While Pratt’s concept has
problems, it can be a powerful way to help students see their differing stances
and the places they create in the ecology as colonizing places, such as their writing groups, the classroom generally, discussion board exchanges, and anywhere
multiple assessments and reflections on judgments occur. If places in antiracist
writing assessment ecologies colonize, then they norm students to particular
habitus, which should be made explicit so that students have as much power and
choice as possible. It is unavoidable that the writing classroom’s assessment ecology colonizes students, especially those who come with non-dominant racialized
habitus, but we can make this fact known and discussed, even negotiated, so that
students understand what they are consenting to, and make conscious choices
to do so, or not.
I am, however, persuaded by Harris’ and Trimbur’s separate arguments about
the intrinsic difference in all places where people and ideas inhabit, but they
should be tempered with the spirit of Myer’s Marxian critique that focuses on
the reproductive nature of the hegemonic in all systems. And I’m convinced that
as teachers, we must keep foremost in our minds the conflicting nature of all
places—especially ones we create—and how conflict and difference can be a way
to learn, develop, and make changes in our world. Yet I’m also wary of how stubborn the hegemonic is, even in a classroom that focuses on situating difference
(of opinion, of ideas, of making meaning, of languages, of histories and cultures,
of habitus etc.) without trying to harmonize, as I think Harris’ good example
in the Interchapter that follows his “Process” chapter shows (2012). No matter
what our political or pedagogical stances are on how to read multilingual writers,
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how (or whether) to teach a local dominant discourse, or what the subject of
any writing classroom is, it is difficult to escape the privileging of a white racial
habitus that is so closely associated with the academy. Thus, the hegemonic will
be a powerful part of the dissensus in any ecological place. It may even create the
boundaries of that place.
Gloria Anzaldúa’s (1987/1999) concept of borderlands offers a corrective or
refocusing of Pratt’s contact zone, Trimbur’s idea of disensus, and Harris’ public-natured city metaphor. Anzaldúa focuses on the border between the U.S. and
Mexico, a border between white and brown, English and Spanish, the dominant
and subaltern. It is also a place of struggle and conflict, of “un choque, [shock] a
cultural collision” (Anzaldúa, 1897/1999; p. 100). The idea of the borderlands
attends to the geographic, linguistic, physiological, and figurative border places, places on landscapes that define insiders and outsiders. Anzaldúa provides
a powerful geographic metaphor that reveals the places where changes occur,
where transgressions appear, and where action and drama happen. These are
places perfect for people to confront their existential situations. She states the
borderland this way:
The U.S.-Mexican border es una herida abierta where the
Third World grates against the first and bleeds. And before a
scab forms it hemorrhages again, the lifeblood of two worlds
merging to form a third country—a border culture. Borders
are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to
distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow
strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural
boundary. It is in a constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants. Los atravesados live here:
the squinted-eyed, the perverse, the queer, the troublesome,
the mongrel, the mulato, the half-breed, the half-dead; in
short, those who cross over, pass over, or go through the confines of the “normal.” Gringos in the U.S. Southwest consider
the inhabitants of the borderlands transgressors, aliens—
whether they possess documents or not, whether they’re
Chicanos, Indians or Blacks. Do not enter, trespassers will be
raped, maimed, strangled, gassed, shot. The only “legitimate”
inhabitants are those in power, the whites and those who align
themselves with whites. Tension grips the inhabitants of the
borderlands like a virus. Ambivalence and unrest reside there
and death is no stranger. (1987/1999, pp. 25-26)
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While not as encouraging of a picture of place as perhaps Harris’ ideas of a city or
Trimbur’s dissensus, Anzaldúa’s borderland reveals how places where local diversities meet the hegemonic can generate serious conflict and wounding. Race and
racial formations, “Chicanos, Indians or Blacks,” and whites who are in power, is
central to Anzaldúa’s metaphor of place, which is not the case for either Trimbur
or Harris (although it is more so for Pratt). Somebody, and it’s almost always the
subaltern,36 gets hurt or worse. But borderlands also reveal something important
about the nature of places and landscape that often goes unnoticed. All places
are loci for drama and action, thus they are also in constant states of change, just
as the concept of ecology makes present for us. However, most of the time that
change is incremental, almost imperceptible, like the slow eroding of the Grand
Canyon by the Colorado river. And because the changes are so slow, by the time
they are perceivable, they are already coopted by the hegemonic, even if at one
time those changes, those shocks to the system were counter-hegemonic. Thus,
in some sense, change is hegemonic, is essentially systemic.
Therefore, I prefer to mix the metaphors of place so that the places constructed in an antiracist writing assessment ecology refer at once to public cities of
negotiation and getting along, spaces where dissensus is inherent and important
to see and confront, not ignore, yet are borderlands that inherently have the potential for violent racial and cultural collisions, wounding, and change. This last
element of place is at the heart of my reading of Freire’s revolutionary pedagogy
(1970), in which much of his discussion is about folks going into the community, the place where the subaltern inhabit, the borderland, and understanding
how words work there. But there is wounding and hurt. It’s not always safe.
Recall that ecology has an association with settlement and making some
place inhabitable, livable, sustainable; however, places themselves, like people
and parts, are usually already connected to larger colonizing structures in history. The material places of schools and classrooms, and the figurative places of
the English paper and evaluation rubric, as well as the places of the remedial
and mainstream writer, are all locations in which the colonizing project occurs
and is reproduced through writing assessment ecologies. This is nowhere better
illustrated than in Soliday’s (2002) discussion of the politics of remediation, and
others’ discussions of remediation and access to higher education (Fox, 1999;
Kynard, 2013; Miller, 1991; Stanley, 2009; Trachsel, 1992). This means we
should be most conscious of the ways antiracist writing assessment ecologies’
construct places that affect differently the local diversities in our classrooms and
schools. We may create places that produce discomfort and unease in some, anger in others. But we should not confuse discomfort with the safety required in a
successful learning environment. Learning requires us to be uncomfortable and
safe. Safety in writing assessment ecologies demands that students’ judgments
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and opinions not be graded, but counted and heard.
Victor Villanueva (1997) offers an illustration of the uneven hurt that can
occur in any assessment ecology through a complicating of the notion of multiculturalism. He says that there is “a colonial sensibility [that] remains for us in
the United States—in America—and that America’s people of color are most affected by that sensibility” (1997, p. 184). Students of color are “forced” in many
ways to assimilate to local SEAEs and dominant, white ways of knowledge making and discourse, most notably to a white racial habitus, yet this forcing often
is voiced by students of color as consent. Consent is achieved through writing
assessment ecologies, by doing what it takes to get the grade or receive credit,
by achieving. Assessment decisions reward or punish the subaltern, which is not
just the student of color but often all students, since students are subordinate
by their nature in assessment ecologies (there are degrees to the subaltern). Not
only are students of color coerced through the assessment of writing, but are
also made to consent, as we all are, only students of color tend to move through
a process of internal colonialism (Villanueva, 1997, p. 186), which Villanueva
identifies as having two impulses: “economic ascension and cultural resignation”
(p. 189; as cited in Altbach & Kelly, 1978). We go to school and learn a local
dominant academic discourse because it means economic and other opportunities, or so the myth goes. The point I’m making is that when places are created
in antiracist writing assessment ecologies, they are also locations of potential
internal colonializing, which limit the ideas and discourses available to judge in
the ecology, and these dynamics of ecological places should be made explicit and
negotiated.
Thus, the ecological places in an antiracist writing assessment ecology are
inherently borderlands because they are sites of action, change, and drama, locations where colonizing occurs forcefully and willingly, through hegemonic
means of coercion and consent. No matter how we design classroom writing
assessment ecologies, no matter how much we desire to change the hegemonic
in the academy, ecological places—like most places on the planet—tend to be
places of colonization at some historical point, thus they are places of norming
and racing. This is to say, conventional writing assessment ecologies colonize primarily by norming bodies to a white racial habitus, and as Charles Mills (1997)
has pointed out, this is simultaneously a racing of bodies. Mills says,
The norming of space is partially done in terms of the racing
of space, the depiction of space as dominated by individuals (whether persons or subpersons) of a certain race. At the
same time, the norming of the individual is partially achieved
by spacing it, that is, representing it as imprinted with the
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characteristics of a certain kind of space. So this is a mutually
supporting characterization that, for subpersons [people of
color or the subaltern], becomes a circular indictment: “You
are what you are in part because you originate from a certain
kind of space, and that space has those properties in part
because it is inhabited by creatures like yourself.” (1997, pp.
41-42, emphasis in original)
Mills does not make a distinction between places and spaces. At face, Mills
would seem to contradict Lefebvre and Dobrin since they say bodies do not define the spaces they come to occupy, but if we replace Mill’s looser term “space”
for “place,” then Mills’ racing of spaces theory agrees with them. Racialized places are constructed by the occupation of the racialized bodies in that place, while
simultaneously those racialized bodies are also constructed by the racialized places they occupy. However, Dobrin reveals that even the broader, more abstract
spaces (pre- or proto-places) is not devoid of the influence of occupying bodies:
“space can be seen as a factor in constructing the occupier’s identity, not the
opposite—though, of course, this is an illusion. The relationship becomes eventually reciprocal in that those who come to occupy a space—say, the space of
the university—must mold their identities to fit the space as defined by previous
occupiers/occupations” (Mills, 1997, p. 48). But even with this explanation, the
question remains, at some earlier, historic point a raced place, like remediation,
the remedial classroom, failure, or success, was a space, and thus not raced initially, according to Lefebvre. Race, however, is an attribution of people, and so a
construction attached to bodies and their habitus. How do we get to a moment
in history when Mills’ racing of place can be accounted for or explained? Surely,
students in a writing classroom won’t always accept this claim. We have to look
back at the history of race itself to understand its influence on places, which has
great bearing on antiracist writing assessment ecologies as counter-hegemonic
historic blocs. Understanding the development of race as a concept can provide
students and teachers in antiracist writing assessment ecologies ways to be critical of the colonizing that occurs in places that race students to a white racial habitus through assessment processes, and perhaps additional ways to problematize
existential writing assessment situations.
The racing of places, as Mills suggests, can be traced back to the beginnings
of the use of the term “race” in Western societies and literature. In his extensive
study of “race” as a concept in Western philosophy and history, Ivan Hannaford
(1996) explains that the word “race” did not enter Western languages until the
middle of the sixteenth century. There was no Hebrew, Greek, or Roman equivalent, and its original meaning tended to be “lineage, family, and breed” (Han167

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naford, 1996, p. 5). The Oxford Dictionary of Word Origins explains the word as
an Old English derivative that meant “rapid forward movement,” which came
from the Old Norse word, rás, or “current.” These origins allowed the word to
be developed in use to mean a “contest of speed,” a “channel” or “path,” (“race”).
I find it interesting in a number ways that the concept of “race,” so important to
Anzaldúa’s notion of borderlands, a place of change, also has etymological roots
in Western languages that draw on a metaphor of dynamism and change, a current of water, a path, a contest of speed, and forward movement.
Drawing on at least ten different etymological sources, Hannaford explains
that the term “race” “entered the Spanish, Italian, French, English, and Scottish
languages during the period of 1200-1500 CE and did not have the meaning
that we attach to it now. In most Western languages its earliest meaning related
to the swift course or current of a river or a trial of speed” (Hannaford, 1996,
pp. 4-5). In English, the word’s first appearance has been attributed to a 1508
poem by Scottish poet William Dunbar called, “The Dance of the Seven Deadly
Sins” (Banton, 1998, p. 17; Goldberg, 1993, p. 62; Satzewich, 1998, p. 26).
The one reference comes in the fifth stanza, where the narrator is describing the
dance of Envy and his family or troupe of followers “of sindry racis,” all with
“fenyeit wirdis quhyte,” or “false white words,” which was akin to “little white
lies” (Conlee, 2004). In his discussion of race as a concept, Vic Satzewich explains that during the sixteenth century, the word race referred “only to a class
or category of people or things. These classes or categories were not seen as biologically distinct, nor were they seen as situated in a hierarchy of superiority and
inferiority” (Satzewich, 1998, p. 27). This is the way we might read Dunbar’s use
of the term, as a way to identify the family or category of dancers in his poem,
a way to relate them together as the family of Envy, but not necessarily associate
any biological traits or physiognomy to them. However, the evil, ugly, dark, or
negative associations readers are supposed to make about envy are there, and
they are organized by the term race.
A similar use of the term can be found in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of
Venice (1600), in which Lorenzo speaks to Jessica about listening to music in
the night. Shakespeare uses race to refer to a group of horses in Lorenzo’s rebuff to Jessica, saying, “The reason is your spirits are attentive/ For do but note
a wild and wanton herd/ Or race of youthful and unhandled colts/ Fetching
mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,/ Which is the hot condition of their
blood” (V.i.70-74). While race groups the horses into a common category, that
category has associated with it negative or less than mature attributes. Thus race,
even at this early historical point, appears to begin being used with negative
references to people, but not places.
So what does this have to do with the norming or racing of places in writing
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assessment ecologies? People and places have always been intimately connected
for obvious reasons. Without people in them, places become less socially significant. Beyond this, while race as a term had no origins or associations to geography, except to refer to the running of water or streams, it appeared to be used to
group people and animals together as common. Places in this rudimentary way,
raced people, only in different terms, in more conceptual ways, as immature or
as a family with similar attributes.
But by 1684—just eighty some years after Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice—François Bernier published what is considered the first reference to the
modern concept of race in “Nouvelle Division de la Terre par les Differents
Espèces ou Races qui l’Habitent” (“A New Division of Earth and the Different
Species or Races Living There”) in Journal des Sçavans. In the article, Bernier
proposed four races based mostly on geography, color, and physical traits. He
identified them as: (1) Europe, South Asia, North Africa, and America; (2) Africa; (3) Asia; and (4) Lapps (Hannaford, 1996, p. 203; Painter, 2010, pp. 4344). While published in a prestigious academic journal of his day, Bernier’s “new
division” seemed to have been “idiosyncratic” and not referenced by later writers; however, Pierre Boulle concludes his study of Bernier’s influence on racial
discourse by saying that Bernier’s text was indicative of the “shift in thought that
occurred in the second half of the seventeenth century,” a shift to racial discourse
as we know it today (Boulle, 2003, p. 20). This shift in the use of the term race
was one linked closely to geographic places, making places a primary way people
are raced, or gain racial qualities and characteristics. This shift in discourse and
racial thinking is more clearly seen in the more influential early writers and texts
on race that came just decades later, such as Carolus Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae
(1735), Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon’s Histoire Naturelle, Gènèrelle
et Particulière (A Natural History, General and Particular) (1749-1788, 36 volumes), and perhaps most notably, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach’s De Generis
Humani Varietate Nativa (On the Natural Variety of Mankind) (1775). In each
case, beginning with Bernier, geographic location, places on the globe, became
racialized. Places began to racialize people. Through this most basic associative
logic used by all the early writers of race theories, the territories on Earth are
raced and have remained so.
The most influential early writer of race was Johann Friedrich Blumenbach
(1752-1840). His methods were consciously empirical, considering physical
features (including examining fetuses, pictures, and drawings), leaning heavily on craniology (the measuring of skulls), considering geographic location,
and inserting his own notions of beauty (Bhopal, 2007, p. 1309). From these
methods, Blumenbach induced a degenerate theory of races in which all races
are degenerate versions of the Caucasian race (named after a group of people
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who lived around the Caucasus Mountains, located between the Black Sea and
Caspian Sea). Each of Blumenbach’s five races, the Malay, Ethiopian, American,
Mongolian, and Caucasian, are distinguished by physical characteristics: cranial
size and shape, the color and texture of skin and hair, body proportions, outward
demeanor, shape of eyes and nose, etc. But Blumenbach’s thinking begins with
geographic location, with places in which these bodies dwell.37 As Raj Bhopal
explains, the purpose for Blumenbach’s research was to figure out if humans
comprised a single species (monogeny), which he concluded was the case, or
whether the popular view of the time was correct, that there were many species
of humans (polygeny) (2007, p. 1308). Thus, for Blumenbach, the varieties of
humans he catalogued were degenerations of the perfect one, the Caucasian,
which had a geographic origin. And so, places and races are not only associated
closely to each other but become hierarchized somatically, geographically, and
aesthetically.
From a consideration of Blumenbach’s collected treatises, edited by Thomas
Bendyshe, published in 1865, Bhopal (2007) argues that Blumenbach has been
misunderstood. He was not promoting a racist theory at all. He was promoting
“the unity of humanity (monogeny).” In fact, “Blumenbach wrote favourably
[sic] about ‘negroes,’ extolling their beauty, mental abilities, and achievements
in literature and other fields. He pointed to variations in opportunity as the
cause of differences” (Bhopal, 2007, p. 1309). However, even if we accept this
antiracist position on Blumenbach’s work (his motivation and perhaps purpose),
which I see no reason to doubt, it is clear that the categorizing of bodies from
empirical evidence (e.g., cranial size, geography, or physiognomy), in order to
justify a theory of monogeny (a worthwhile goal at the time), and linking it to
locations on the globe, easily gets deployed for a number of other racial projects
at the time and later on, all of which associate race with place. It doesn’t matter
what Blumenbach’s motives were. Even though Blumenbach was not making
the argument that any one race is inferior to another (beyond beauty), that was
the message that others took.
What makes the deployment of Blumenbach’s theory so enticing is how it is
a rhetoric with substantial power, the way it uses empiricism and categorization
to form a tacit hierarchy. Degeneration is a hierarchical logic, much like the
religious hierarchy of the chain of being from God to humanity. This logic is
arranged in a calm, reasonable, rational, and seemingly objective voice, a voice
that carefully explains the data, which places at the top of the racial hierarchy
a white racial category. The use of empirical skull measurements, observations
of physical features, and geographic location of groups of people, all of which
create the categories, make it hard to argue that Blumenbach is biased, or that
what he presents is anything but the truth. He is a scientist who is simply catego170

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rizing naturally occurring phenomena in different geographic places (something
Aristotle is famous for). In the process, however, he also begins the project of
norming and racing places to the white norm, the white habitus, which for him
was the Caucasian. If all races are degenerated from the Caucasian, then it’s not
hard to see colonization as a process of norming bodies, ideas, values, languages,
and habitus to the dominant white ones of the time. In short, the racing of place
is, as Mills points out from other sources, simultaneously done by racing people,
and through other historical, racial projects, Blumenbach’s theory and categories
become a way to assert the white, European norm as the spatial and racial ideal.
From this brief history of the concept of race, the questions we might ask
our students in antiracist writing assessment ecologies lead to reflections on the
function of places in the ecology. What is the function of the our rubric as a
place, for example? In what ways does it colonize some through assessment processes that norm everyone to a white racial habitus? How might we understand
our rubric, as one articulation of the writing expectations of the class, as interconnected to larger histories of racing bodies in classrooms and other societal
spaces? What alternative purposes might we employ so that the places we create
in the ecology work to critique and change racist outcomes or products, such
as the blind norming (colonizing) of people in the ecological places of writing
groups, feedback documents, and the like?
Beyond the hierarchy inherent in Blumenbach’s degeneration theory, using
geographic location suggests a kind of hierarchy connected to colonial conquest
that would be familiar to Europeans of the time, one of center and periphery, which brings us back to Pratt’s original thinking about contact zones. But
there are hierarchies of places and people in Anzaldúa’s borderlands that are
historical in their making. Lothrop Stoddard’s The Rising Tide of Color Against
White World-Supremacy (1920) sees the world divided by “inner” and “outer”
dikes, regions of white racial control or settlement (p. 226). Regardless of the
metaphor, the white European is the center, the norm. In both Stoddard’s and
Blumenbach’s cases, Europe is constructed as the center or origin from which
all races degenerate, using geographic location as an empirical logic in concert
(in several cases) with appearance.38 The more distant one is located from the
European center, the more degenerated, and the less value the race and place
have. This primacy of the white racial center as norm is no more obvious than
in typical maps of the globe, where Europe sits at the center. These maps could
be situated in any number of ways, but they typically are not. So is the assumption of the racing and norming of places. This could be a metaphor for the way
conventional writing classroom assessment ecologies situate racialized places of
evaluation as well.
The theory that Dobrin cites that accounts for the ways in which bodies
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occupy spaces, thus creating places, such as writing assessment ecologies’ places,
does not account well for actual history and actual places, actual people who
inhabit and settle places, and the way place has been raced and race has been
placed through historically changing, politically motivated colonizing, which
includes the scientific colonizing that race scientists engaged in. As Marxian theory (particularly base and superstructure) teaches us, his notion of place is too
abstract. We need historical details to help us think carefully about place. Places
have always been sites of conquest and colonization, of hierarchy, and after the
seventeenth century a site of racing bodies, languages, customs, etc.
In more specific terms, Dobrin’s notion of place does not account for the
fact that during the Enlightenment period, groups of non-white or non-European people were associated to geography and places on the globe, many
places Europeans had very little knowledge of, and those places and people
were racialized and formed into hierarchies of bodies, creating racialized places
from racialized spaces and racialized bodies. The spaces were racialized because
that is how the science presented it. A particular tautology was born, racialized bodies defined racialized spaces that defined racialized places that defined
racialized bodies. Thus today, all places are racialized places by default, and
most important, contrary to Dobrin and Lefebvre, there is no such thing as
a non-racial space. Every space and place is racialized in practice, even if we
might say that in the abstract and theoretical, (racialized) bodies do not define
(racialized) spaces. What is a non-racialized space? It is a white racialized space
since conceptions of space are defined by white logics, rhetorics, and epistemologies, as my discussion of whiteness has already argued. The writing assessment
ecologies we construct thus are always racialized because the spaces we use to
cultivate such ecologies and the places we create in those ecologies are not only
inhabited by racialized bodies, local diversities, but always already normed and
raced by those bodies as well.
Historically then, the logic of spaces and who dwells in each are associated
with hierarchies, inherent goodness and beauty, as well as virtue and perfection.
The racing of spaces and places also affirms the discussions of remediation as
inherently a racial and racist set of projects (e.g., Fox, 1999; Horner & Lu,
1999; Hull & Rose, 1989; Soliday, 2002; Stanley, 2009). But my discussion of
place also suggests another reason for why all writing assessment ecologies that
construct remedial places are racist, and why it’s important to account fully for
the places created by any assessment ecology.
Foucault (Foucault & Miskowiec, 1986) identifies two kinds of places in
society, utopias and heterotopias. Utopias are unreal places, and it is the heterotopias that Foucault is most interested in because they are places defined by
their relation to other sites, and are “outside of all places, even though it may
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be possible to indicate their location in reality” (Foucault & Miskowiec, 1986,
p. 24). Every culture has these sites, and Foucault explains that earlier in Western culture, they were “crisis heterotopias,” “privileged or sacred or forbidden
places, reserved for individuals who are, in relation to society and to the human
environment in which they live, in a state of crisis: adolescents, menstruating
women, pregnant women, the elderly, etc.” (1986, p. 24). These were sites of
change, but were temporary. They were permeable borderlands, and the expectation was that everyone moved through them at some point in his or her life.
Today, however, we are more likely to find “heterotopias of deviation, those in
which individuals whose behavior is deviant in relation to the required mean or
norm are placed” (Foucault & Miskowiec, 1986, p. 25). Foucault gives the example of rest homes, psychiatric hospitals, and prisons. These are less permeable
places, and the typical assumption is that people avoid them. These borderlands
are harder to leave or exit. They are on the fringe of society both geographically
and figuratively. They are not the center of life or activity. It is not hard to read
failure, all subaltern or code-meshed discourses, remediation, remedial classes,
and the remedial student, as places of deviation, as heterotopias of deviation that
are raced by their natures since all places are raced. Thus, like common notions
of race as static (one doesn’t change one’s race in the middle of one’s life) heterotopias of deviation can easily become, by racial association, static and fix in
bodies that occupy that place.
In antiracist writing assessment ecologies, crisis heterotopias are promoted,
rather than heterotopias of deviation. Our assessments of each other’s words and
ideas should lead to crises, big and small. This is the nature of problematizing
existential writing assessment situations, a revealing of paradoxes in the judgments of writing. The purposes of places in such ecologies should be to move all
students through crisis and change, not avoid such dynamism.
Finally, explicit discussions of the historical ways that places in an antiracist
assessment ecology are sites of racing and norming is critical to the larger purpose of the ecology. The use of the concept of place has both an intellectual history involving conflict among locally diverse social formations, material histories
of colonialism (as in the Orientalism and the global imaginary), and racialized
histories that set value to geographic locations and have normed people to a
white racial habitus. Places are raced, classed, and gendered, as much as they
are hierarchized and defined by borderlands. I realize it is very difficult to know
exactly how the creation of particular places in our writing assessment ecologies
will play out in the short or long term, but one thing is certain. We can look
to the way Western society and the academy have typically constructed places
as centers of norming and racing, usually through assessment ecologies, and
attempt to self-consciously create places that work as critical sites of problema173

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tizing the judgments made about our students’ writing, and not simply as sites
of colonizing.

CONCLUSION
The ecological power, parts, purposes, people, processes, products, and places that dialectically make up and are created in antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies reveal the complexities of simply judging writing in a class
without doing more harm to students who do not already come to the class
demonstrating a white racial habitus. These elements offer ways to explicitly
reflect upon a number of questions that help students understand the fuller conditions under which their writing is judged and produces other products (learning), which then provides them power to change those conditions and products.
While not all of these ecological elements can be interrogated in any given class.
My hope is that teachers and students figure out which elements offer them the
most productive investigations into antiracist writing assessment practices. Since
all elements inter-are with the others in the ecology, focusing on one or two can
often lead to discussions of other elements.
Power is the overarching element within ecologies that is constructed by
techniques, spaces, processes, and other disciplining tactics. Reflecting upon it
and negotiating its terms, such as negotiating what control students have to
design assignments, assessment processes, and expectations, students can determine better their own relations in the ecology. This provides agency and better
chances to problematize their writing assessment situations, which will mean
critiquing the dominant discourse and the white racial habitus that informs it.
Parts are the codes and artifacts, with their own internal biases, that are used
to discipline bodies and writing, and to identify and judge. Parts, such as evaluation rubrics and dominant discourses valued in ideal texts, have historical associations with a white racial habitus, which usually end up privileging students
who come to the classroom performing those dispositions already and disenfranchising local diversities. Parts are often the most immediate and easiest element
to reflect upon and negotiate in an assessment ecology with students.
Purposes for any antiracist writing assessment ecology is vital to its functioning and should be discussed and negotiated carefully with students. A clear
antiracist dominant purpose provides ways for students to understand and act in
the ecology, to understand the fuller implications of their labor as an antiracist
project. The dominant purpose I’ve offered for antiracist assessment ecologies
is one that interrogates racism in writing assessment and judgment practices. It
asks students to problematize their existential writing assessment situations over
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and over, posing problems about the way they and their colleagues judge their
language, considering as part of the problems a comparison to their understandings of a white racial habitus that informs the dominant discourse promoted in
the classroom.
People in antiracist writing assessment ecologies are not considered homogenous, nor are they simply stakeholder groups with uniform needs and wants.
Like any geographic or urban environment, people in antiracist writing assessment ecologies who move about on the landscape are diverse in many ways,
which affect their ways of reading and judging, and the entire system. Students
can reflect upon their own subject positions as informed by historically shifting
racial, cultural, and social formations that compel particular habitus, which they
may be using to assess texts. Paying attention to who they are, without falling
into the trap of a priori and essentializing assumptions about people, can help
students problematize.
The processes that make up an antiracist assessment ecology are the actions
and drama that occur, and are the means by which products come about. Like
power, purposes, and parts, processes should be negotiated with students so that
they have stake in them, understand them, and find them fair. Processes are the
articulations and expectations of labor in the ecology, and can be focused on as
the primary element of the ecology for any given assignment or task. Focusing
on labor and processes can be criteria for success, grades, development, and work
completed, which is often a good beginning for cultivating an antiracist writing
assessment ecology.
Products are the decisions and consequences of the ecology, which may be
direct or indirect, and may be different for each student. Products explain the
learning that has or is occurring in the ecology, and can be a way to focus later
reflections in the course. Products may also be turned back into the ecology as
parts in order to change or improve the ecology.
Finally, the material and figurative places that make up antiracist writing assessment ecologies characterize and determine interactions, power relations, and
the people who get to be there or not. Places also are the occasion and context
for processes. Mostly, however, places are by their historical natures locations of
norming to a white racial habitus and of racing people into hierarchies. Places,
therefore, are themselves always informed by the historical racial projects that
raced all places, which means that teachers and students must be aware of this
fact and make decisions about it together so that their classroom ecology is not
simply a place of colonizing, coercion, or uncritical, hegemonic control. Paying
explicit attention—calling attention to—the places that the ecology creates, how
it creates them, who seems to reside in those places, and why they do, can help
antiracist writing assessment ecologies become more critical of their effects on
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students, and perhaps find alternative locations that are defined in alternative
ways that are more responsive to students and their needs.
I offer Figure 1 as an initial way to visualize the interconnection of all seven
elements. Place is primary with people situated firmly in place, and place constituted by people. Their most distinguishing feature is their consubstantiality.
Processes, parts, and products are most connected to people, since they enact,
create, and manipulate them, yet this means that they have a clear relationship
with places of writing assessment. Finally power and purposes are connected
to places and people of writing assessment ecologies, which produce processes,
parts, and products. While this diagram is incomplete and does not show all
of the relationships, no diagram can. Writing assessment ecologies are complex
systems, resisting simple explanations and visual representations. Ecologies are
more than visual. More than textual. They are more than this figure. The figure
represents a small portion of the relationships of the seven interconnected elements of a writing assessment ecology.

Figure 1. Seven interrelated elements constitute a writing assessment ecology.

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CHAPTER 4: APPROACHING
ANTIRACIST WORK IN AN
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGY
In this chapter, I look closely at my own classroom’s writing assessment ecology, which used a grading contract. My purpose is to make sense of what happened, to understand the class as a burgeoning antiracist writing assessment
ecology. I did not design the course’s writing assessment ecology to be antiracist,
but believe in places it comes close. This chapter considers how my assessment
ecology helped locally diverse students develop as readers and writers, and my
discussion suggests ways for future pedagogical change that is inevitably personal and local. It offers useful ways to think through any writing assessment
ecology in order to transform it into an antiracist one.
Up to this point, I’ve discussed racism in classrooms as larger, social patterns
that we must understand and address in structural ways. But when a teacher
steps into her classroom and people are present in all their diverse complexities,
when students write and do all that they do, when our lives as teachers become
tangled in the day-to-day workings of a course and academic life, racist patterns
become less visible because life and people are messy and unpredictable. This is
a part of Kerschbaum’s (2014) point about understanding diversity’s evolving
character, best seen in relation to others. So this chapter is less about showing
patterns, although some exist, and more about seeing the ecology. Doing so
leads us to antiracist work. Let me be clear: An antiracist writing assessment
ecology is a classroom that makes more visible the ecology since racist patterns
are always less visible in real life.
In another place (Inoue, 2014a), I discuss how to use grading contracts in
writing classrooms, highlighting three important themes or questions that guide
students in my classrooms. These questions come up in this chapter, but I do not
focus on them. In another study (Inoue, 2012a), I discuss the effectiveness of
grading contracts on various racial formations in Fresno State’s first-year writing
program, finding that they do in fact have differential consequences on Fresno
State’s local Hmong, Latino/a, African-American, and white student formations.
My past research shows that contracts that focus on labor as a way to calculate
course grades helps most students of color and multilingual students perform
well in writing classrooms. I theorize these findings in fuller detail for writing
classrooms (Inoue, 2014b) by discussing the nature and distribution of failure
based on quality and labor in writing courses. By focusing on labor as a way
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to assess for development and produce grades, the nature and distribution of
failure, particularly course failure, changes. With these changes, the assessment
ecology becomes more antiracist. I’ve also discussed the ways that past grading
contract research, which is very limited, has neglected to account for racial formations by not seeing students as racialized bodies in the classroom, thus not
parsing the data by racial formation or making conclusions that consider race
as a factor (Inoue, 2012b). All of this past work informs my observations and
conclusions in this chapter. I’m not trying to argue for grading contract ecologies; instead, I wish to illustrate how any teacher might understand his or her
classroom writing assessment ecology as potentially antiracist. Because grades
are so destructive to student learning in writing classrooms and grades produced
by quality (comparisons to a dominant standard) are themselves racist, grading
contracts are the best antiracist solution I’ve found.
What follows is a description of the course and its work. I discuss the central
part (artifact) and conceptual place of the course, the grading contract, which
used labor and assessing as a way to organize and conceptualize the course and
responsibilities. I discuss the way students engaged in labor, since labor was the
primarily way in which course grades were determined, and the main way students constructed their own places in the assessment ecology. I then look closely
at the assessment practices of students in order to show the main pathways of
learning in the class that our writing assessment ecology produced. Finally, I end
by considering students’ exit from the assessment ecology. Throughout, I draw
on students’ writing and reflecting in the course, as well as my notes from that
semester. All students gave me written permission to use their work, and were
shown the chapter before publication. I use students’ real first names, unless they
asked me to use a pseudonym, which I note.

ENGLISH 160W
In Fall 2012, I taught Engl 160W, an upper division writing intensive course
at Fresno State, intended for third and fourth year undergraduates to fulfill their
upper division writing intensive requirement. Most students who enroll in this
particular course are not English majors. For instance, in Fall of 2012, there were
seven fourth year (four females, three males) and 16 third year students (nine
females, seven males) in the class. The 11 majors represented in the course were
as follows:
• Psychology (4)
• Business (9)
• Business- accountancy (2)
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• Viticulture (1)
• Communication (1)
• Political Science (1)
• Computer Science (1)
• Criminology (1)
• Health Science- Occupational Health (1)
• Communication Disorders- Deaf Education (1)
• Chemistry (1)
Because I asked students to introduce themselves as readers and writers in
a number of ways in the first few weeks of class (in writing, in group work, on
Blackboard, etc.), and because I introduced myself as a product of racial projects
in my own school history, as a former remedial reading student in schools who
attended public schools in North Las Vegas (a mostly African-American “ghetto” at the time) and who was always the only brown kid in class in college, they
felt more authorized to bring up their own racialized experiences and habitus. I
did not explicitly ask them to do this though. I learned the racial and cultural
makeup of the class, as well as other aspects of their material lives that had import on their work in our course. As you’ll see below, the course in some ways
encouraged students to talk about, draw on, and consider their own histories
and material conditions that affected their work in the course. While I realize
this can be a delicate set of discussions, some being more uncomfortable with
talking about things like race than others, I tried hard to give students options.
They did not have to reveal anything about their past or their own sense of racial,
class, or gendered identities, but everyone did.
I contextualized the sharing of this personal information early and throughout the course by explaining how racial, gender, cultural, and other personal
factors can influence the ways we read each other’s work and judge it, so while
they do not dictate how anyone will read or value another’s writing, our racial,
cultural, economic, and linguistic heritages inform our reading and writing and
may offer reflective insights into how we value language. While I didn’t use the
term, the point I tried to convey was that our racial habitus does matter to us
and to those whom we offer judgments. Just because we identify ourselves as
African-American, White, or Hmong, or from a poor family, doesn’t mean we
are prejudice, it simply means we have important histories and experiences that
bias us in necessary ways, which writers should know and readers might use to
help explain why they value certain things in texts. I asked them to consider
reading as an inherently biased activity, one requiring bias in order to make sense
of things, thus it is good to know explicitly the biases that make up how we read,

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even if only personally.
The students in this course were close to the larger Fresno State student population’s racial makeup. Our course’s ethnic breakdown looked like this, which
amounts to four racial formations:
• Latino/a, Mexican America (7)
• White (7)
• African-American (3)
• Asian-American: Hmong (2); Chinese (2); Southeast Asian Indian (1);
Laotian (1)
As you may recall, Fresno State is classified as an Hispanic Serving Institution (HSI), because it has a total enrollment of at least 25% Hispanic students.
In Fall 2012, 38.8% of all students enrolled where Hispanic, 28.8% were White,
14.8% were Asian (mostly Hmong), 4.4% were African-American, 3.0% were
International, and 0.4% were American Indian (CSU, Fresno, n.d.).39 Thus the
racial formations that made up the class was mostly consistent with students at
Fresno State that semester; however, the class’s African-American formation was
out of balance with the larger percentage at the university. This was simply luck
or happenchance, since in the last six or so years prior to the class, I had never
had three African-Americans in the same course.
I designed the course according to the department’s description of it in the
catalogue, as a project-based course in which each student writes two research
projects, each based on some question in her major or discipline. When I put
students in their writing groups around week 4, which they choose to keep
for the entire semester, I tried to shuffle the groups as best I could so that they
contained different majors, were racially and linguistically diverse, and had a
roughly equal number of males and females, which didn’t always work, given
that a few students moved in and out of the course in the first few weeks. The
groups were between four and five students each. Most of their work on their
projects occurred in the groups, so the writing groups made up much of the
class’s day to day work. For some students, the groups also ended up characterizing the class, and to some extent the grading contract, which I’ll discuss below.
Most important, in several ways that will become clear later, the writing groups
were one primary ecological place initiated by me, but created, cultivated, and
settled (colonized) by students over the course of the semester, and the place of
their writing groups tended to determine a number of processes, use of parts,
purposes for assessing, and even products.
The course was organized around formal labors, or processes of assessment
that overlapped and connected to each other, scaffolding student work toward
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sisted of several reoccurring activities. I am not calling them assignments since
the philosophy and language of the course was that of labor, not products. “Assignments” seems too close to product-oriented writing assessment ecologies.
However, I will admit that in the class, we did refer to “assignments” as much as
we did activities, processes, or labor. It made things clearer for many students.
It can be confusing to never talk explicitly about “assignments,” when in one
sense we did have them. I would characterize this aspect of the course as being
focused on writing assessment processes that have ideal parts (artifacts) in mind
as their goals, but a student’s successful completion of those processes was not
contingent on submitting an ideal artifact. Instead, the nature of “ideal” for our
class in any given activity’s artifact tended to be defined in terms of time spent
on the activity, length of the document, and whether the writing addressed the
prompt or instructions in the spirit that the work was given (did the document
accomplish its purposes?). So in some senses, we did care about the nature of the
writing that students produced. We cared about quality all the time in discussions and feedback, but we did not use quality to determine credit for or a grade
on an assignment, nor did we use it to determine if someone met some standard
of our local SEAE or a dominant discourse of the classroom. The labor we did
was the following:
• Reading. These activities occurred between class sessions. Every act
of reading produced an artifact (part): some postings on Blackboard
(Bb), a list of items, a freewrite/quickwrite done during or after the
reading, a focused paragraph response or summary as one read a
text, or an annotated passage or page from the reading. Each activity and its artifact had explicit purposes that connected that labor to
students’ projects. I asked students often to consider where they did
their reading and why they did it there, particularly in labor journals
(see below), which helped them be conscious of the places that their
reading labors were most productive or intense. I also asked students
to consider all reading as a kind of assessment, a set of judgments they
make about a text in order to make some sense or meaning out of it.
Reading was assessment because it was a set of judgments for some
purpose (i.e., to understand, to summarize, to find particular information, to make other judgments, etc.). We defined these activities,
like all of the activities, in terms of the time spent on the activity and
the kind of labor we expected to engage in. Instructions looked and
sounded like process directions, or procedures with a description of
the artifacts expected to be used in class.
• Writing. These activities happen at home and in class. I wanted the
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places of writing to be varied, since the places of assessment would
be. Students produced artifacts that were used in class, in groups, or
to begin discussions. Depending on what we agreed upon, or where
we were in the semester, our writing activities invented, researched,
thought about, drafted, and revised their two projects. In most cases,
I couched these shorter writing assignments as ones fundamentally
asking students to assess and make judgments for some purpose. We
decided together on parameters of these labors, and most of those
directions were cues for timing (how much time to spend) and what
to do in each stage of laboring (how to do the labor or how the labor
should be focused). For the projects, we also conducted more formal
rubric building activities (discussed below). Again, the prompts and
instructions looked a lot like procedures. On average, we did one
activity a week, taking a few hours to do, stretched over a few days.
• Reflecting. These were reading and writing activities done each weekend and discussed in the Monday session of the following week.
Students read excerpts from their reflections that I chose, and the
class sometimes discussed them, but usually we just listened. I wanted
students to hear the good thinking and questioning happening in the
class, and I wanted the classroom to be a place where their ideas and
theorizing about writing and reading were center stage, were important, public, and explicit. I wanted to value all the writing in the class,
so I made a point to keep track of who had read their reflections each
week, with the goal of getting every student to read at some point. At
times, students responded to a prompt that asked them to do some
metacognitive thinking (e.g., “What did you learn about ‘entering
academic conversations’ from your group this week? How did it come
to you? What rhetorical patterns did you find occurring in the most
effective written feedback you received?”). At other times, they were
free to reflect on anything that was on their minds (and that pertained
to our class). This reflective labor was defined most explicitly as self-assessment and assessing the activities of the class for lessons learned or
questions revealed. The prompts for each weekly reflection activity was
similar in nature as all the other activities. I defined each reflection
activity by the amount of time students should spend reading and
reflecting in writing, usually 20-30 minutes, then asked them to spend
another 10-20 minutes reading other students’ postings. Finally, they
replied to at least three others with something substantive and meaningful.
• Labor Journaling. In class each day, we spent five minutes freewriting
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a journal entry about the labor for our course that we did just before
that class session. The labor journals attempted to help students see
and quantify exactly the labor they were doing for the course. Their
entries were designed to help them determine whether the labor they
were doing was enough and what its nature was (What were they
doing when they were most engaged? What did that labor produce
for them? How engaging or intense was it?). In my prompts, I tried
to push them each week a bit more, little by little, to develop their
labor habits into more intense, effective, and productive behaviors.
Again, like their weekly reflections, labor journals were self-assessment
activities, only focused on the nature and intensity of their labor. More
recently, I’ve incorporated Twitter as a way to capture some of my students’ labor practices during the week as it occurs, which I discussed in
Chapter 3. In class we spend a few minutes looking over those tweets
in order to write their journal entry for that day. Students can also
tweet back to others in the class, as I sometimes do, if they so choose.40
• Assessing. If it’s not clear already, assessing in a number of ways is the
center of the course, the central activity. It was the way I articulated
most activities and all reading and writing activities. At its center,
assessing is about reading and making judgments on artifacts from
frameworks of value and expectations for particular purposes. At
around week six, the writing groups moved into full swing. Each
week students did the reading and writing labors (above) that worked
toward their projects (below). The assessing activities directed students
through processes that asked them to read artifacts and articulate judgments in a variety of ways on those artifacts. To guide assessing labors,
there were two sets of collaboratively created expectations or rubrics:
a set of project expectations (what they should demonstrate in a final
draft of the project) and labor expectations (what they should demonstrate in their labors in and out of class to produce the project), which
I discuss below.41 On average, I asked students to spend at least 20-45
minutes on each assessment activity (including the reading time) for
each artifact being assessed (some drafts varied greatly in length). Near
the end of the semester, students also wrote assessment letters to their
group members, which their colleagues and I used in final one-onone conferences, which I discuss later in this chapter. Instructions for
assessments were similar to all other activities. I gave directions on
how much time to spend on the reading of peers’ drafts, and the writing of the associated assessment documents. Additionally, I provided
general guidelines for what we expected students to produce in those
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assessment documents, but at a midpoint, students helped decide this
aspect of their assessing as well.
• Projecting. These labors were the culmination of all their work in
the course (everything above). All the scaffolded activities led to two
research-based, written inquiries on subjects in the students’ major or
discipline that dealt with some aspect of rhetoric. Usually the projects
were traditional looking research papers, but one student did a report,
while another student did a brochure. Another student attempted
a video, but realized midway through how much more labor that
required, so she changed to a traditional research essay. All projecting
required the same amount of research and writing, which amounted
to all the activities above—all labors fed into the projects’ final documents, which tended to be multimodal constructions, using videos and
images. Some produced six to eight page research papers, while a few
produced 12-15 page research papers. In this grading ecology, all labor
in the class was a student’s projecting of her chosen research topic/question; her learning about writing and the question; her understanding
and articulating of ideas, texts, and writing processes; her enacting of
her own learning journey to exactly the place that she can achieve. My
only limitations on the writing and research was that writers had to
have an academic audience in mind, deal with rhetoric in some way,
and use academic sources to help them engage with their projects.

LABOR AND THE GRADING CONTRACT ECOLOGY
Engaging explicitly and self-consciously in discussions about the course’s
writing assessment ecology makes the ecology itself visible to students and is
vital to antiracist work. We began this work by engaging in discussions of our
grading contract as a part that articulates how course grades will be produced.
These discussions were on-going and led to negotiations about the conditions
and expectations of their labor, the codes we used to determine acceptable labor and behaviors. Reflecting and discussing our contract was the most obvious
ecological place to start since I knew that most students would care about their
course grades and would have some investment in determining them.
The scholarship on grading is almost unanimous about the unreliability or
inconsistency and subjectivity (in the bad sense of being too idiosyncratic) of
grades (Bowman, 1973; Charnley, 1978; Dulek & Shelby, 1981; Elbow, 1997;
Tchudi, 1997; Starch & Elliott, 1912), and just as much research shows how
grades and other kinds of rewards and punishments de-motivate and harm students and their abilities to learn anything (Elbow, 1999; Kohn, 1993; Pulfrey,
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Buchs, & Butera, 2011). Thus grades as the primary ecological products of writing assessment ecologies often work against issues of language diversity and difference (e.g., class, gender, race, religious view, sexual orientation, ability, etc.),
reinforce a norming to a white racial habitus, and the racing of academic places.
For instance, conventional grading systems often construct a student’s text as a
place of norming to a white racial habitus. Grading uses a dominant standard,
seen in rubrics and assignment expectations, to produce a grade for a writing
performance. This creates the student text as a place, not of problematizing the
judgment of language practices (both the dominant and the student’s), but one
of colonizing the student to a dominant set of dispositions, which are indirectly
seen through textual markers. This is more the case with multilingual students
and students of color, although white working class students surely feel colonized as well. In short, grading students’ writing on its quality is a racist practice, despite the fact that it is arguably important for students to learn (about)
dominant discourses.
But knowing how well one is doing in a class is important. One central
grading problem that is revealed when one sees one’s class as an antiracist writing
assessment ecology is this: when we value quality, particularly by assigning grades
by using judgments of quality, we have no control over the valuing labor or processes;
yet when we value labor and processes, we have an equally hard time valuing quality
(as compared to a dominant discourse) as an outcome or artifact.
However, if we can value labor and processes that have collaboratively defined
ideal artifacts (parts) in mind, dictated by agreements that students and teacher
make together that maintain and interrogate the difference inherent in the local
diversity of the classroom (i.e., keep difference present), and keep grades out of
the ecology, then it is possible to create productive antiracist borderlands in the
course’s writing assessment ecology because the parts can reflect the local diversity of language use while not penalizing students through ecological products
like grades. These borderlands offer students landscapes to problematize their
existential writing assessment situations, revealing how their language is judged
and perhaps why.
I used a grading contract in this course similar to Danielewicz and Elbow’s
(2009) in order to consciously value labor, processes, particular purposes for assessing the documents produced by those processes, and products. The grading
contract was ideal since it almost always requires lots of discussion for students
to understand it, and reveals the assumptions students and teachers make about
grades. But I also incorporated the good use of democratic negotiation that Shor
(2007) emphasizes in his contracts. Unlike both Danielewicz and Elbow, and
Shor, I started the conversation of grading and course grades with the idea of labor. The idea of writing as labor, while intuitive at some level, is not intuitive for
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many students when it is used to determine their course grades, or when helping
them understand how well they are doing on a task or generally in the course. As
Elbow (1997, 1999) has discussed in a similar way, most students are thoroughly
conditioned to thinking in terms of documents, page counts, and grades rather
than in terms of labor, quantity, time, and how to do an activity.
The grading contract (see Appendix A) was emailed to students a few weeks
before the semester began, and was discussed on the first day of class. After the
first day’s introduction to the contract, I asked students to go home, read carefully the contract again, and mark it with questions they had and things they would
like to negotiate or change. We discussed and negotiated the contract again on
the second day of class, a Wednesday (the course met Monday and Wednesday
at 4:00 P.M. for 80 minutes each day). After Wednesday’s discussion, I asked
them to reflect upon the contract and our negotiations, since I knew many at
this early stage would have a hard time questioning the contract—and they
did—but might open up when writing to their colleagues and themselves (this
was an in-class freewrite).
While there was, as usual, very little that changed in the contract, the discussions helped reveal three important questions that organized the course’s writing
assessment ecology as a semester-long historic bloc. These questions came from
my students’ writing, which I rearticulated to them in class since I had anticipated the questions, and in fact encouraged them through my prompting of their
reflective writing. The questions were:
• What does labor mean in our writing class?
• How do we know how well we are doing if there are no grades?
• What does assessing mean in our class?42
It may seem odd that students inquired about the nature of their labor unless
you take into account my prompting them in a number of ways. The grading
contract is defined by the concept of labor, and I made a point to read and discuss this aspect of the course’s grading contract on the first day. Additionally, one
of the course’s weekly assignments is a labor journal, in which I prompted them
one to two times a week to write about what they experienced when they did
the physical labor of the course that week, we discussed this as well on the first
day. If labor is important to students’ course grades, I argued, then we needed
some way to see it, understand it, and reflect upon it—in effect, we each needed
to evaluate it, only not for a grade or accountability, but in order to find ways
to improve our own labor, making it more intense, productive, or effective. The
contract also explains the grading of the course in terms of student labor and
trust, stating on its first page:
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ant assumptions, which are not typical in most classrooms.
First, the principle: how much labor you do is more important
to your learning and growth as a reader and writer than the
quality of your writing. Our grading contract calculates grades
by how much labor you do and the manner in which you
do it. The more you work, the better your grade—no matter
what folks think of the product of your labor—but we assume
that you’ll be striving in your labors to improve, learn, and
take risks. The other important assumption that this principle
depends upon for success is that we must assume that all students will try their hardest, work their hardest, and not deceive
anyone, when it comes to their labor. If we ask for an hour of
writing at home, and someone says they did that and produced
X, then we must believe them. This is a culture of trust. We
must trust one another, and know that deception and lying
hurts mostly the liar and his/her learning and growth.
Thus not only did I prompt them about labor in their writing and discussions,
but I also planted the seeds of thinking about the course’s assessment ecology in
terms of their labor in the contract. Because the contract is the main articulation of how course grades are determined, it is central to the writing assessment
ecology. It is the most important ecological part, which in other ways is an ecological place, a site of negotiation and orientation. In a sense, the contract was
a place of norming, only not to a local dominant discourse or a local SEAE, or
a white racial habitus, but to a negotiated set of practices and discourses about
assessment and labor.
This norming in the place of the contract was not a one-way, hierarchical
norming, but was a norming that students negotiated and had more control
over than in typical academic places of norming and racing. In class discussions,
I began by asking them: what responsibility do you have to your colleagues in
our class and in your writing groups? What responsibilities do you expect of
your colleagues around you? How does that responsibility translate into your
own behaviors and labor in this class? What happens when someone doesn’t
meet his or her responsibilities to others in the class? These discussions, because
they implicitly built a rationale for our writing assessment ecology, especially the
places of writing groups, which originates in the ecological part and place of the
contract, were crucial to my students’ acceptance of the grading contract and to
their abilities to do the labor required.
So, the grading contract and our discussions in the first week of the course
dictated that the writing, reading, and other work of the course was conceived
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of as labor, as activities, as processes, as doing things. We’d care most about the
quantity of our labor, but increasingly about the nature of one’s labor (more on
this below). If a student met the contract’s labor guidelines, she would earn a
“B” course grade, no matter what. On the last page, the contract provides a table
that sets out clearly the labor needed for each course grade and how we would
tabulate that labor:

Table 3. The grading contract calculated course grades by the
amount of labor students produced
Absences

Late Assigns.

Missed Assigns.

Ignored Assigns.

A

4 or less

5

0

0

B

4 or less

5

0

0

C

5

6

1

0

D

6

7

2

1

F

7

8 or more

2

2 or more

Note that the assumption in my bookkeeping is that all students are doing
the work appropriately and adequately. My assumption was, and I said this to
the class, everyone will do the work, or is doing the work, to earn a “B.” It is only
when someone doesn’t turn something in, or turns in something incomplete,
that a mark in my grade book is recorded. Items #4, #5, and #6 in the contract
explain the differences between a late, missed, and ignored assignment.43 In essence, the main differences lie in how much time goes by before the assignment
is turned in. In addition to the above table, the contract stipulates a “plea” or a
“gimme,” which amounts to a get-out-of-jail-free card. A student can use one
plea at any time in the course to erase an absence, a late assignment, a missed
(which becomes a late) assignment, etc.
Note that there is no difference between an “A” and a “B” course grade on
this grid. This is because in this course, the number or quantity of assignments
for students striving for “As” was technically the same as those who were okay
with a “B,” but if a student wanted an “A,” then her two projects would have
to be twice the length and depth as her peers shooting for a “B.” This roughly
amounted to 10 academic sources researched and incorporated into each project’s final document and that document needed to be around 10-12 pages in
length.
Negotiating the grading contract moved students away from focusing on
grades, and refocused their attention on their labors, in particular on the processes of reading, writing, and assessing their own and others’ drafts. My hope
was that focusing on the processes of writing assessment in the course, processes
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I was largely absent from (except in their design), would also reorient students
to other kinds of purposes for their writing and emphasize other ecological products. Thus the assessment of writing framed the course at large through the
contract, the writing group’s primary activities, and the projects’ activities. This
re-orienting to new processes of assessment, assessment products, and purposes
for writing and its assessment did seem to occur, and I consider it important to
any antiracist writing assessment ecology.
Reorientation in the environment can be productive, unproductive, helpful,
ambiguous, or harmful to students, but I argue that some kind of reorientation
always occurs. And it affects the culture of the classroom and students’ learning.
In the next section, I discuss the way students oriented themselves in our writing
assessment ecology, particularly through the renegotiation of the contract at the
midpoint of the semester. The absence of grades and refocus on labor was central
to this reorientation.
Most students reoriented themselves in the ecology by rethinking the nature
of their labor, not the perceived quality of their texts. The labors of the ecology,
of writing and reading (judging), are fundamentally ontological acts that connect us to places in the ecology, as well as to other people. It is through our labors
that we experience inter-being, which help us negotiate the problematizing in
the borderlands of the ecology—in fact, one critical labor is problem posing.
Robert Yagelski (2011) offers a good way to understand the labors of writing as
a way of (inter)being by describing his own act of writing:
As I write, I am—but not because of the writing; rather, the
writing intensifies my awareness of myself, my sense of being,
which is prior to but, right now, coterminous with this act
of writing. And if I attend to my awareness—if I become
aware of that awareness, as it were; if I focus my attention
on my attention during this act of writing, as I am doing
right now—it is not my sense of self as a separate, thinking
being that is intensified but my sense of self as existing in this
moment and at the same time “inhabiting” the physical place
where I am sitting as well as the scene in the coffee shop that
I am imagining and trying to describe, a scene removed from
me in time and space at this moment; thus, I am connected
to this moment and those other moments I have been trying
to describe and indeed to all those other selves I’ve mentioned
and many I have not mentioned and the things around me
now and those that were around me then and even you, the
reader I am imagining who will, I think, at some point, really
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be a reader of this text and thus be connected to me as well
in a very real way through your act of reading at some future
date, which means that this moment of writing right now
somehow encompasses that future moment, too.
It is in this sense that I am as I am writing. The writing does
not create me, but in the act of writing I am; by writing I
reaffirm and proclaim my being in the here and now. The act
of writing, in this sense, is a way of being; it is an ontological
act. (p. 104)
I wish I could say that I showed my class this passage when dscussing what labor
means in our class, but I didn’t. What I hope you can hear or see in Yagelski’s
rendering of the act of writing as a way of (inter)being in the world is that place
is vital to a writer’s or reader’s inter-being. Place is vital to the ontological meaning of the labors we do in the class. I wanted students to see that the labor of
writing, for instance, is the only access we have to writing. And if our goals are
in some way to write more self-consciously, more critically, more problematically—to do more than write right now—then we must have access to ourselves as
writers in the act of writing, and we must see the places in which those labors are
done as part of that access, part of the labors of writing and judging. Thus is the
nature of the inter-being of labor and place, of writing and one’s acts of being
that inter-are with where we write and who we write for.
And why is the notion of labor as processes of inter-being important to an
antiracist writing assessment ecology? Because it allows locally diverse students
and teacher to share in the ontological essence of others’ writing, no matter how
different that writing is from our own writing or from our expectations of it. It
allows us to access place as part of the labor of writing and its judgment. It allows
us to realize that no matter who you are, another reader, a very different person, can inter-be with you, and in fact, must inter-be with you, which provides
grounds for compassionate problematizing, posing tough questions that come
from a place of shared essence. It helps us feel as we judge. This inter-being of
place, people, and their labors connects us in tangible ways through our labor,
our work, our doing of things, through our bodies, not just our minds. Other’s writing and its success and failure, then are our own successes and failures.
When students share in the ontological essence of locally diverse writing, they
have a good chance at confronting difference from a white racial habitus and
posing problems about the nature of judgment to each other.
Still, you may be wondering why “labor” as the central metaphor for our
grading contract and the classroom writing assessment ecology? Why not “work”
or “process”? The idea of labor as valuable isn’t that strange for most students.
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U.S. culture rewards labor by paying for it by the hour, and the paradigm of
mandatory labor hours and overtime hours are familiar to Fresno State students,
most of whom work in labor economies. At some point, I wanted them to question these paradigms, question the idea that the rewards we get out of our labors
correlate positively to the time and effort we put into them, that learning is a
linear equation, that more time spent on writing can always be apparent in the
development and quality of drafts, or even writers. I do not think this is entirely
true, but it is not entirely false, and it is more true than false. So for the assessment ecology’s purposes, it was safe to say that writing well and producing effective documents takes effort and time. Thus the dominant purpose of the ecology
was not to produce grades as ecological products. It was to produce labor, which
is another way of saying to produce sustainable places, which by their nature in
this ecology would become borderlands of problematizing, antiracist places to
inhabit.
I should note that in retrospect I see a problem with defining and discussing
the contract’s calculus for course grades purely in terms of the labor in capitalist
market economies. While students get this metaphor easily, and usually agree
with it philosophically, as a scholar of Marxian stripes, I can see how my contract
may look like some version of exploitation, in which a ruling class (the teacher)
expects a certain amount of labor for a lower price (course grade) than what
might reasonably be expected from a subordinate class (students). The power
dynamics work in the teacher’s favor, labor’s price is set by the teacher. There
is no equal exchange or true negotiation, despite the fact that most (if not all)
writing teachers do not wish to exploit their students.
Exploitation, though, is subjective. What I see as fair, my students may see as
unfair and exploitative. Two white female students, Susan, a middle-aged women returning to school, majoring in business-accountancy, and Jane, a former
Minnesotan in her early twenties, majoring in business, voiced this concern,
discussing it as fairness and too much work. Both were traditionally, high performers in classes, and both came into the course writing the local SEAE quite
well. They each embodied well a white racial habitus in their writing and reading
dispositions.
As I’ve discussed in another place (Inoue, 2012a), students from white racial formations at Fresno State often have difficulty with the contract because
they no longer automatically sit at the top of the grading pyramid in the class.
The labors that required an “A” grade before are now insufficient, or seem so
initially. Additionally, these students often feel it unfair that now “As” are more
available to more students in the class (Inoue, 2012a, p. 92). Their “A’s” mean
less.44 These findings from Fresno State’s first-year writing courses also align with
other research on white student reactions to grading contracts (Spidell & The191

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lin, 2006).45 Susan’s and Jane’s concerns, along with a few other students, were
important to our mid-point re-negotiations of the contract, and important to
enacting more equitable power arrangements in the writing assessment ecology
of the course by encouraging difference and conflict, and providing a method for
the exercising of their own agency and power in determining their course grades.
So when such resistances came up, even if they were the minority opinions, I
made sure they were heard and discussed.
I’m not sure this alleviated the sense that the contract was not an exploitative
one. I am sure that conventional teacher-student power relations are unavoidable, and so regardless of how I presented things or offered ways to negotiate the
contract, it may still have ended up feeling to some as an exploitative contract,
because some students may have felt coerced into agreeing with the contract and
not voicing their real concerns. But even in conventionally graded classrooms,
students are automatically placed in less powerful positions and more likely to
be exploited. They get no say in grading. Students frequently mentioned in reflections how helpful and rewarding it was to construct or negotiate the course’s
terms. And as I show in the next section, monolingual Latina and white students
in the class had uniformly positive orientations toward the grading contract ecology. The theme of labor was important to the sense of fairness in these orientations.
Allowing my students to negotiate the terms of the contract in weeks 1 and
10 (we have a 16 week semester) was my attempt to negotiate a “fair price” for
their labor in the course. I reasoned that after a significant portion of the class had
gone by, after students had experienced the contract in good faith, they would be
more comfortable and inclined to negotiate the contract or make a judgment on
its fairness at that point. And so, my students were given multiple opportunities
to be involved in the setting of the terms of their labor through the contract as
an ecological part, an artifact that represented what labor meant and what its
consequences were in our ecology. In week 10, we did make an important change
to the contract. The original contract allowed for three or fewer late assignments
in order to meet the contract’s guidelines for a “B” course grade, but after discussions, the class agreed to five or fewer late assignments, with the caveat listed below the breakdown table (see the contract in Appendix A). The caveat attempted
to reward in some fashion the significant number of students (the vast majority
of the class) who were still meeting the original contract guidelines and expected
to meet them by semester’s end. In fact, when all was said and done, 16 out of 23
met the original contract’s guidelines for a “B” grade.
But philosophically, there is still tension with the economic metaphor of labor. There is something about using grades as the unit of exchange in an assessment ecology that doesn’t do justice to what we usually attempt to accomplish
in a writing classroom. If students accepted this as the main way our contract
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worked (and I cannot say with certainty they did not), then one might say the
contract created an ecology in which students were somewhat alienated from
the ecological products of their labor, that is, alienated from learning, alienated
from the reading and writing practices they were expected to improve. Students
would be focused on grades as products, not attaining better writing or reading
practices, not laboring with increased awareness of that labor’s intensity or productivity (i.e., its ability to generate future learning products). But one can also
make this same criticism of any conventional grading ecology because in both
cases, it’s not the focus on labor that is the problem, it is the focus on grades that
alienates students from the real products of their labor. The surrogate product of
grades substitutes a student’s purposes, swapping out the goal of laboring to learn
(about their writing and reading practices) for laboring to earn (a grade). I asked
my students to labor to learn, not labor to earn, but it was up to them to accept.
Labor is also traditionally the productive activity that results in a child. To
be in labor is to be giving birth, to be generating, to be creating. Creating and
generating is at the heart of all writing classrooms. And when we create things,
difference and originality are most valued, even expected or assumed. No two
babies are alike, and no one would ever say they were. Even with identical twins
(I am an identical twin), people look for differences as often as they look for
similarities. Difference is valued and assumed. Thus, labor in childbirth suggests
to me the unknown or unexpected consequences of our energies because that
labor is associated with creativity, originality, difference, and the unexpected, all
of which are embraced as the norm.
Similarly in the writing classroom, we ask our students to generate readings
of texts, to form arguments, to create feedback for colleagues, to create texts of
all sorts. Usually, these creations, like babies, take on a life of their own when
they are distributed and read by others. There is no better way to see this than in
a writing group in which readers interpret or judge a text (a peer’s or a published
one). Each reader sees or argues for something different, sees different things
in the text. These readings are the life that comes from the original text, whose
author may not have intended at all those discussions, yet there they are. A focus
on labor in the ecology, as a painful, generative, exciting, and unknown activity,
keeps students from thinking in terms of grades and simple, less-useful rewards,
and moves them to embracing and problematizing difference in language use.
This alone makes grading by labor an antiracist assessment practice.
While he doesn’t use the metaphor of childbirth or labor, Alfie Kohn (1993)
makes a supportive argument against grades and other hierarchical rewards in
education, work, and parenting. In fact, citing educational research and research
in behavioral psychology, Kohn finds that students learn more when they are
asked to reflect and self-assess on their work but aren’t graded (Brophy & Kher,
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1986, p. 264; as quoted in Kohn, 1999, p. 156). Furthermore, Kohn explains
that students who are “led to think mostly about how well they are doing—or
even worse, how well they are doing compared to everyone else—are less likely
to do well” (1999, p. 156). Using the metaphor of labor, particularly the labor
of assessment (reading and judging), makes more visible several elements of the
ecology: the processes of reading and assessing; the places created in the ecology
that connect, norm, shock, and change people; and the people around us who
labor together and whom we are always trying to connect to because we already
feel our latent inter-being, or to use Burke, we try through our rhetoric to identify with others (1969, p. 55).
I’m not saying that we can escape giving course grades (I didn’t in this class),
but I am saying we can pay attention to the power and influence that grades
have over our students, and ask our students also to pay attention in order to
explicitly form critical stances against grades. This work begins with revealing
the ecology as structured by grading and assessment. I tried to cultivate places
in our conversations in which I inserted this problem, which is central to the
second question students developed in their initial thinking on the grading contract (“how do we know how well we are doing if there are no grades?”). The
assessment ecology we created did focus most students’ attentions on their labor,
thus implicating it in their purposes and in the dominant purpose I articulated
in the contract’s language (to write and assess for its own sake). I would also argue that this refocusing of purposes changes the nature of any products students
can get out of a classroom writing assessment ecology. The best way to see how
students were able to explicitly form critical stances against grades, and perhaps
problematize the judgment of their own language practices, is to look closer at
our contract renegotiation processes during week 10.

STUDENT ORIENTATIONS IN THE
WRITING ASSESSMENT ECOLOGY
To say that most students changed their orientations toward their labor in
the classroom writing assessment ecology from laboring to earn grades (a conventional purpose) to laboring to learn about the ways their language is judged
is a significant claim. I argue that it happened uniformly, and we can see perhaps
how it occurred by seeing the way various ecological elements intersected for
students. It is in the intersections of various elements where the products of our
assessment ecologies become clearest. These intersections are the places in the
ecology that show the inter-being of elements.
The renegotiation of our contract in week 10 perhaps best illustrates the
dramas in the ecology that revealed students’ evolving ecological purposes and
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products. This significant moment in the semester when we consciously looked
at and altered the most important ecological part of our assessment ecology, appears to suggest that most students did have productive purposes that came from
the dominant one I offered (i.e., laboring to learn). However, these orientations
to the writing assessment ecology also had patterns. They tended to congeal by
racial-linguistic formations, mostly defined by their monolingual or multilingual statuses. But as I’ll show later in their assessing of each other’s drafts and the
reflections on those labors and activities, these patterns didn’t always hold up.
The monolingual students in the course usually experienced the contract
positively and in unambiguous terms, however, several, particularly the white
students, did mention grades as an ecological product they were striving for. Jane
(a white student, mentioned above), for instance, says, “[t]he grading contract is
something I was unsure of at first as well, but I actually love it. I love knowing
exactly what I need to do in order to get the grade I want, no questions asked. It
is a little stressful at times, but I would take our grading contract over the typical
grading any day.”46 While she doesn’t go into detail, she is unambiguous about
the fact that the contract works for her, and this was clear in her enthusiasm
and hard work in the course, particularly in her writing and class discussions.
It would seem that Jane cared most about the grade, since that is where her
reflection appears to be focused, but in the fuller reflection, this statement is
surrounded by a discussion of her appreciation for her group discussions and the
ways those processes worked well for her learning. Still, Jane suggests a somewhat dual orientation in the writing assessment ecology, one that has one eye on
the learning she gets in the ecological place of her group and one eye on what
she has to do in order to get the product (grade) she wants.
Zach, a white student majoring in viticulture, a first-generation student from
a farming family near the central coast, on the other hand, reflects in more detail:
First I want to say that I greatly respect and enjoy the contract
because it provides me the ability to always do my best and
makes me want to better my writing. Also it gives me the
opportunity to write what I want to write and not feel as if it’s
going to be compared to everyone else’s work, instead I get to
discover my own capabilities and be completely unique in the
way I put my ideas on paper. Lastly the greatest part of the
contract is the idea of our labor being taken [in]to consideration, I have taken many English classes in my life and in
most I know for a fact I have worked harder than some of
my colleagues and yet be graded lower than them which has
always discouraged me as a writer, but in this class It’s finally
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being recognized that if I work hard I still can be successful
regardless if my writing is not considered the best in class. To
be completely honest I really don’t have any negative thoughts
about the contract because none of the work in this class has
made me feel as if it’s unfair or I’m not capable of meeting the
expectations. I do work very hard in this class, but my hard
work is being recognized so there are no complaints from me.
Zach describes his past writing experiences as ones that did not reward or value
his labor, his hard work. And Zach is not exaggerating about his hard work,
something he likely learned working on his family’s farm, which we discussed
several times during the semester. This aspect of his labor, seen through each
activity and assignment from the very first day, was characteristic of him as a
student. He worked long and hard, producing copious amounts of text, and
followed the directions for each assignment to the letter. So it makes sense that
he’d find value in the way the contract focuses on labor and work, not on a
teacher’s judgment of the results of that work, or on “compar[ing his work] to
everyone else’s work.” And for Zach, this allows him to turn his writing labors
into learning products—that is, the contract “provides [him] the ability to always do [his] best and makes [him] want to better [his] writing.” The emphasis
in Zach’s orientation in our assessment ecology is on the contract as a part, as
an articulation (“the part of the contract I like most”) of labor that defines the
codes for success in the class. In effect, Zach focuses on labor and our processes
of reading, writing, and assessing, which the contract asks the class to value first.
Additionally, the absence of grades as one product and the presence of his labor
as valued processes created for Zach a fair system. This is different from Jane’s
sense of fairness. Hers is more oriented toward a grade-product she wants and
can clearly see how to attain.
Amanda, a Latina majoring in business-accountancy, discusses in a typical
way for the class the grading contract in week 10’s reflection posting:
My first initial response to the syllabus was, “shit, that’s a lot
of writing” and we’ve actually done a lot more writing than
what the syllabus stated but the writing has come, surprisingly, fairly easy to me. I really do like the grading contract.
It’s fair enough and I like the degree of freedom given to us
because of it. We don’t have to be worried about being judged
on quality so we can get away with stepping outside our
boundaries.
Many other students commented similarly on the workload that the syllabus
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and contract identified for the “B” grade. Most found it to be quite steep, more
writing than they’d ever done before or been expected to do for a “B” or an “A”
grade. Yet all that writing without being “judged on quality” allows Amanda to
take risks, step “outside our boundaries.” Zach affirms Amanda’s comment in
his reply to her: “It’s funny that you mention the ‘O Shit’ moment while reading the syllabus at the beginning of the semester because I said the same thing,
I really thought at first I wasn’t going to be able to keep up. But as for most of
us we found out this class isn’t really that hard it’s just a lot of work.” The other
two students who replied to Amanda also affirmed her sense that the work was
steep, but producing the amount of writing wasn’t actually that hard. Amanda
and Zach’s exchange about the class not being hard but “a lot of work” is significant. What this identifies to me is the felt sense by these students around the
tension in quality-based writing assessment ecologies that are less predictable
for students. In those ecologies, the amount of labor involved in any writing
assignment does not necessarily equate to success, credit, or a good grade. You
can work hard but still do poorly. This unpredictability causes students to find
writing in those courses “hard.” Thus, when Amanda and Zach say our ecology
isn’t hard, what I hear them saying is that their labor is valued in predicable ways.
They explicitly connect this predictability to fairness. Fairness seems constructed
by a number of ecological elements working in concert: the contract’s guidelines
and our use of them (an ecological part that regulates processes/labor), students’
participation in the negotiation of the contract (shared ecological power), and
valuing in real ways the worth of student labor (ecological processes that lead to
parts and products).
Kyler, a hard-working, white student majoring in criminology, in his reply
to Amanda sums up the three most prevalent themes in that week’s reflections:
The way you first described the syllabus was the same way I
felt, I mean 5-6 for a B and 9-10 for an A, like that’s a lot of
writing. I agree with how easy it has become, at first I started
off a little shaky but now with knowing how the process works
I’m much better prepared. Not being judged on quality and
rather on effort is nice, writing just is too subjective to grade.
Klyer identifies that there is a lot of labor for “A” and “B” grades, however that
labor, which seemed daunting in the beginning has turned out to be easier than
expected. The question underneath this statement, I think, is one about exploitation, but he moves quickly to a positive outcome of his labor. It feels good
not to be judged on quality, not to be judged against a white racial habitus.47
Judgments based on quality (as compared to a white racial habitus) produce
grade-products in assessment ecologies that are often unfair or unwanted (writ197

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ing is “too subjective to grade”). Kyler senses these contradictions. In one sense,
Kyler is voicing the same argument that Zach, Amanda, and Jane seem to be
making, that the lack of grades, despite the heavy workload, makes for less exploitation because it’s fairer than grading on quality. Why? Predictability. Their
labor is directly rewarded.
Kyler ends on a good point that hints at larger institutional conditions in
which all my students must work. These grading conditions are not new or hidden to those in the fields of writing assessment or linguistics. Many studies have
been done on the unreliability of the grading of student writing over the last 100
years (Diederich, 1974; Finkelstein, 1913; Starch & Elliott, 1912), but locally
diverse students complicate further this unreliability in grading because of the
complex habitus they embody when writing.
Paul Diederich sums up these conclusions best when describing the famous
factor analysis study done by John French, Sydell Carlton, and himself in 1961
at ETS, and it illustrates an insight about the “subjectivity” of grading that students, like Kyle, can figure out. Diederich and his colleagues presented 300
college papers to 53 readers, and asked them to grade the papers. They found
that 101 papers “received every grade from 1 to 9; 94 percent received either
seven, eight, or nine different grades; and no essay received less than five different grades” (1974, p. 6). The median correlation, or agreement among all
the readers, was a very low .31—that means, their model could account for or
predict only 9.6% of the variance in grades. Most of the variance was unknown,
or as Kyler says, “too subjective.” Moving from class to class, teacher to teacher,
students, even white students like Kyler who arguably share more in a white
racial habitus (the norm), feel this unevenness in grading and perceive it as unfair, unpredictable. More important, this unevenness affects students’ abilities to
engage deeply in writing, and orient themselves appropriately in each writing
assessment ecology. This affects their abilities to learn, their ecological products.
Clearly students, if given the chance, can see this unfairness, and make productive (as in producing ecological products) sense of it if the writing assessment
ecology offers the conditions to do so. In our classroom, we used reflection on
the contract to help us build these conditions.
Diederich, however, also explains this problem from the teacher’s side of
things. In his next chapter when concluding about a different ETS study done
by Benjamin Rosner on the effects of bias in grading practices, Diederich says,
“grading is such a suggestible process that we find what we expect to find. If we
think a paper came from an honors class, we expect it to be pretty good, and that
is what we find. If we think it came from a regular class, we expect it to be only
so-so, and that is what we find” (1974, p. 12). This is a phenomenon that I have
found to be true at every institution at which I’ve taught, where the bias does
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not just come from a stamp on the student’s writing (“honors” or “regular”), as
in Rosner’s study, but comes from an association with the body of color and that
body’s assumed linguistic capabilities, particularly those of Latino/a and Hmong
students (at Fresno State).
In fact, Shaughnessy (1977) makes this association to the basic writer explicit,
suggesting some historical precedent of such associations. She describes remedial
students as “true outsiders,” “strangers in academia,” all from “New York’s ethnic or racial enclaves,” who speak “other languages or dialects at home” (1977,
pp. 2-3). Otte and Mlynarchzyk (2010) describe Shaughnessy’s rendering of the
basic writer as “above all as urban and ‘other’” (p. 49). The association of race to
language use and its differential valuing by others is a finding that linguists have
confirmed in several studies (Richardson, 2003; Greenfield, 2011), and those in
rhetoric and composition have reported on and discussed already (Gilyard, 1991;
Kubota & Ward, 2000). And it is also a phenomenon closely tied to the norming and racing of places, classroom places, textual places, and remedial places, as
others have suggested about the assumption of the remedial student as a student
of color in institutions (Soliday, 2002; Stanley, 2009). The biases in judging that
create racist patterns in classrooms, however, may be hard to see by individual
teachers in their own assessment practices. We need our students to tell us about
the degree of fairness in our assessment ecologies, and we need to ask them to
help us investigate the construction of fairness in the ecology.
To get a sense of the grading conditions at Fresno State that influence my
students, like Kyle, Zach, Amanda, and Jane, consider the grade distributions of
different colleges. In these grade distributions, there appears to be an association
between grades and the particular racial formations in those colleges. In Fall
2012 for example, 92.8% of all grades given in the Honors College, an ecological place where mostly white students inhabit, were A’s. Meanwhile, in the
School of Business, where a large number of Hmong students take majors, only
22.1% of all grades given were A’s and 35.9% were B’s. In Criminology, where
there are more majors than in any other department, and the vast majority of
them are Latino/a, just 35.2% of all grades were A’s and 35.5% were B’s.48 Of
course, there are many factors that go into a course grade, and given the wide
range of courses involved in these numbers, it’s hard to know what exactly could
be common influences. I’m not arguing for a causal relationship here.
My point is not to suggest that grades are determined by racial bias in teachers’ grading practices. Certainly there are more factors that go into those grade
distributions. I merely wish to show that throughout the institution’s assessment
ecologies, where grades are conventionally given to student writing based on
quality (or comparisons to local SEAEs and a white racial habitus), students
experience uneven terrains that are not easily predicable by them without ex199

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plicit attention to the way each assessment ecology constructs grades—and in
part, constructs them by processes of norming to various versions of the domain
discourse. Their own racial habitus affect this unevenness and their immediate
success or failure, despite the good intentions of teachers. The results of the
pervasiveness of these grading ecologies is for students to be hyper-conscious of
grades and how their writing is graded. They see and feel the unpredictability
in it all. I take this deviation from Kyle’s orientation in our writing assessment
ecology to point out how complex his response, which seems straightforward,
really is, and how interconnected our writing assessment ecology is to others at
Fresno State. Perhaps one lesson from this a teacher might take is that no teacher ever grades on an island. Students experience the inter-being of the various
assessment ecologies they move through, and their membership in one ecology
likely will affect their movement in another.
Interestingly, Kyle’s reference to grades is one of the two or three explicit references to any actual grades in all of the reflections during that week. Most students in my class discussed the contract in terms of work, effort, or labor in the
above ways, and what it produced for them as readers and writers. This suggests
that in fact our writing assessment ecology had shifted their ecological purposes
and re-oriented monolingual students to other products by first focusing their
attention on the assessment processes, which asked them to labor over drafts and
texts in the course, staying away from using quality as a way to measure success
in any given writing or reading activity.
It should be noted also that Jane, Zach, and Kyler were white students that I
would consider conventionally higher performing students at Fresno State, while
Amanda was a Latina who also was high performing in the same ways. I’m not
saying that all of them came into the class as superior writers of academic discourses in their fields or of our local version of SEAE, but I am saying that they
each were highly motivated students, following the contract very carefully, doing
all the work according to the directions, always highly engaged in class discussions
and group work, and were each from monolingual, dominant English-speaking
households. So the amount of labor to be done to earn the same kind of grade
they typically received in other courses might reasonably be the most noticeable
difference from other courses. Thus orienting themselves by their labor and the
absence of quality-based grades on drafts is not surprising to me.
Yet most if not all of the monolingual students, who were almost all white
and Latina in my class, found the contract’s emphasis on labor as a fairer system
than quality-based, conventional ones that produce course grades. Monolingual
students also tended to orient themselves in the assessment ecology toward the
labor processes of the class and against quality judgments of writing produced by
those processes, like Amanda, Jane, Zach, and Kyler. They voiced enjoyment and
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engagement. They were usually unambiguous about their feelings toward the
contract system. And they all mention in some fashion alternative products for
the labor processes of reading, writing, and assessing. For example, Jane explains
in the same reflection cited above that “[r]eading my peers papers also lets me
evaluate my own writing and gives me ideas on how to improve”; Zach mentions
the products of “always doing his best,” and “discover[ing] my own capabilities”; Amanda finds she attains “a degree of freedom” in her writing so that she
can “ste[p] outside our boundaries”; Kyler later in his reflection on the contract
says that it helped him to be more adventurous in his revising, “[i]ncorporating
new concepts” into his writing. Beyond the implied purpose of achieving course
grades as direct products of our assessment ecology, monolingual students tended to articulate their purposes as simply being involved in a fairer, predicable,
more democratic system, one that values their hard work, and provides freedom
to explore and take risks, and this ecology was in stark contrast to other writing
assessment ecologies they inhabited in the past.
In contrast, consider a few of the multilingual students, who likely had difficulties meeting the SEAE and white racial habitus expectations in school and
who may have had trouble engaging as deeply as Amanda, Zach, Jane, and Kyler
in past reading and writing activities. Multilingual students had more uneven
responses to the grading contract, and tended to orient themselves toward different ecological elements in the assessment ecology, which allowed them to
articulate a variety of purposes beyond the dominant one. They were still mostly
positive in orientation to the contract, but those orientations had more tension
in them, often because of the multilingual aspects of their own habitus. In the
same week’s reflection on the contract at midpoint, Ashe,49 a quiet, soft-spoken, multilingual, Hmong, female student, majoring in business administration-management, seemed more ambivalent than most students in the class:
After meeting with Professor Inoue, I seem to be on track
with my previous assignments. I plan to continue to turning
in assignments on time. This second assignment doesn’t seem
easy as other classmates may say, things still are the same.
Researching, outlining, drafting, and deciding whether what
you’ve done is enough ... is still a complicated matter to take
on, in my opinion. I guess I need to continue to read and
write to get use to writing in college. The only thing that I
think bothers me at the moment in regards to the Grading
Contract is the amount of work that we do (pages of writing
that we produce) determines our grade. The subject that I
chose to do my first project, I would say limited me to pro201

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duce a large amount of writing. I wrote as much as I could to
prove my point, but then again, I guess it may challenge me
to find other ways to go around proving my topic.
It would appear that unlike many of her colleagues in class, Ashe still needed me
(the teacher) to validate her progress and labor in class—that is, she had yet to
judge the effectiveness of her own labor and thus the fairness of the contract. She
leaned on me to make those judgments. Unlike all of the monolingual students,
Ashe wouldn’t make that judgment without citing my approval. It would seem
then, for her, that power arrangements in class flow from the teacher, perhaps
her way of giving me respect. The writing assessment ecology had not shifted
as much power and agency to Ashe as it had to the monolingual students. And
Ashe contrasts her difficulties with Project 2 to what “other classmates may say”
about the ease of the labor asked of everyone. She’s aware that her position in
our assessment ecology is different in nature than other students, perhaps a lingering effect of all those other institutional assessment ecologies in which she
was normed in the past. She was quiet and shy, not often willing to talk in class
or even in her group, but was highly engaged, doing each assignment fully and
carefully. My sense is that Ashe was very aware of her linguistic difference from
the local SEAEs expected in college, hence the comment, “I guess I need to
continue to read and write to get use to writing in college,” and her contrasting
of her difficulties to her classmates. This is perhaps one example of the psychological effects of Matsuda’s “myth of linguistic homogeneity” on multilingual
students in writing classrooms, a need to compare one’s own performances to
others, particularly monolingual peers.
However, Ashe concludes that this demand of more labor in our assessment
ecology, a demand of many “pages of writing that we produce,” can challenge
her to “find other ways” to prove her topic, to urge her to invent other writing
strategies. Despite her needing my validation, her orientation in the ecology,
like her colleagues, is not concerned with grades, instead it is about what labor
she needs to do and what she can learn once she’s validated that labor with me.
This, I think, is a step in the right direction. The products of the ecology for her
are true learning products, not grades. They spring from her sense of her subject
position in the place of her writing group, and her knowledge of her capabilities
as a multilingual writer in a writing class that still assumes a local SEAE and
dominant versions of disciplinary discourses (for her, business), all of which
come in part from her contrasting herself to her colleagues.
However, I may be assuming wrongly that Ashe requires full, unfettered
power and agency in order to develop as a writer and reader, that my validation
is somehow either unnecessary or harmful to her. I’ve made these arguments to
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students before, but Ashe complicates these assumptions. Her reflection suggests, I think, that maybe this isn’t the best assumption to make about what’s
best for Ashe’s growth as a writer. I might be leaving her without any oar or
anchor in a choppy sea of discourse if I didn’t offer some ideas and validation,
validation that none of the monolingual students seemed to require from me.
While it seems that our assessment ecology allowed Ashe not to have unfettered agency, she still claims her learning in useful ways. Similar to the monolingual students, Ashe focuses on ecological products and the power to determine
things in the assessment ecology, even if tentatively (“it may challenge me to find
other ways to go around proving my topic”). She ends her reflection this way:
I am not sure that I have developed as a writer, I still feel like
I am still the same as I was before. What has been challenging for me is the layout of this new approach in a English
course, such as the power that we have to create our own
rubric. As a writer, I would like to have readers understand
my writing, but that I know will still take years and years to
get across; with more reading and daily writing incorporated
in my life, hopefully it can happen. I think I may have to set
a schedule of the labor needed for specific homework assignments to keep myself from procrastinating and losing track
of time.
Despite her own admission to not seeing any growth in her writing, Ashe offers
an elegant theory of learning to write, which comes from the labor-based assessment ecology of the course. Her theory is based on “years and years” of work and
“a schedule of the labor needed” to accomplish writing that her “readers [can]
understand.” Thus even though she doesn’t seem aware of any learning, Ashe
demonstrates a reorientation in the ecology to labor that has a particular purpose
for her and a learning product, revolving around her future writing practices.
The contract set the grounds for such self-assessment and reorientation. The
rubric and the contract may be “challenging” for Ashe, and she may still feel
that she has “years and years” to go, but she is making these claims about her
learning on her own and in spite of the “challenging” “layout” of the course. This
to me is healthy agency and an exercise of her power to control the products of
her labor in the class.
On the other hand, Gloria, a multilingual, Latina, who was a third-year
student majoring in psychology, offered a more optimistic reflection on the fairness of the grading contract, but like Ashe, moves to discussing the assessment
ecology’s products, only this time through a discussion of what she learned as a
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reader/assessor of her colleagues’ drafts:
As far as the contract goes, I think it has expectations that we
can meet as students. It has been very helpful that the contract puts emphasis on the labor the we do, and not in the
quality of our work. Although, I do believe that because we
have been given flexibility, we are developing as better writers. Thus far, as a reader I have learned how to provide better
commentary to someone’s writing; not judging the quality of
their work, but by providing commentaries that will induce
the writer the reader’s understanding of the writing, while
at the same time invoking critical thinking on the writer to
better develop their work.
Like the majority of the students in this class, Gloria didn’t talk about grades
as products explicitly when asked to reflect upon our grading contract and any
problems with it. Instead, she thinks about the assessment ecology and its learning products (i.e., “flexibility” and “developing as better writers”), and affirms
that it is a fair environment (“it has expectations that we can meet as students”).
Most important to Gloria are the products of her labor, the labor of reading
and providing descriptive feedback to colleagues, feedback that stays away from
evaluating quality in drafts and focuses on “invoking critical thinking.” These
are the day to day processes, expectations, and artifacts that help form each
writing group as a place in the assessment ecology. Most interesting, Gloria does
not argue that the writing assessment ecology produces better documents. The
environment’s “emphasis on the labor [that] we do, and not in the quality of
our work” gives “flexibility” in the ecology to “develop[p] as better writers.” So
the products of the writing assessment ecology, at least for Gloria, centers on
developing students through assessment processes, not documents. This important insight, a learning product itself, is a result of the focus on labor, something
she mentions above. Because Gloria wasn’t thinking of assignments as points or
grades to be acquired, she could instead focus on what she was doing each week,
moving her to focus on herself as a writer, which then revealed this insight.
The presence and importance of the people in the writing assessment ecology
was a major theme for most multilingual and many monolingual students reflecting on the contract in week 10. But arguably, it was a stronger way that multilingual students oriented themselves in the writing assessment ecology. Lyna,
a multilingual, Cambodian student, majoring in business, who often produced
a lot of text in her assignments, had lots of language issues that often tangled
up her sentences, more so than Gloria or Ashe. However, both Gloria and Lyna
center on the consequences for the people in the assessment ecology. In Lyna’s
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reflection, she focuses on the writing groups, how helpful and encouraging they
were for her as a writer, then moves to her own difficulties in writing:
It is appropriate that we all help one another be on the same
track. The power of determining the contract help ease the
tension of whether or not we are able to reach our goals.
Personally I actually enjoy working as a group more than I can
ever re-call at college level. In some ways that I have grown is
that I am more accustom to having my peers reading my issues
with out having an overly extorted anxiety of having my papers
read other than an instructor. I just realized now we work in
a group in a way of a support group to help one another with
our issues and share our concerns. I more used to writing in
my own style. This is typing away as what my brain works.
What makes sense to me does not always make since to others.
One main reason is that I happen to work in how my ideas
flow. Upon reading it to myself, I would fine it a paper that I
can say put forth my ideas until some one comes along (usually
my English teacher in High school) would tell me the sequence
is not in a “logical” order. There are many orders you can go
buy because there are many styles you can use. But sometimes
I forget that we don’t write just to write. But we must write in
order for our readers to understand our work. If our readers
do not then the paper would be useless. You not only lose your
readers but your reasoning is also lost too. I find it the hardest
when I actually plan for my paper to flow a certain way but
only to realize it would not meet my readers like I expected to
do. Like having your work nearly down but to only have to
rebuild it. I find this task the most challenging and the most
disheartening thing in writing. Does not matter if this is just
a leisure piece that I am writing or an assignment that is given
in class. Correcting things when they are small can save you a
lot of time than catching it way later in your paper. But there
are so many things that can affect our writing that I just find it
horribly overwhelming …. I’m going to have to do much more
research than I originally did. I only wish my researching skills
were up to par in my writing like I would find in finding new
recipes and searching what would work for me and I should
remind myself I should not cripple myself in writing.
It is revealing that one of the two or three writers in the class who had the most
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challenges with meeting conventional notions of our local SEAE, when asked
to reflect on the grading contract and how well it was working at week 10,
discussed most substantively the people (her group), the processes of her labor,
and their direct products (good and bad) for her in the ecology. She begins her
discussion by couching everything in terms of students having the power to determine the grounds by which their writing will be assessed, and that this ability
helped students, or at least her, meet their goals (i.e., “The power of determining
the contract help ease the tension of whether or not we are able to reach our
goals.”). Power is something, I’m guessing, Lyna has rarely felt or exercised in
writing assessment ecologies, as suggested in her parenthetical aside about past
English teachers identifying her writing as “not in a ‘logical’ order.” Not so surprisingly, being able to exercise some degree of power is key to Lyna’s success. I
imagine the norming and racing enacted through the place of her writing, the
documents judged by past teachers and those at Fresno State in other classes, was
reduced tremendously in our class. And I think, to some degree, Lyna is aware of
the ecology having people, processes, products, and power relations that affect
her ability to write successfully. Hers is the most developed reflection in this way,
offering the fullest sense of the way negotiating the contract’s details about the
labor requirements allowed groups to do more effective and supportive work,
which in turn, reduced anxiety on her part because a grader, a teacher, was not
the primary assessor of her work.
Her comment about past teachers judging her writing as illogically arranged
is particularly interesting to me in the way it reveals the dynamics of past writing assessment ecologies, suggesting the paper as a place of norming and racing
in writing assessment ecologies, particularly for multilingual students of color.
Like Kyler, other assessment ecologies affect Lyna’s movement in ours, only her
lessons are different. They are more comparative. It is a strong power move by
a teacher to make such claims about a student’s text, regardless of the evidence
offered in support of such claims. And because such claims about her text likely
were in the context of grades as motivators, Lyna was forced to worry about
grades first, then about her writing (her logic and arrangement only mattered
because it was graded). Perhaps she saw the indirect products of her labors, labors which likely were never rewarded or acknowledged, as anxiety.
Since this reflection was typical of Lyna’s writing in the course, I’m guessing
it was typical of her past writing. I would not characterize her writing, however,
as lacking a logical structure. It has transitions from one idea to the next, and all
the things discussed are related. Logic is not Lyna’s problem here. Her ability to
use a locally accepted SEAE does create dissonance and tangles in her sentences
(particularly around sentence boundaries). Her natural inclination to write associatively may lead some teachers to see a lack of organization, since this isn’t
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a top-down, topic-oriented discourse. Her associative logical arrangement may
cue some readers to hear/see a non-white racial habitus in her discourse. When
a teacher (either knowingly or not) associates this kind of text to her material
raced body and slightly accented speech, the teacher likely will categorized Lyna
as remedial, as the literature tells us. Logic will not be found in the remedial,
error will.
But Lyna acknowledges that she has her own “style,” one that mimics the
way her “brain works,” and she realizes that not all readers understand this style.
Her group as an ecological place helps her to write to them. Through the power
arrangements and the local place of her group, constructed by our labor processes and the people engaged in those labors, Lyna has some room to begin writing from her own associative discourse without an immediate comparison to a
white racial habitus as norm that previously devalued her writing and labor. Her
own discussion of these issues, stemming from past teachers judging her texts, is
evidence of this self-awareness as an ecological product. Her orientation to the
ecology is positive, connected to the positive experiences in her group, but comparative to other less positive experiences with teachers correcting her writing,
so her ecological products (her orientation to labor) is not without its tensions.
Norming to a white discourse is, I think, important to reading Lyna’s reflection and her relations to other people in the ecology. Lyna continues by
focusing her positive comments on the place of the writing group, a place in
the ecology that is relatively anxiety-free for her. She explains that the writing
group was a “support group” and perhaps offered a less stressful set of readers
than a teacher. This leads her to discuss her own writing anxieties and problems
in the past, realizing that “we don’t write just to write … we must write in order
for our readers to understand our work” —how beautifully Burkean her theory
is. I would argue that perhaps one might read Lyna’s progress, which I think
this reflection shows, as progress predicated on her needing to physically know
and interact with her readers, which is most directly and materially her group
members, something akin to Ede and Lunsford’s “audience addressed” (1984).
Furthermore, Lyna’s focus on the place that her writing group created in the
process of writing, reading, and providing feedback, which always included faceto-face talking over each other’s drafts, suggests an interesting translation of Ede
and Lunsford’s good criticism of the audience as addressed position. And place
as a site of norming and racing is important to this translation.
Ede and Lunsford criticize those who only consider audience as addressed in
writing processes by saying they miss “a recognition of the crucial importance
of this internal dialogue, through which writers analyze inventional problems
and conceptualize patterns of discourse” (1984, p. 158). Furthermore, they say
that the audience-addressed position misses the fact that “no matter how much
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feedback writers may receive after they have written something (or in breaks
while they write), as they compose writers must rely in large part upon their
own vision of the reader, which they create, as readers do their vision of writers, according to their own experiences and expectations” (1984, p. 158). Thus,
writers need or do already address real, material audiences and invoke imagined
ones simultaneously. Lyna exemplifies this dual nature of audience. Lyna’s construction of her readers is a product of her experiences and expectations that are
formed by her multilingual, Cambodian heritage, and the deep, semester-long
discussions with her writing group members.
Lyna’s group was locally diverse, and so not a unified audience, which I
find many teachers, perhaps even Ede and Lunsford, assume to be the audience
for any writing assignment in classes.50 Her group consisted of Amanda (from
above); Kevin, a monolingual, fourth-year basketball player from Florida but
originally born in Jamaica, majoring in communications, who had a girlfriend
and a small child, whom he took care of, which took up much of his limited
time after class; Claudia, a multilingual Latina, majoring in communication disorders—deaf education; and Rachel, a monolingual, Latina, majoring in chemistry who was quiet but an astute reader of her colleagues’ work. Lyna’s group
consisted of all students of color, with four Latinas and one African-American
male. There was a spectrum of multilingual and monolingual English language
users in the group, and everyone had a different major from the others. It was
a diverse group in many ways. These locally diverse habitus make her audience
plural, which complicates the way Ede and Lunsford explain writers conceiving
of invoked audience. This complication comes from Lyna’s interaction with her
addressed audience. So not only is there a gap between Lyna’s addressed audience
and her invoked audience, but there are gaps among her addressed audience
members and potentially how she translates those variations into a set of invoked
audiences. Lyna, however, seems unworried about this. Then again, to be fair to
Lyna, I did not prompt students to discuss such issues.
Arguably just as important to her group dynamic was the absence of a white
student in the group. I’m not arguing to exclude white students from groups
or writing courses, or that they taint in some way writing groups for students
of color. I am saying that because Lyna’s group had a textured set of non-white
racial habitus, a range of multilingual and monolingual writers in the group,
and a range of majors represented, the group could resist simply being a place
of norming to a white racial habitus. There was no representative of a white
racial habitus in the group, which made their group a place that had an easier
time problematizing writers’ existential writing assessment situations since any
criticism of the dominant discourse in the rubric or a text might more easily be
criticisms of discourse outside the place of the writing group. It was a safer place
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to be critical of the dominant white discourse. It was a borderland.
Additionally in the group, there could be some assurance that most group
members, maybe all, shared a felt sense of the influence of norming to a white
racial habitus in past judgments of their writing in school. Their discussions
could be more open to exploring whiteness, even if covertly stated. This made
it a less stressful and more productive ecology for a multilingual, female writer
like Lyna, who was a little shy in class, but not in her group, who had difficulty
with producing local SEAE texts but no difficulty doing the labor of the course
and producing lots of text and thinking, even if that text may not be conventionally arranged (topic-oriented) or follow local SEAE conventions. The place
of her writing group, then, was a racialized location, a place in our assessment
ecology unlike any of the other four writing groups in the class, each with their
own dynamics. And because the ecology placed as top priority the processes of
assessment each week and the labor individuals did in preparation for each day,
there was no need to compare and rank writing performances against a white racial habitus. Lyna’s writing could be valued and she could be a valuable member
of her writing group, not a hindrance. And all of this hinged on Lyna’s getting to
know intimately her group members as a pluralized primary audience.
Our rubrics also resisted norming to a local dominant discourse, although
not completely. So I don’t want to give the false impression that somehow Lyna’s
group didn’t attempt to discuss local dominant academic conventions or expectations that matched a white racial habitus. Like all groups, they did. So I’m not
claiming that conventional norming didn’t occur in Lyna’s group, or that there
wasn’t pressure in peer assessment activities to compare and thus norm Lyna
to our local white racial habitus. Yes, this surely happened. But the fact that it
happened in a locally diverse group of non-white students, slowly over time, in
which grades were not the products of assessments of drafts, but working and
laboring was, something Lyna could do very effectively, made the difference for
her. She could show her value to the group, and offer publically valuable texts.
Lyna doesn’t let herself off the hook though. Her orientation to the ecology
is still filled with tension. Much like Ashe’s contrasting to her colleagues, Lyna
assumes a tacit monolingual, white racial habitus as norm, which she must stack
up against. She knows she has difficultly producing writing that meets such expectations. She focuses on her struggles mostly in her reflection on the contract.
The process of the class, of drafting, redrafting, reading others’ drafts and writing
up feedback, then revising, and redrafting is “challenging” and “disheartening,”
since it feels like “rebuilding” each draft. Much like Ashe, Lyna’s tension in her
orientation to the assessment ecology stems from her accepting a comparison of
her writing to a local dominant discourse, which is informed by a white racial
habitus that other teachers in her past used to devalue her writing. In a reply to
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Lyna, Rachel, one of her group members, attempts to reassure her:
I feel like I have very challenging courses and this class is
one of the toughest. The material is not that difficult but the
amount of work and time in each assignment is very challenging. I also wrote in my reflection that I liked being in groups
the most because it clears up confusion and questions I have
for my peers. My group is very supportive when I mess up
and I am grateful for that.
Interestingly, the only person to reply to Lyna’s long reflection, of which the
above is only part, is Rachel, a monolingual, Latina group member. Perhaps Rachel felt obligated to reply to Lyna, or maybe she was looking to read her group
members’ posts first and found Lyna’s worth a reply. It’s hard to know, but it is
interesting that most other students’ posts received replies from students outside
their writing groups, but not Lyna. Rachel shores up this problem, proving Lyna’s point about the supportive nature of the place of her group. While Rachel
does not reply directly to any comment or item in Lyna’s original post, she does
implicitly comfort Lyna by agreeing about the challenging workload. But she
ends on the supportive nature of their group, which mimics Lyna’s “support
group” discussion. And the nature of that group, Rachel reminds Lyna, is one
of clearing up confusions and questions. In essence, the job of their group is to
help rebuild drafts.
At the end of her reflection, Lyna makes an interesting, and I think productive, comparison to her own more organic research practices around recipes
and cooking.51 Would she have come to these insights without the grading contract? Perhaps, but what about in a different writing assessment ecology, one
not characterized by the labor of drafting and redrafting that create places like
support groups, or assessment in a locally diverse place that was less influenced
by a mandatory norming to a white racial habitus? It is less likely, especially for
a multilingual writer who might find her private receipt research and writing
quite effective and productive, but not worth a comparison to academic research. However, in our ecology, she sees a connection.
Interestingly, groups also offered an ecological place that produced learning
products for an introverted, mature (in his mid-to late- 20s), white male student, Dwight, a business major, who explains: “the good thing about this class
so far is the interaction in our group circles. I feel more comfortable talking in
front of people the more and more I have been doing it lately. I really really really struggle with talking in groups, I get really nervous and awkward and I do
not know how to fix it, but I can say lately it has been better.” Dwight focuses
on his own locally diverse group (consisting of Ashe, a monolingual Latina,
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and another monolingual white male student) as a place that offered him ways
to more comfortably talk to people, but he doesn’t link his writing group with
writing or reading products as Lyna does. I think it is significant, however, that
Dwight’s group is mostly monolingual students, and perhaps suggests the ambiguity of Ashe’s reflections on the grading contract. Ashe and Dwight’s group
wasn’t as racially or linguistically diverse as Lyna’s. In fact, Dwight’s reflection on
the contract describes his future work on project two as mostly changes in his
individual effort and labor practices, not in what his group offers him. Dwight
orients himself differently than his multilingual colleague, Lyna, even when they
find value in the same ecological place in the assessment ecology.
It wasn’t just multilingual or introverted students who found the groups
most helpful in creating ecological places where they could thrive. Jane, who
was extraverted, lively and outspoken in large class discussions, also found the
groups the most valuable aspect of the writing assessment ecology: “I enjoy our
group discussion the most, I always leave class in a great mood and have lot of
laughs. Reading my peers papers also lets me evaluate my own writing and gives
me ideas on how to improve. I think by going through the evaluation process
in such an in-depth way, my writing has really improved.” As Lyna’s, Dwight’s,
and Jane’s reflections suggest, group work offered ecological places that produced unexpected consequences for them, products that were more than grades,
which came from processes, recognized labor, and power arrangements that gave
students more flexibility and control over what they did. However, as Ashe and
Lyna’s reflections show, there was tension in multilingual students’ orientations
to the ecology, which tended to stem from their own self-norming to the white
racial habitus often expected of them in their writing.
The way the monolingual Latina and white students (e.g., Amanda, Zach,
Jane, and Kyler) oriented themselves in our writing assessment environment
is striking next to the way all the multilingual female students did (e.g., Ashe,
Gloria, and Lyna).52 As my analysis above shows, the monolingual white and
Latina/o students tended to orient themselves in the ecology by the power and
freedom (usually from stress or writing constraints) generated through the class’s
labor processes and the absence of grades. Often they focused on the negotiation
and creation of ecological parts to articulate this power, such as the contract
negotiation and rubric creation processes. They also tended to articulate the
dominant purposes I had offered for our assessment environment (i.e., laboring
to learn). The multilingual Latina and Asian students tended to orient themselves by their own purposes for the assessment processes and their relationships
with people in the places cultivated by their writing groups. As ecological places,
the groups also arguably provided multilingual students valuable tensions in
several areas: between addressed and invoked audiences, among locally diverse
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addressed audiences, and between past norming by teachers and our classroom’s
more complex norming and counter-norming. In some ways, one could say the
ecological place of the groups, when they were locally diverse, provided tacit
ways for students to problematize their existential assessment situations, even
white students like Kyler and Zach.
I’m convinced that most students understood at some significant level these
elements of the writing assessment ecology we were creating, even though we
did not talk explicitly about them in these ways. Gideon, a tall, monolingual,
white student,53 majoring in computer science, who always sat in the middle of
the room, nicely sums up what most of the students were saying, but does so in
terms of the contract as an ecological part of a larger system of related elements,
namely purposes, processes, and products, which help people (students):
The grading contract is one of the most interesting things. At
first I saw it as just the grading guidelines and it bored me.
But really it’s about the process and constantly considering
and re considering how to construct a more professional and
effective message on paper. It is a lot less about the grade than
I initially took it to be. It’s more a reminder to work work and
re work your writing, because there really isn’t any reason to
let a piece of writing rest as if it were perfect and there was no
room for improvement. At least for us at this level. In other
courses you write, get your grade, and then move on and never look back. This course has reminded me to carry over the
attitude of constant analysis and criticism of my life efforts
into my written communications.
Gideon was one of those students who didn’t initially seem that motivated or
interested in the class, but as the semester moved on, his level of engagement in
groups and on our Bb forums, such as in this reflection, quickly became more
intense, producing insights like this one. He captures exactly the way I saw our
ecology, one that did produce course grades, but was mostly about doing reading and writing labors and processes, about “work work and re work” for other
learning purposes that help students in their “life efforts.”
But Gideon makes an astute observation, one we had not discussed in class,
that any piece of writing can be improved, and that if we are here to learn how
to write, then we have no reason to let any piece of writing sit idle. There is always work to be done, places where we can continue to learn, labor to do. The
contract isn’t about grades, but about changing orientations toward many other
elements in the writing assessment ecology of the classroom. And perhaps most
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trasting them with “other courses” ecologies. He illustrates how more meaningful our ecology became, how more productive when students had opportunities
to compare it to the way other ecologies treat them and their writing, which is
a first important step in problematizing his existential writing assessment situations.
The labor of the course, as articulated in the ecological parts of the contract
and our discussions of it, was arguably accepted by most students by week 10
and articulated as well or better by them. This can be seen in their orientations
toward labor in the ecology. Their power in the negotiations and renegotiations
of the contract, determining the ecology itself, was critical to their orientations.
The writing groups also were important because they were ecological places
that were personalized, semi-private, and characterized by the local diversity of
students. This created productive (counter)hegemonic places of norming and
counter-norming, which upon reflection offered some students ways to begin to
problematize their assessment situations, but not everyone. The places of writing
groups provided the borderlands needed for posing problems about judgment,
their language practices, and the dominant white racial habitus they had come
to expect to be compared against.
The ecological products of such places were sometimes unanticipated, but
were connected to the dominant purpose of the ecology (i.e., laboring to learn).
These places helped students orient themselves in the ecology in productive
ways, ways that could produce antiracist products, and certainly opportunities
to problematize their existential writing assessment situations. As Gideon’s reflection above illustrates, students appeared to reorient themselves in the ecology because of the grading contract and how it changed fundamentally their
orientations toward most of the ecological elements of the course. For the most
part, students labored to learn, instead of laboring to earn. The ecology was
more visible. Because of this visibility, students could more consciously create
the places they felt they could learn in and from, which made the ecology more
antiracist in its nature.

MORE INTENSE, ENGAGED, AND PRODUCTIVE LABOR
My focus on the ecological processes (labor), parts, and purposes in all assignment instructions, particularly those that constituted the writing and feedback cycles in the class, was intentional. These were the ecological elements I
thought students would quickly understand and take advantage of. They were
also the elements I wanted students to reflect upon periodically in order to pose
questions about the nature of judging language. Focusing students’ attention
on these elements, asking them to help create them, negotiate them, and reflect
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upon those processes and their use of them, did begin to work toward antiracist
ends. Most important, focus on these elements in this way gave students opportunities to problematize their own existential writing assessment situations,
which some were able to do. My assumption was that if students focused mostly
on what they had to do in any given week, how long they had to do it, and
why they were doing it, then the parts (the artifacts) would improve, as would
their reading and writing behaviors, the real ecological products we were aiming for. Additionally, by focusing mostly on processes (labor), students could
slowly build over the semester more effective, intense, and productive labor by
reflecting upon that labor in labor journals and weekly reflections. This would, I
thought, translate to better writers, but not necessarily, as Gloria suggests above,
better documents.
However, while the course’s discussions used the concept of labor to describe
and acknowledge the degree of effort expected in the class, which was articulated
as time, discomfort (occasionally), and hard work, I made it clear that students
should be increasing each week the intensity, duration, or productivity of all
their labors. At times, it should be painful if they were doing the labor right,
maybe not all the time, but sometimes. For instance, when one labors hard at
anything one is often in physical pain or discomfort. Lyna’s and Dwight’s recounting of the painful processes of writing and speaking exemplify some pain
in the processes of the class. Amanda’s and Zach’s “oh shit” moments suggest
the discomfort from the expectation of more time in their labors. Additionally,
many of my students said things like, “it’s always been hard to read textbooks,”
or “I’ve often found writing for school painful,” or “I haven’t really enjoyed
writing in school,” so I wanted to acknowledge the sensual and emotional aspects of the labors of reading, writing, and receiving assessments of their writing,
not to change students’ minds about how they feel about the labor, but to acknowledge and potentially explore those feelings that accompany any labor, and
perhaps allow those feelings to be some initial indication of productive labor. I
reasoned that most students have such experiences with writing, reading and assessment in school because of unreflective, hegemonic, and often racist, writing
assessment ecologies that those labors usually exist in. What multilingual Latino
student would find reading or writing for school engaging when the ecological
places that construct him and his educational products are formed in a racist
assessment ecology, when every part and place norms him against a white racial
habitus that often is ill-fitting?
In another very real sense, focusing on the labor as labor was my way of asking students to pay attention to the way writing and reading (or assessing) are
ontological activities that give students something worthwhile in the doing of
them, as in the way Yagelski (2011) discusses writing as a way of being. Tacitly, I
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was asking them to just be in the labor, to stop trying to be somewhere else when
they write or read, stop trying to think about the final product or what they were
to produce, or how hard it is, or how uninteresting the text is, and try to be in
the physical, sensual, and emotional experiences of the reading and writing processes of the course. Just be in the writing or reading labors, just labor, and the
ecological products will already be there. If it is boring and uninteresting, notice
that that is your feeling of the text at that moment, then in a non-judgmental
way ask yourself why. What’s boring me here? Why is that boring to me? These
answers can be valuable to understanding and managing one’s labor.
If they were doing our processes right, their labor would often be uncomfortable and painful, but at some point that discomfort should give way to pleasure in a job well done, in feelings of accomplishment, in satisfaction, success,
pride, growth. Pain and discomfort can signal the quality of work and effort
put into something, and my students, many of whom came from families who
were seasonal workers, laborers, folks whose family members did honorable,
hard, sweaty work, understand and usually respect this kind of labor. The class
generally saw the value and honor in such labor, and our discussions were meant
to connect writing with that kind of hard, sometimes painful, sweaty doing of
things, because it should be that kind of labor. We write and read with our bodies. And it is hard, tough, exhausting, fun, exciting, and energizing labor.
If labor was at the center of what students experienced, and if we expected
to look closely at those labors in order to make them more intense, engaged,
and productive, then we needed some public articulation of labor as much as we
needed a public articulation of what the goals of that labor should be in their
projects’ culminating documents. So over several weeks near the beginning of
the semester, we inductively created two rubrics, a project rubric, explaining
the dimensions of writing we expected to practice, judge, and explore in project
drafts, and a writer’s rubric, which articulated the labor we expected from writers
as they worked on drafts and engaged in the assessment activities that accompanied each draft. The writer’s rubric would be the way we figured out how
intense, engaged, and productive our labor was, while the project rubric would
give us our textual goals for our labors.
We started with the project rubric since it was a more familiar kind of rubric to most students. Using similar inductive processes that I have described
in another place (Inoue, 2004), we began by reading some of the students’ own
researched articles from their projects in order to identify how those published
articles in various fields accomplished their purposes (e.g., made and supported
claims, appealed to audiences, displayed past discussions on the topic, introduced their arguments, used sources, etc.). In the broadest terms, each student
reread a published article from her research, asking essentially: What aspects or
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elements in this piece of academic writing do I want to practice in my own project drafts? I was not asking students to explicitly think about what made these
articles good writing, although those discussions did come up quite a bit. I asked
students to read looking for rhetorical and academic moves that they wanted to
explore in their own writing. Students annotated their articles in focused ways,
then they discussed those dimensions in groups, both the ones that seemed common to all and those that seemed particular to a writer or a discipline.
We inductively created the project rubric by gathering each writing group’s
observations, then through a similar but simplified process as Guba and Lincoln’s (1989) fourth-generation evaluation process and Broad’s (2003) dynamic
criteria mapping, formed the categories we cared most about and what those
broad categories meant more specifically. This gave us an articulation of the
dimensions of writing we could see in drafts, judge in some fashion, and discuss
with writers. It was not a scoring guide or even a rubric that delineated “developing,” “proficient,” or “advanced” categories of performance. It was a rubric that
identified the broader dimensions in their writing that they wanted to explore,
understand, and problematize for their writing purposes (see Figure 2 below).
Thus the project rubric was a place of norming to a locally generated SEAE and
a white racial habitus represented in the articles students used to induce writing
dimensions. I do not deny that there is this feature to all rubrics, including
this one. But the project rubric came from students’ concerns, and did not tell
students how exactly to value each writing dimension. It was an articulation of
what we wanted to explore and problematize.
In some ways, our rubric activities and the artifact they produced, fit Bruffee’s (1984) definition of normal discourse. Citing Rorty, Bruffee explains normal discourse as that discourse that
everyone agrees on the “set of conventions about what counts
as a relevant contribution, what counts as a question, what
counts as having a good argument for that answer or a good
criticism of it.” The product of normal discourse is “the sort
of statement that can be agreed to be true by all participants
whom the other participants count as ‘rational.’” (p. 643)
However, our project rubric was a rubric negotiated by students that explicitly
attempted to include disagreements and areas of tension. Students’ exercise of
power to create the rubric gave some room for the rubric not to be simply another exercise of disciplinary hegemony, or just another teacher telling students
what he wants in their writing. It was not simply a document based on some
false sense of consensus in the ways that Myers (1986) and Trimbur (1989)
criticize Bruffee’s (1984) consensus-based collaborative pedagogy being. It was
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a set of writing dimensions that we later had to figured out through our reading
labors how to ascribe value to and what our expectations for those dimensions
would be. It was a rubric that offered dimensions of writing to be understood
and explored in locally diverse ways by locally diverse groups in projects. It was
not a conventional description of “good writing,” instead it was an articulation
of dimensions of academic writing that we wanted to practice in our drafts, explore ways to enact, and discuss in assessment activities. It was a point of origin,
not an endpoint or outcome.
The project rubric evolved into four broad categories or dimensions, with
lists of more descriptive but contentious features underneath each category. The
categories were imperatives, actions, which oriented writers (and readers) toward
laboring and our labor rubric (the writer’s rubric). Some of the features describing each category were specific and told the writer directly how to accomplish
the dimension in their writing, such as, “offer a conclusion that summarizes the
argument/discussion.” Some features were less specific, only providing a general
idea of what we wanted, such as, “address multiple perspectives,” which were
often areas of less agreement in the class. We chose to articulate the features this
way because these were the statements we could most agree upon, providing
flexibility to writers and readers, but were not definitive of the dimension in
question. This, as well as competing features attempted to preserve difference of
opinion and conflicting ideas about categories.
The bottom line is that we tried hard not to simply agree on everything,
although students still wanted to agree more than find differences. I asked the
class to try to preserve options and the diversity of opinions and perspectives
on writing we found existing in the classroom, no matter how small. I encouraged students to disagree, even asked them at times to list disagreements in
their groups, explaining that the point of our conversations and rubric-building
wasn’t about finding a consensus, but creating hard agreements that we could
all live with, preserving those ideas that may seem out of place, wrong, or too
radical for us. Hard agreements offer a way to move on with the business of the
class, to move forward with the labor, but preserve the sense that some of us do
not agree about the details that create value and expectations in our writing. And
those disagreements are somehow acknowledged and captured, so that they can
be used later because they may help us rethink and revolutionize our practices.
This was my attempt to use Trimbur’s idea of dissensus as a method to create
our rubrics, particularly since I understood writing assessment ecologies and
their parts, such as rubrics, as functioning often as places that norm students to
a white racial habitus and race non-white students and discourses as remedial. I
wanted our rubrics, even if only in method, to attempt to work against these hegemonic structures. I wanted our rubric processes to be ones of problematizing
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our collective existential writing assessment situation, to model what I hoped
they would end up doing on their own. Through Trimbur’s explanation of dissensus’ function in abnormal discourse, he explains the method I was shooting
for:
Abnormal discourse is not so much a homeostatic mechanism
that keeps the conversation and thereby the community renewed and refreshed. Instead, it refers to dissensus, to marginalized voices, the resistance and contestation both within and
outside the conversation, what Roland Barthes calls acratic
discourse—the discourses out of power. Abnormal discourse,
that is, refers not only to surprises and accidents that emerge
when normal discourse reaches a dead end, when, as Wittgenstein puts it, “language goes on holiday.” In the account
I’m suggesting, it also refers to the relations of power that
determine what falls within the current consensus and what is
assigned the status of dissent. (1989, p. 608)
So our method for honing down the possible meanings (features) of each writing
dimension (broader category) on our rubric was not to form a consensus about
what each category meant, but to find statements that everyone could reasonably see could define some aspect of that dimension in question, see the acratic
discourses, the languages and ideas that were “out of power” as much as those in
power. We called each set of features “the range of possibilities” that we might be
looking for as readers when judging drafts, but we would be on the lookout for
new ways as well. The purpose for this activity, then, was to engage in the process
of finding, explaining, and agreeing upon the writing dimensions we wanted
to practice, explore, and problematize as a local racially diverse class of various
majors, who are each working on different disciplinary projects. How we valued
each dimension in actual drafts would need to develop in the group assessment
discussions. In locally diverse places, as Anzaldúa reminds us of borderlands,
values often come from the clash of different people and the contradictory outcomes of their labors. When ecological parts rub and wound one another, producing tension, questions, and problems, they become borderland-places where
problematizing clashes can occur.
In retrospect, I could have done more to help students develop the abnormal
discourse incorporated in the rubrics, and problematize their existential assessment situations through the processes of creating and using the rubrics. Students
often talked about and used the project rubric as if it was a more conventional
rubric, one that told them what to do in their drafts, perhaps one like other rubrics they had used in other classes. This makes sense, and is helpful for students
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at one level, but doesn’t offer them much critical perspective, and thus ways to see
the hegemonic or counter-hegemonic in the language practices they are asked to
demonstrate. The fact that our rubric looked like all those other rubrics to some
degree didn’t help matters. So while it wasn’t a scoring guide by any means, it did
appear to be a list of expectations, not a statement of hard agreements about the
normal and abnormal discourses we were attempting to explore and problematize. I did not have good ways to help them better see these aspects.
A good start might have been to change the codes and artifact of the rubric.
We might have included in the rubric a dual listing of normal and abnormal
expectations for each dimension, maybe list the dimensions as questions, not
topics or statements. I could have prompted them with different purposes for
their assessment processes of various drafts, such as asking readers to look for
and discuss the abnormal discourse (e.g., what is the abnormal discourse in your
colleague’s draft? How does your colleague’s draft problematize or complicate
a dimension on our rubric?). I could have asked writers to take that feedback
and rewrite a section of their drafts, creating an abnormal draft. The difficulty
with doing such activities is that many students didn’t have a firm handle on the
normal discourse of their fields, so it might be difficult for some to see what is
normal and abnormal in any disciplinary discourse. Regardless, we attempted
to include both normal and abnormal expectations in our rubric by including
room for an articulation of differences in what dimensions meant.
To illustrate the presence of difference and disagreement in the project rubric, one must look closely at the features. For instance, when creating the dimension, “Clearly Structure and Focus the Document,” there was lots of disagreement about what “focus” could mean, and what kind of “structure” should
the class most value and expect from writers? Some felt that a classical pattern
that began with a thesis statement was best, since that was what most others
outside our course expected. Others felt we needed more room for other organic
organizational structures, perhaps allow the thesis to be the conclusion, or be
implicit. Some wanted very explicit and unambiguous wording, while others
thought that was too confining—there were too many things excluded when
we got too specific. So we carefully crafted two features: “focus on one research
question (topic) and present the question early in the document (within the
first three paragraphs)”; and “offer a conclusion that summarizes the argument/
discussion.” Some did not agree with these features, hence the parenthetical additions. I also reminded them that these features were merely reminders to students about the discussions we’d had concerning the broader category, not hard
and fast rules that all had to go by in order to meet expectations. The features
listed were to give us a sense of the range of possibilities, so they were not pre-

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scriptive, as in scoring guides or conventional rubrics.
This could mean a writer might find an effective way to include her research
question in the first three paragraphs of her paper, but there was an understanding that maybe someone might find another ingenious way to focus her paper.
These features described the dominant ways the class understood the category,
a mixture of normal and abnormal discourse. However, I must admit that it
was mostly normal discourse, an acceptable statement that most agreed upon
(Bruffee, 1984, pp. 642-643) and that came from examples in their researched
articles. I’m not going to pretend as if most students tried to consciously work
against this feature, to find abnormal ways of accomplishing focus or clear structure in their project drafts. They mostly attempted what Bruffee sees as normal
discourse, but we did have the conversation, and that conversation carried over
into their writing groups and discussions on drafts (discussed below). What I
wanted first was for students to be aware of how they created focus and how
they structured their drafts, where those ideas and practices came from, and
their choices as writers—to see that they had other choices, even if those choices
might create drafts that were confusing. I also wanted them to see that their
ability to have choice, to disagree, to exhibit difference from the norm, in our
ecology was acceptable and accounted for in our rubric-building processes.
Another instance of disagreement was in the third feature in the same category, “personalize the subject or inquiry.” In the first few iterations of the rubric,
this feature wasn’t there at all until Jane and Gideon’s group asked this question:
“What’s the right balance of research and personalization? Is there a limit as to
how much personalization can be included in your paper?” When the class asked
them to explain a bit more, they said they wanted to know whether we expected
writers to leave themselves out of their papers or include some personal references. Could they refer to themselves (e.g., use “I”)? Was it okay to use personal
experience to illustrate or provide examples? Or should we make a rule that
writers not do this in the class’s academic writing?
In the same activity, Kyler’s group also brought up a related issue. They asked
two connected questions: “What happens if we want to compare and contrast an
article (non-scholarly) to a scholarly source?” and “[m]ultiple perspectives, how
do we address those?” The second question was referring to the second feature in
the second category of the rubric (see Figure 2), but it and their first question related to the first group’s question about the personal. I suggested that both groups
were asking important questions about how to treat evidence and information that
writers felt were important to inquiring about their topics. I asked them: if you
are interested in your research question, is it reasonable to think that you will have
some personal connection or experience with your topic? Is the source of your
interest a part of your perspective on the question? What value do we place on the
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Project Rubric
(what should we demonstrate in writing?)

Writer’s Rubric
(what should we do to write?)

Clearly Structure and Focus the Document

Drafting and Revising

• Focus on one research question (topic) and
present the question early in the document
(within the first three paragraphs)
• Offer a conclusion that summarizes the
argument/discussion
• Personalize the subject or inquiry

• Outline your document
• Illustrate the ideas of the project and
incorporate rhetoric
• Reread your essay with a purpose in mind
(purposefully)
• Spend time formatting and editing your
documents appropriately

Use Rhetorical Methods, Purposes, and
Strategies
• Use rhetorical methods by discussing or
incorporating in some fashion the concepts
from class (e.g., Kairos, ethos, pathos,
logos, stasis, etc.)
• Address multiple perspectives
• Attempt to provoke a purposeful response
in readers
• Use and discuss appropriate examples that
help illustrate and/or complicate the ideas
of the project
Provide Multiple Perspectives Fairly

Doing Research Continuously
• Start your research early and follow up on
it (update your research)
• Read and acknowledge what is out there
before coming up with your own position/
argument
• Explore different areas and multiple
perspectives on the question (look for
different ways to answer the question)
• Find and use peer-reviewed articles
(academic articles), especially opposing
viewpoints
• Research your research (don’t settle on the
first idea or perspective)

• Listen closely and respect the ideas of
others, especially those who disagree with
Receiving and Giving Feedback
you (the writer)
• Share your draft and ask for different per• Address or acknowledge multiple sides to
spectives (readings) of it from colleagues
the issue or question and substantiate those
experiences with research
• Listen to and respect diverse opinions on
your draft and writing (learn from and do
Use Appropriate Format, Grammar, and
something with their feedback)
Mechanics
• Challenge the writer in your feedback on
drafts
• Cite appropriate sources (no non-scholarly
sources)
• Format the culminating document in a
way that is appropriate for the question
and research conducted
• Use appropriate grammar and mechanics,
so that readers can clearly understand the
project’s ideas

Figure 2. The project and writer’s rubrics offered evolving dimensions from hard
agreements among students.
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personal as one of the multiple perspectives we already say we must engage with?
Some students felt that including the personal was too much, possibly too
revealing, too intimate. They were not comfortable doing that. For example,
Barry, an African-American, third-year student around 20 from an affluent,
Southern California family, and majoring in political science, who was in Jane
and Gideon’s group, was not sure he wanted to include the personal in his writing, while Jane was okay with it. Some students loved the idea and felt that it
was a way to engage more deeply with their questions, while others felt that it
was a good rhetorical strategy to draw in readers, and still others didn’t know or
were not sure. It was an irreconcilable set of opinions, a clear borderland we had
created in the place of our rubric, so we included it. In follow-up group work, a
different group, Lyna’s, offered the articulation of this feature that the class felt
most comfortable with, and we put that version on the rubric.
If the project rubric identified what students wanted to practice in drafts, the
writer’s rubric was a public articulation of the expectations they had for their labor. It was a set of behaviors and orientations to labor that they expected of each
other to practice over the course of the semester, things they’d reflect upon (and
had been reflecting upon already) in their labor journals. Most of these behaviors
were difficult to directly see in any draft. They were things they had to talk to
each other about. The process for this rubric was similar to the first, except that
they also had the first rubric to consider. Our conversations that led to the writer’s rubric essentially asked students to articulate what they felt was reasonable
labor. What will they need to do in order to accomplish the goals of the first
rubric and the course? I asked them also to look at our grading contract since
that established the ecology of the course, and set out some assumptions and expectations of labor that we’d already agreed upon. The writer’s rubric they settled
on had three categories or dimensions of labor that they cared most about, that
they said they wanted to practice and get better at doing. And like the project rubric, each writer’s rubric category had a list of evolving and contentious features.
Thus by week 10 after several revisions, our two rubrics were combined for
easy use in class and in writing assessment activities. Figure 2 shows the way in
which the rubrics were joined and displayed for our use. The statements in both
rubrics were conceptual placeholders for the on-going classroom discussions,
feedback activities, labor journal entries, and reflections. The rubrics were not
posed to the class as a final statement on what we wanted out of the projects’ culminating documents, nor what we expected writers to do in their labors. They
were a way to focus our discussions and assessment processes toward particular
dimensions that we had inductively come up with and negotiated as a class.
They were an ecological part constructed through our differences, an articula-

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tion of hard agreements.
The statements of labor gained meaning contextually, slightly changing over
the semester. For instance, “doing research continuously” initially meant the
third, fourth, and fifth items listed; however, at the start of Project 2, when we
revisited formally the rubrics, students decide to add the first two items, “start
your research early and follow up on it (update your research),” and “read and
acknowledge what is out there before coming up with your own position/argument.” These came from reflections on their assessments and labor practices, in
which many students tended to start writing with a thesis in mind, which stalled
them out, and limited what they could explore. Ashe’s earlier reflection on the
contract and its labor hints at this problem when she reflected, “The subject that
I chose to do my first project, I would say limited me to produce a large amount
of writing. I wrote as much as I could to prove my point.”
Some students felt that promoting labor that started early by reading the research before writers attempted to write would help them write more informed
questions and drafts. These two added features also seemed to give a slightly new
purpose to our annotated bibliography and a research question assignments. For
some in class, “updating” research literally meant rethinking and revising those
research questions to be more about inquiring than about proving a pre-existing idea in their heads. To others, it meant finding related research that helped
them consider claims they originally made in drafts and assumed to be true. To
students, these actions were more connected to their behaviors, their research,
reading, and writing labors, rather than to the products they were shooting for.
In retrospect, I missed opportunities to take full advantage of the writer’s rubric as an ecological part that developed more intense, engaged, and productive
student labors. I missed this because I saw it more as a part, rather than a place
of problematizing, a borderland. I could have used the writer’s rubric’s language
and dimensions as cues for later week’s tasks and processes. This would have
shifted the power arrangements in the assessment ecology even more, allowing
students to directly dictate processes and purposes of the ecology. If I had used
the writer’s rubric’s dimensions as goals for each week’s activities, then students
would have literally created the labor expectations and the activities. For example, I could have asked writers to locate key claims or positions they were making
in their papers, then research and find an alternative argument to those claims.
I could have couched this activity in terms of the labor they articulated on the
rubric (i.e., “[f ]ind and use peer-reviewed articles (academic articles), especially
opposing viewpoints”).
When discussing in groups the assessment documents that provided writers
with feedback, I could have asked each writer to end each discussion by asking
her readers for opposing ways to read or judge her draft from those just given,
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which would draw on the rubric feature, “[s]hare your draft and ask for different
perspectives (readings) of it from colleagues.” So readers would be obligated to
provide the writer with opposing or contradictory judgments about the draft,
discussing both as reasonable ways to see the draft. In a very tangible way, this
would have been an exercise in dissoi logoi, which we’d discussed already (the
first six weeks of the semester focused on readings and discussions on rhetorical
concepts). These activities not only would have helped writers and readers see
the merits and flaws in their drafts but in the various judgments on their drafts,
problematizing those judgments, all of which coming from students’ expectations about the labor of the course.
Ultimately, the rubrics, like the contract, functioned as an ecological part
with biases toward our local SEAE and a mostly white racial habitus, yet they
produced processes and places we created together that were meant to problematize students’ existential writing assessment situations by continually creating borderlands of conflicting values, judgments, and reflections on those
judgments. The rubrics, like all rubrics, were places of norming to discursive
behaviors and dispositions, but by employing dissensus as a method for creating the rubrics and having the purpose for such processes be to articulate hard
agreements (a mixture of normal and abnormal statements about writing and
labor expectations), the rubrics were not simply places of norming to a white
racial habitus. They were also places of conflict, hard agreements, borderlands in
which locally diverse students attempted to articulate a fuller range of values and
expectations. Were we completely successful? I doubt it. But these purposes and
processes were explicit, which gave us grounds to reflect upon them, and I argue,
offered students the possibility of stronger future labor practices by being more
aware of the contingent nature of how texts are judged and valued by various,
locally diverse readers.
I had a least another missed opportunity around the rubrics, one equally
important to an antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology. As I discuss
through Gramscian hegemony and historic bloc and the Marxian dialectic of
base and superstructure, part of being critical surely is being able to see the structural influences in our language practices next to the way language also is experienced as personal choice and subjectivity. There are points, of course, where the
structural or social are different from personal or individual choice, yet at other
points, these two things inter-are, as in how the rubrics’ seemed to agree with
the ways students personally value certain kinds of texts or labor. In other words,
the degree to which the rubrics felt right or accurate to individuals was simultaneously the degree to which those students’ values and feelings about writing
were consubstantial to larger, dominant discourses, such as our local SEAE and
white racial habitus. Questioning this aspect of the rubrics, problematizing our
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writing assessment situations from the rubric, might have given us ways to see
the structural and the determined in our individual and diverse practices, or see
the ways we colonize ourselves through consent to a white racial habitus. Additionally, much like the way the rubrics themselves are both ecological parts and
places, students are both people and parts that norm and race each other. They
embody shock, conflict, and negotiation.
Problematizing ones existential writing assessment situation, as a practice,
offers a way to investigate the rubrics and the labors they embodied as “limit-situations,” which would have offered my students more ecologically productive
labor practices. To see this better, Freire explains the coming to critical consciousness by explaining the way humans become “conscious beings”:
As they separate themselves from the world, which they
objectify, as they separate themselves from their own activity,
as they locate the seat of their decisions in themselves and in
their relations with the world and others, people overcome
the situations which limit them: the “limit-situations.” Once
perceived by individuals as fetters, as obstacles to their liberation, these situations stand out in relief from the background,
revealing their true nature as concrete historical dimensions of
a given reality. Men and women respond to the challenge with
actions which Vieira Pinto calls “limit-acts”: those directed at
negating and overcoming, rather than passively accepting, the
“given.” (1970, p. 99)
Thus, the key to critical consciousness, for Freire, is a person’s separation from
the material life of his limit-situations, and one good way to separate one’s ideas
and feelings, one’s experiences of the world, is to abstract them into language.
The rubrics were in some sense an embodiment of students’ separations from
their discursive worlds, a set of rhetorical abstractions about writing academic
texts, about laboring to create those texts. The processes and labors we focused
on were processes of objectifying their values and feelings about writing. I did
not make a point to discuss or prompt them about this separation and abstraction of labors and outcomes. I should have. It would have given us a chance, as
Freire says, to locate the seat of our decisions in ourselves and in our relations
to the world, in other places that determine (limit and pressure) what we end
up valuing in our classroom and the ecological parts we focus our attentions on.
This would have helped us see the project rubric, for instance, as an articulation
of limit-situations that revealed the concrete historic dimensions of their own
writing realities in and outside our classroom. This would have offered us a
chance not simply to passively accept the rubrics, which I’m not arguing hap225

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pened, but could have easily.
The kind of liberation Freire discusses comes from a very different context
than mine. My students are not Brazilian peasants struggling to read and write
in order to gain political rights and voice. They were U.S. college students, who
are mostly of color and multilingual, at a large state university in California. So
the kind of liberation through critical consciousness I see possible through our
antiracist writing assessment ecology is in one sense trickier to accomplish, since
one could argue that becoming completely normed to our local SEAE and white
racial habitus is the key to liberation, at least at the individual level, if we define
individual liberation as power and access to the dominant discourse, yet it is this
very dominant discourse, a white racial habitus, that oppresses many (most) of
my students because they don’t quite have mastery over it. The hegemonic forces
us to consent, while that consent reinforces the hegemonic and people’s own
oppression in the system.
What I’m arguing, and what Freire, Villanueva, and many others would agree
with, is that individual economic success, while wonderful (and likely a part of
most of my students’ goals for their education) is not liberation from the aspects
of the hegemonic that produce social inequality, larger patterns of poverty and
imprisonment that pool in populations of color in the U.S., or liberation from
the way certain kinds of language are perceived and used as a reason to keep
jobs and other opportunities away from many non-white, multilingual, poor, or
working class citizens. These tensions between the social and the individual, between the structural determination in our lives and our own freewill and agency
could have been questioned through the place of the rubric—that is, through
seeing the rubric as a place and not a part in the ecology. The writing assessment
ecology was set up perfectly for it. I just didn’t take advantage of it. The method
to do so could have been reflective activities that considered the dual nature of the
project rubric as (1) a list of conflicting values and expectations created by us and
(2) a borderland-place that normed and raced us to a dominant discourse. What
do inhabitants of this rubric-place look and sound like if everyone is doing what
we think they should be? Do any of us look and sound like this ideal person? Yet
the rubrics incorporated hard agreements, abnormal discourse, acratic discourse,
locally diverse ways of languaging that countered this one-way norming. If this is
true, how did our rubric allow for heterogeneous inhabitants in the rubric-place?
The action, the labor of the rubric-place would be reflection and dialogue
among students. Freire too understood dialogue among people as central to investigations of “limit-situations” that produce critical consciousness. Freire believed that only through dialogue can one understand fully “the word,” which
has two important, dialectical dimensions: “reflection and action.” Once these
two dimensions of the word are realized in educational settings, then praxis
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occurs, and praxis is the product sought after, since it leads to change and liberation (Freire, 2000/1970, p. 87). In a footnote on the same page, he offers
this equation for what action and reflection involve: “word = work = praxis.”
Thus implicated in the word’s dialectic, in reflection and action, in words, work,
and praxis, is the individual in community, is people dialoguing, using words,
and laboring. There are no words without people, and people are not people
without words. Freire makes this last point clear later in the chapter in his discussion of animals as distinct from humans because humans can reflect upon
their actions, thus without words humans are simply animals that are “unable
to separate themselves from their activity” (2000/1970, p. 97). This is strikingly
similar to Burke’s (1966) famous semiotic definition of humanity. And so, our
rubrics were artifacts composed of students’ words, which came literally from
their dialogue and interactions, places of separation. But the rubrics could have
been more if they had been more explicitly ecological places where the limit-situations of students’ words and judgments opened discussions that investigated
the ways larger disciplinary and other structures determined (i.e., limited and
pressured) their own values and expectations in drafts and writing labors.
And as Freire’s articulation of the process of critical consciousness references,
the rubrics were also a “reflection” of students’ values and expectations for their
writing. In Marxian traditions, the concept of reflection first referred to the
dialectical relationship between the economic base of material practices and the
philosophical superstructure that imagined or described those practices (Williams, 1977, p. 93). So one might say the superstructure encapsulated in the
project rubric reflected the material classroom’s drafts (base), while the superstructural articulation of the writer’s rubric reflected the students’ labor practices (base). At another level, the two rubrics mimicked their own dialectic: the
project rubric (superstructure) reflected students labor practices (base). Thus we
might see why Freire defines “true words” and praxis as synonymous to each
other and to reflection and action (2000/1970, p. 87). The act of reflecting, of
seeing a word as both an abstraction and as an embodiment of one’s existential
and material situation in the real world, one’s relations to the world and others,
is the process of engaging with the Marxian dialectic of base and superstructure,
the process of critical consciousness. Thus both rubrics were necessary to be fully
critical in the way Freire describes, and I’d add to be antiracist in action. They
allow us to confront the paradoxes in our ideas about writing and our material
practices that produce our real-world drafts.
Williams (1977) explains that Adorno provided a way out of the dilemma
that the concept of reflection created when trying to understand the relationship between base and superstructure, providing a replacement term, mediation,
which Freire’s account does not use, but would benefit from. And this helps us see
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why rubric-building processes are vital to writing assessment ecologies that aim
to create critical places for students to do antiracist work with language. Williams
describes mediation as an inseparable process between base and superstructure,
between my students and their rubric. It is a “positive process in social reality,
rather than a process added to it by way of projection, disguise, or interpretation”
(Williams, 1977, pp. 98-99). So like Freire’s incorporation of reflection into word
and praxis, the concept of mediation also assumes a consubstantial essence of
base and superstructure. This means that if the rubrics are a reflection of students’
values and labors, then they are not external to those processes. They dialectically re-present and influence—they mediate—writing and assessing processes.
They inter-are those ecological elements. The ecological people (students), the
parts they generated (rubrics and assessment documents), and the places of their
writing groups mediate each other, making them inter-be. This is what complex
system theory tell us is inherent in open systems, flux and change, interconnection of parts within the system (Dobrin, 2012, p. 144). My missed opportunity
was not finding ways to help students see our rubrics in these ways, as places of
mediation among our values-drafts-selves-labors-groups that in turn led them to
interrogate limit-situations that the rubrics pointed us to.
Perhaps I could have asked them to engage with the structural in the rubric
and in their drafts. What institutional and disciplinary sources or origins might
they see in their drafts, in the kind of decisions they make, in the way readers interpret and value certain kinds of textual patterns and practices? What structural
or disciplinary origins might we find in our project rubric’s dimensions, such as,
“clearly structure and focus the document,” and why do individuals agree with
such ideas? Who does it serve to have such a concern or value in discourse? Is
it really that this is a universal “best practice” in writing or could there be other
sources for such a value, or other textual values? And if there are, then why do
we promote these particular ideas in our writing? And of course, I could have
introduced some of the research on whiteness, allowing us to ask: How similar to
a white racial habitus is our rubric and our ways of translating it? Are there ways
in which it does not match up?
Regardless of how I might see the missed opportunities, the opportunities I
did not miss were to focus students’ attention on the labor in the ecology and to
make visible the elements of the ecology. These things began with our negotiations of the contract and moved to our work on the rubrics, which self-consciously defined and reflected upon the labor and texts of the ecology. This created the
conditions for students to engage in stronger, more aware—and perhaps more

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critical—labor practices, which by their nature have the potential to be antiracist.

STRONGER, MORE AWARE LABOR
These stronger future labor practices began with students making sense of
the rubric-creation activities, which I asked them to do in reflections on the
rubrics. My goal in these reflections was to encourage students to be more selfaware readers and writers. During the later stages of refining our rubrics, I asked
them to reflect upon the entire process, comparing it to their past experiences
with rubrics and writing expectations. Zach offered a typical reflection:
[I]n the past the instructor would just hand us a piece of
paper with a prompt and all the guidelines expected to be
incorporated within the assignment. Furthermore it meant for
the class there were no choices or decisions to be had or discussions regarding the assignment because we were just simply
expected to write about what was on the simple piece of
paper. For our class it was much more engaging do to the fact
that we had complete freedom on the topic/question in which
we are going to be writing about in addition we were in full
control on what standards and expectations as a class we were
going to have to meet in order to complete the assignment.
Zach makes clear he saw the class more engaged in understanding the guidelines
and prompt for the projects because they had more control over the “standards
and expectations” of their writing. While perhaps not seeing that the rubric represented the range of possibilities, just a point of origin, and not static standards,
it should be remembered that this was still in the later stages of the rubric-building process, midway through the semester. We had not yet officially used the
final versions of the rubrics on drafts. So his coming to awareness of future practices that might question the white racial habitus of the rubric, something that
Zach himself benefitted from, being a monolingual, English-speaking, white
male, starts with seeing and feeling shifts in power in our writing assessment
ecology. Furthermore, seeing this shift in power provided Zach with more agency, which in turn pushed him to labor more intensively and productively in his
assessment documents on colleagues’ drafts. In one sense, I read Zach coming to
his own problematizing of his past writing assessment situations, but at this early
stage this problematizing is seeing problems in the assessment of his writing in
the past, not in the present or future.
Several others in the class agreed with Zach’s comparison. Barry takes Zach’s
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ideas one step further. He replies,
After careful thought I do agree with your opinion. Giving
students the ability to critique and critically think about the
rubric which they will be judged on does sound reasonable.
It also makes it more exciting for students. I also agree with
your idea about voicing our opinions. This not only allows
for creative thinking and discussion, but this type of activity
allows us to become better adults.
Interestingly, Barry sees the control and power exercised in our ecology, located
in the part-place of the rubric, as not just producing products related to writing, but “makes it more exciting” and produces ways to become “better adults.”
What he means by this is less clear, but it does appear that becoming a better
adult is associated with the exercise of power and control in constructing the
rubric, in making decisions about expectations, and in critiquing and thinking
“critically” about the rubric. In short, being a better adult, for Barry, appears
to be about exercising agency through one’s labors in meaningful contexts and
understanding the significance of that agency to expectations in the community.
Lyna also explains how pleased she was with the rubric creation process,
discussing how students could give themselves an advantage by having control
over the rubric:
Being able to create our own ‘rubric’ was a first for me. Just
like negotiating our social contract it was pretty much a new
thing to me. Besides being new it almost felt foreign—very
foreign indeed. Even though the course is a writing workshop
it much different from taking a critical thinking class that
challenge and stimulate our mind. Then again this is a writing
workshop class and we, students, are our own instructors and
we are able to set our own ‘standards’. It is nice being able to
set our own standard without manipulating too much to give
ourselves the upper hand.
It almost sounds as if Lyna is voicing a bit of dissonance in friendly terms. Creating the rubric and being in control of their own standards “without manipulating too much to give [themselves] the upper hand” admits that they could have
set the rules of the game in their own favor, and that they had the power to do
so. But like Barry suggests about being a better adult, the power of creating the
rubric allowed them not to do this—that is, it gave them the opportunity to be
adults and make a decision that eventually will help them learn. Lyna reinforces
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this idea of power and being an adult by proclaiming that “we, students, are our
own instructors,” suggesting also a level of responsibility to both teach and learn.
Like Zach and Barry, Lyna’s critical awareness of future writing and assessing
practices comes from the way exercising power to control expectations provided
her with ways to act responsibly and conscientiously.
And Lyna’s labor journal reinforces these responsible and self-aware labor
practices. In the labor journal entry immediately after the rubric revision activities that asked them to discuss their own assessment labors on their group
members’ Project 2 explorative drafts, Lyna offers a long discussion (786 words)
about her labors. She explains her process for reading her colleagues’ drafts and
creating the assessment documents needed for class discussion:
I have to admit I took more time than I originally like to
have. For each of my group’s draft I took an hour writing up
their responses though the content was short. Now I know
that with the additionally time I took in my peer’s draft. I
know for sure to add this to my new calculation of how longs
it will take me. I thought long and hard about what to write
[concerning] their paper. I did not realize that one of my
mates did not post theirs up until later. I actually had them
read the previous evening. I had them out on display to read
once again in the morning. I found this much easier. My flaw
was that I did not check Blackboard again in the morning
to see if she had posted her inquiry or not. It turned out she
did but it was under a different section than I had checked. I
checked in the Literature Review part and did not check any
other part thoroughly.
Surely the place in the ecology created by her writing group (her support group)
was important to Lyna’s sense of responsibility to her colleagues. It seems clear
to me that she saw her labors of reading and offering feedback as more than
an assignment. She was conscientious about her reading labors, doing them
twice, and managing her time so that she could sleep between both readings.
Additionally, Lyna produced just as copious discussions in her assessment documents to colleagues. For instance, her discussion of Claudia’s 857-word explorative essay was 475 words, over half the length of the original essay. Lyna’s
labors, similar to Zach’s, improved, got longer, more carefully planned, and
more productive. These more intense and longer labors in their assessment activities I attribute to Zach’s and Lyna’s self-conscious awareness of the way they
labored and why, and having control over most of the ecology in which these
labors were situated.
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Ashe, however, had a harder time shedding the yoke of past writing experiences and the feelings of being a substandard writer of multilingual heritage,
which likely came from the constant norming and racing that occurred around
other rubrics in other ecologies at Fresno State and in her past. She was the only
one who had these kinds of struggles. These struggles affected how she could
talk about her labors in complex ways. In the same reflection activity after the
revision of the rubrics, Ashe explains:
The process we engaged in class as we produced the rubric
was in different, first of all, is we get to make our own rubric,
that clearly is not normal in any class! Compared to my last
English classes, there were rubrics that the teachers designed
themselves, or none were provided at all, just a set of guidelines of what not to do.
My expectations in my past course were to get an A or of not
then a B on my essays. This motivated me to write better. I
was able to kind of move away from my nonstop fragment
sentences and be able to write in complete and meaningful
sentences. However, I had no interaction with other students
with my writing. The only person who criticized my writing
was my sister, I took all of her criticism to heart. I felt that I
had gradually improved with the help of her criticism over
every little thing that I did that didn’t make sense to her or
would make me sound like a motor [moron?]. In this class, I
think it will allow me to start writing again, I have not written
paper all summer long. This has caused me to lose my sense of
writing. I recently wrote an essay and it felt like high school
again, my writing has worsen over the summer, not writing. I
think this class will help me enhance my writing again, with,
not only the criticism of my sister, but my classmates.
It is fascinating that Ashe, a Hmong student, discusses her sister’s help—the
only student who mentioned help from family members—but it is not surprising. In a survey of 265 Hmong students at Fresno State in the Spring 2013 (the
semester after this course), about 70% of the respondents said they lived in their
parents’ home, and 92% said they lived with family members.54 So Ashe appears
to be calling upon common material conditions of the Hmong racial formation
at Fresno State. Der, a Hmong female, third year, pre-business major, affirms
Ashe’s claims about her sister: “When it comes to someone looking over my essays I do think that an older sibling is very useful. They are at times very truthful
as to what we write.” It is unclear if Der is referring only to Hmong students in
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the final “we,” but Gloria, a third year, Latina, psychology major, offers the only
other response to Ashe’s reflection, and it suggests differences in the material
conditions of Hmong and Latina students. Gloria replies, “Ashe, I don’t usually
have anybody criticizing my writing at home, especially since I’m the first one
in my family to attend college. However, my writing has been criticized at my
work. I can really say that the criticism from my coworkers, has really helped me
develop my English writing skills as English Learner.”
While both Ashe and Gloria are multilingual, first generation college students, Gloria reveals different conditions in her home, but then offers the comment about her writing being criticized at work, the result of those criticisms is
the same as Ashe’s experiences with her sister. Her writing improves. For Ashe,
Der, and Gloria, our rubrics may still call up past writing problems, but they see
them in the context of their own material conditions, not as static problems with
their writing outside of the material conditions and contexts of their family and
work lives. This finding, one that connects Hmong students’ writing practices
with the material conditions of their lives, has been duplicated in a recent study I
completed with a colleague on Hmong reflection practices (Inoue & Richmond,
in press). In that study, we found that female Hmong students always contextualized lessons learned in reflection letters of final portfolios in terms of the material conditions of school and home. Additionally, the lessons they learned, like
Ashe’s and Der’s lessons, were ones that were about the tensions they saw and felt
between their own racial habitus and the white racial habitus expected of them
in the classroom, which often revolved around gender and cultural expectations
and language practice differences.
For Ashe and Der, the success or failure of their writing appears to be connected to the other people around them in the ecology, which for Ashe (and
maybe Der) includes family members not in the class, and for Gloria, coworkers.
Gloria ends her own reflection on this very note, connecting the processes we
used the rubric for to the purposes she must figure out for her writing, and its
assessment: “Using this rubric will not only help me understand what and how
I’m producing my writing, but I think that most importantly, by collaborating
with my group and classmates, it will help me understand why I’m producing
my writing.” The ecological product of “why I’m producing my writing” seems
to be also her purpose for writing. This evolving purpose, for Gloria, is produced through her interactions with the people who form the ecological place
of her writing group, which seems also to involve others outside the classroom,
coworkers (or family members for Der and Ashe). Gloria’s labor becomes more
aware through her interactions with her group members. It isn’t clear how strong
or aware Ashe’s own labors are. Yet her labor in the class, similar to Der (the oth-

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er multilingual, Hmong writer of the class) was always very copious and dutiful.
Despite the difficulty that Ashe has with acknowledging or voicing the power
and control of ecological parts and processes, she does articulate writing-based
purposes that seem productive for her. But her labor is disguised in her reflection, more so than her colleagues, which makes me wonder if the writer’s rubric
worked in the same ways for Ashe as it did for most of her classmates, both
monolingual and multilingual. Ashe reflects in her labor journal just after our
rubric revisions:
On Tuesday, after I came home from school (around 6pm) I
read one of the Inquiry Paper of my colleagues. I was in the
kitchen, everyone in my family were doing their own thing.
I started on one of the papers and when I opened all of the
three documents of my colleagues I knew that it wasn’t going
to be the same, they were all different lengths. So the first one
I responded page by page.
On Wednesday morning, in my quiet-dark room, I finished
the second paper, since it was shorter compared to the other
ones. I responded by every two paragraphs. In the last paper, I
had to respond by every three paragraphs. What I think I did
better here was actually being able to connect with what each
person was writing about. In addition, I was able to ask more
questions that I wanted to know in terms of each of their
topics.
In part, her short labor journal entry could be due to her need for more time
to generate text (we spend only five minutes or so in class writing these entries), or it could be related to Hmong cultural issues around the sanctity of
language and its valuing of concision. What her labor journal entry does offer is
a self-conscious, contextual method for reading and producing her assessment
documents. Each paper is read differently, taking different lengths of time, and
she concludes that this time around her labors have provided better products,
“more questions” that pertained to her colleagues’ topics. Yet the question of
how effective or more intense her labors were in the class is more difficult to
ascertain, as is her acceptance of power and her articulation of control over most
elements in the assessment ecology. She does, however, seem to grow in awareness of how she labors, which is a good first step.
Do Hmong students, or multilingual students, labor differently from their
white, Latina, African-American, or monolingual peers in our writing assessment ecology? Perhaps. Ashe may have been a special case. It’s hard to know.
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Der, the other multilingual Hmong student in the class, in her reflection on
the rubrics, is more optimistic than Ashe, more similar to the rest of the class,
focusing on power in the ecology, as well as the methods and the labor that the
class expects in order to achieve their goals. She offers a different narrative of
the intensity of her labors. In similar ways as her monolingual colleagues, Der
describes past experiences with rubrics forced upon her by teachers:
The expectations for those classes were always “write what the
teacher would want you to and do a good job at it”. Most
times, it is simply to just follow what they want us to write,
but it was not very influential of a practice to do. It was very
hard to get into the topic, so it was hard to get a good start on
the paper ….
The process of making this rubric makes me feel, as a writer,
more in tune with what I would like to write about for the
class. I seem to know more as to how I should go about with
my writing with this class. Writing in this class, even though
it may have prompts, seemed more freeing and flexible. Going
through the ways in which we get our end results is very
different from any class I have ever gone through. Most classes
do not focus at all at how we get to where we are at in the
end. This class gives us the time to reflect on things.
Der sees the writer’s rubric as crucial to understanding the labor and processes
of drafting and revising, which helps them “get to where we are at the end,” yet
somehow, a focus on labor appears related to the time to “reflect on things.” I’m
not completely sure what this connection is, but given Der’s ability to produce
lots of reflective text when prompted, this isn’t a surprising product of her labor
processes, which was more copious than Ashe’s textual output. Was this key to
Der accepting more power and being more aware, the fact that she could produce more text at will? It’s hard to know for sure. Another possibility is the difference between Der’s and Ashe’s writing groups. Ashe’s group contained mostly
quiet students, a Latina, and two white males. Der’s group was a diverse, mostly talkative group of students, consisting of Jane (monolingual white female),
Gideon (monolingual white male), Barry (monolingual Black male), and Gloria
(multilingual Latina). The places each group cultivated by their labors, which
includes their discussions in class, surely affected the strength and awareness of
their labor practices.
Still Der’s reflection is ambiguous about the intensity of her evolving labor practices, which is unlike Lyna’s more managed and longer labors, or even
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Ashe’s evolving labors that are contingent upon who she’s reading. In Der’s labor
journal entry just after the rubric reflection activity, she explains her labors for
assessing her colleagues’ drafts:
When I was reading my group members’ inquiry papers I felt
like was half asleep or more so just half paying attention. I
fear this is because I have been feeling a little lost in my own
project at the moment. When I was writing up the responses
I usually had questions as to how things will go or to what
are they specifically going to answer. I fear that I maybe have
been more lacking now then I was in Project 1 with the responses. But it might have been from the fact that most of my
group members are still a little unclear as to how to approach
their question or the question itself is going under some construction at the moment.
Thus, like her Hmong colleague (Ashe), Der seems to offer ambiguous information about the intensity or length of her labors. They changed and were contingent on what her colleagues gave her. She felt “half asleep” when she read, but
maybe it was because her colleagues were “a little unclear as to how to approach
their question.” In much the way Lyna describes her group as a support group, it
appears that multilingual Asian students in our writing assessment ecology were
more affected by the contingencies and fluctuations of the place of their group
than others in the class.
While there was some unevenness in the way students reacted to and used
the project and writer’s rubrics, all (except perhaps Ashe) found the process of
generating the rubrics helpful in a number of ways, most noticeably in how they
changed the power relations in the writing assessment ecology. In reflections
on the rubric and our rubric building process, these changes were articulated as
different ecological products for each student. Some found it liberating, freeing,
and helpful in understanding what was expected, such as Zach, Der, and Barry.
Some found the processes helpful in discovering labor practices that would make
them better people in the environment, and perhaps better people period, like
Barry and Lyna. Still others had more complex or ambiguous relations to the
rubrics and the labors they represented, as Ashe’s sparse discussion of her labor
practices that produced more copious assessment documents and Der’s connection between the class’s rubric building activities and the time to reflect upon
things.
There were no discernible patterns in monolingual or multilingual formations, except that the two Hmong female students in the class (Der and Ashe)
both connected outside people (family members) to their labor processes, and
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the other responding student, a multilingual, Latina student (Gloria), connected outside co-workers in her labor processes. This seemed to make ecological
place and people important to how strong and aware their labors appeared to
be in reflections. But for most students, the parts that we created, the processes
that used those parts to write and assess each other’s drafts, and the power that
students claimed in the ecology helped them develop stronger and more aware
labor practices that could be seen as ones that problematized at least past writing
assessment situations. But for everyone, the key to more awareness about the
complexities of judgment and the valuing of language was the frequent formalized moments of reflection on assessment, the rubrics, and our labors.
I still missed important opportunities to encourage students to explicitly
problematize their existential assessment situations in the reflections by not calling attention to the limit-situations that the rubric afforded us. I missed opportunities to use the difference and borderlands existing in the rubric, our writing,
our groups, and our labors, in ways that could have revealed the hegemonic, as
well as racialized habitus that affect judgments on writing. I also missed chances
to have students compare directly the ways that our rubric as our version of a
hegemonic discourse, a white racial habitus, norms and races us and our writing
already. This would have given us a chance to question our own reading and
writing practices (our labors) as practices that constitute who we are, as ontological, as ways of being in our classroom and as locally diverse people.

ASSESSING AS PROBLEMATIZING IN THE ECOLOGY
Up to this point, I’ve focused on the parts and processes of the assessment
ecology as deeply involved in asking students to inquire about assessment and
grading, which I feel offers students some way to be critical of how their writing
is and should be assessed, and how grades affect their learning to write. But I
have avoided showing any actual assessment documents, which was the meat of
the course.
Like any writing course, assessment of student writing—in this case, students’ assessments of their colleagues’ drafts—is the engine that regulates the
learning and development on drafts and in writers. This idea was explicit in my
course, since we began with the assumption that if students can practice and
improve their reading and assessing of colleagues’ drafts, then they were learning
to be better writers by their own measures. Part of the discussions on the grading
contract in the early weeks of the class attempted to make this clear. In fact, the
third question that students came up with directly addressed this assumption:
“What does assessment mean in our class?” I’ve made this argument in at least
two other places in different ways. I (Inoue, 2004) argue that when students
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control the articulation of rubrics and reflect upon them, they do valuable intellectual work that helps them as writers and gives them necessary power to make
their educational experiences more potent and critical. I (Inoue, 2010) also argue that teaching students the rhetoric of writing assessment, teaching them to
theorize their reading and judging practices on each other’s drafts, exercises the
same competencies that is valued in the academy through dominant discourses.
Now, I add to these discussions a third argument for such a focus or theme
in a writing classroom: by giving explicit access to such rhetorics of assessment,
teachers can help students become more critical of dominant discourses in much
the same way (through contrast) that the grading contract makes explicit potentially harmful assumptions in other conventional assessment ecologies. In other
words, posing the problem of what does assessment mean in our class is a way
to confront students with their existential writing assessment situations as racialized situations, as situations mediated by a hegemonic discourse. I’m not saying
I did this in my class, but it is a possibility that I see now. So I am not arguing
that my students in any uniform way challenged significantly the dominant
discourses of their fields or the class, or that they were able to critique the local
white racial habitus effectively. They mostly did not, and I take the blame for
this, since my ecology’s purpose wasn’t explicitly asking students to problematize
their existential writing assessment situations. I didn’t develop the explicit problem posing activity in Appendix B until after this course. But a critical stance,
like those promoted by Freire or Marxian critiques, is difficult to accomplish in
just sixteen weeks for anyone. I didn’t expect this. I merely wanted to plant the
seeds of critique, to give them glimpses of a critical stance they might grow into.
Most of the time, the processes of assessing were to respond formatively,
and the activities were structured so that all responses in a group were similar
in format and focus, but different in what they discussed. Students made no
overt judgments about how they valued drafts in binary or final ways (e.g., “this
is good,” “that is bad,” “I like X,” etc.), instead I guided them to make descriptive judgments. Assessment documents began with observations that could be
debated (e.g., “this sentence is clear to me because,” “I’m confused in paragraph
4 when you say,” “the statement about Wilson feels judgmental by using the
words,” etc.). In terms of stasis theory, these were still judgments of quality, only
starting from questions or statements of fact or definition.55 Our assessment
documents usually asked students to do three things (in this order) in some
fashion:
• Provide a judgment or observation that states carefully the view of the
reader about the document, page, or section of text in question (sometimes generally, sometimes regarding a rubric dimension),
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• Support those observations about the text with quotes or references to
the actual text of the writer, and
• Reveal assumptions that allowed the reader to judge or see things in
the above ways (why do you read the text in that way? What assumptions about the rubric dimension in question are you making, or how
do you understand what it means?).
It is a typical, academic discursive pattern, a set of moves that we also found
in the articles we used to build our rubric, which I pointed out. Most importantly, in all assessment processes, I asked students not to offer advice on how
to revise anything since writers must decide how to revise on their own after
considering all the assessments from their peers. Telling someone what to do
in a draft tends to prematurely stop the writer from reflecting on the meaning
and value of a particular observation about her draft, or creates an unnecessary
debate between the writer and reader about what the text should say or do. Instead, I wanted to encourage critical, subjective conversations between readers
and writer, situating all observations in the subjective stances and habitus of
readers. This made the third move above most important.
In one sense, the assessments of colleagues’ drafts were equally about learning
how the reader reads and values texts herself. To help everyone keep these ideas
in mind, we had two mantras that came from our early reading of a chapter from
Peter Elbow’s Writing Without Teachers (1973): (1) explain to the writer how you
experienced her text and why you experienced it in that way; and (2) writers
make decisions, they don’t follow orders, so do not give orders to writers.
I designed several processes or methods for the weekly assessment activities
that students conducted on various drafts. During the first project, I developed
the processes for them, but later gave them more freedom to determine their
own processes, but required everyone in a group to have the same purposes and
processes. So they had to discuss and agree upon the best purposes, processes,
and parts for their writing groups. Often groups chose to follow one of our established processes for assessing, while others designed ones that better fit their
group’s evolving purposes for their assessment documents. A favorite process of
most students was the first one:

Method 1: Stop and Write
Read carefully your colleague’s text. While you read, stop at
the bottom of each page (or after every 2 paragraphs) and do
some writing. Spend 2-3 minutes just writing. Talk to the
writer directly. What did you just read? What are the ideas,
concepts, or questions that come to your mind at this pausing
point. Most important, do NOT tell the writer what to do,
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or how to revise things, or even how well the writer has or has
not accomplished the goals described in our rubric. Try not
to judge how good or bad your colleague’s writing is in your
responses. At this early stage, instead, your job is to help the
writer consider what is on the page and what expectations
you think the rubric’s dimensions demand. In other words,
show the writer what you, as a reader, hear and see, as well as
how you feel or respond to those ideas, in the text she/he has
created. You should pause a total of 3 times to write about
what you just read. Here are some questions that may help
you start writing at each 2-3 minute pause:
• What did you just read? Describe to the writer what you
think the last page says and what ideas are most important.
• What did the last page make you think about?
• How did you feel when you read particular parts, paragraphs, or sentences on the last page? Point to them. What
responses did you have as a reader?
Your final product should consist of 3 separate paragraphs, 1 for
each stopping or pausing moment in your reading. This should
extend your reading of each draft by about 9-10 minutes.
The most important thing to see in these instructions is that it focuses students’
energies on the process they go through to first read, then write about their colleagues’ drafts. Assessments are not thought of as documents but as ecological
processes that happened to produce a document. In middle and later drafts, they
did end up making judgments that were organized by the rubric dimensions,
which I asked them not to do in this method, which we first used in early drafts,
where our dominant purposes revolved around formative assessing, generating
ideas, and creating more complex analysis in drafts. In general, the dominant
purpose of every assessment process was to generate discussions of some specified kind, first written by readers then discussed face-to-face in groups in class,
that reflected back to writers the experiences of readers. In the process, writers
were to look for ways these discussions led to rethinking, adding to, and changing their drafts. Later on, we slightly altered this same procedure so that we
could focus on one rubric dimension only, but the process remained the same.
In most assessment ecologies when things are working well, drafts tend to
function as parts (artifacts) that reveal some of the learning and development
of students. But by their nature, they are incomplete records of learning, especially learning to write. Drafts are like ancient artifacts that an archeologist digs
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up and examines. They tell the scientist something valuable of the society and
people who made or used the artifacts, but they only give incomplete or indirect
evidence of how those artifacts were made, and more important, of the social
and material practices around those objects (e.g., how were they used? What did
people think of them? What was their significance to people in their daily lives?
etc.). If we are interested in the ways people develop and learn as writers, how
students make drafts, what significance and learning they take from that labor,
then it is the social and material practices that we should care most about, not
the draft itself. Drafts, while important, are in many ways incidental to learning
to be a better writer. The Framework for Success in Postsecondary Writing’s (CWPA
et al., 2011) emphasis on habits of mind instead of textual outcomes speaks to
this need in writing instruction and its assessment, as does the importance of
reflection and self-assessment over other classroom documents (Dewey, 1910;
Yancey, 1999). My research on failure (Inoue, 2014b) that reveals the powerful role that non-cognitive dimensions of writing play in success and failure in
learning to write also suggests how insignificant creating perfect documents (as
a pedagogical goal) are to learning to write.
In the present course, the assessment documents, because they document
the reading and judgment practices of students, and because they are often reflective in nature, tell us more directly what and how students learn, although
they will still be incomplete. To use the archeological analogy again, assessment
documents as ecological parts are akin to diaries, journals, and travelogues, in
which the people of an ancient society speak directly about their social and
material existence (in this case, about reading and judging writing). This isn’t to
say that all assessment documents will function in assessment ecologies in this
way, but as should be clear from my description of just one assessment process
and its part (the stop and write method above), I attempted to make these assessment documents function as reflective parts that might become productive
places of learning, ecological places where students might experience borderland
clashes between individual judgment and hegemonic structures of valuing texts
(e.g., structures of a white racial habitus, of local SEAEs, of the local dominant
discourse of our classroom, of subaltern discourses read and written in drafts,
etc.). Since this class, my labor instructions are more explicit about being labor
(i.e., steps in a process), so they make visible our labor as processes that we can
abstract. When labor is visible, students can see their own drafts mediated by a
base of practices.
Assessment documents can also be places where readers and writers focus
on problematizing the existential writing assessment situations of readers and
writers by exploring the judgments made and their sources. A small tweak to
the second of the three questions that students respond to at each pausing point
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would be needed, asking something like, “why are the ideas you summarized
most important on this page? What ideas or values do you have as a reader that
make those ideas important? Where in your life and education did you acquire
these ideas about language and writing?” This could allow writing groups to discuss how readers came to judgments, revealing assumptions and habitus active
in their group, which can be compared to each other, not as a process of finding
right and wrong, but as a way to reveal different places (or subject positions)
within the place of the writing group, or the place of the draft in question. In
this revised process, the purpose of writing assessment changes so that the center
of discussions is not the writer or her draft, but the readers and their reading
process, their habitus. I think this works best when students see the draft and the
writing group as ecological places, not parts or collections of people. Places can
be borderlands, sites of contestation, and require understanding perspectives.
The clearest example of a student who attempted to problematize his own
existential writing assessment situation was Zach. He enthusiastically took to the
assessment processes of the course from the beginning. He also shows the typical
ways most students tended to develop as assessors and struggle in the borderlands that their assessment documents created. As mentioned in the previous
sections, Zach initially gained some agency by recognizing how power shifted
in the writing assessment ecology of our class from those in his past. I suggested
that this translated into stronger more aware labor for him, seen through his
reflection on the rubric building process. In his next labor journal entry after the
rubric revision activities, and as we began the drafting of the explorative essays
for Project 2, Zach explains his process of assessing his colleagues’ explorative
drafts in which I assigned the above stop and write method:
I directly highlighted certain parts of their text that I found
to be interesting, informative, and valuable. By doing so it
helped me make notes on what was being said during the sections that I broke off in each inquiry. Lastly I wrote the paragraphs on each of the sections as the assignment asked of me,
what I discussed was 1. what I read in the text. 2 if I felt there
was significance to what was understood or presented. 3 how
it could be argued or what questions I might have regarding
the text. Lastly I took this assignment much more seriously
this time because I know that this early state is what’s going
to determine how my group members are going to further
structure and create the rest of their document.
Zach rearticulates his reading process in slightly different terms from the instructions, and makes the assessment practice his own. According to his labor journal
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entry, these annotations on each draft took him about 12 minutes each. Figure 3
below shows what Zach produced for the first page of Cristina’s paper, which was
typical of him for all three pages and all four colleagues in this round of assessing.
Zach’s labor worked well for him and Cristina, a multilingual Latina, third year
student, majoring in Business. It was intense and productive. It is clear he took
this process more seriously this time around because of its implications to his
colleagues’ future project drafts. He felt more responsible for Cristina’s success.

Figure 3. A page from Zach’s assessment document for Cristina’s Project 2 that began
to problematize his own existential writing assessment situation.
In his assessment document (Figure 3 above), Zach focuses first on describing what he reads in the draft, then on the significant details, which he had
highlighted first in his reading labors. While he moves to telling Cristina what

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to do, these details lead him to thinking with Cristina about rival hypotheses for
why there is more media coverage of white female victims in news outlets, and
why there might be a lack of coverage of victims of color. His attention is not on
making Cristina’s exploration of her question, “how does race play a role in the
media coverage of victims of crime?” simple or easy to answer, instead Zach tries
to find ways to “complicate” what she has begun to think about. Finally, it is interesting that he ends on a suggestion for future inquiry that implicates himself,
asking her to investigate the coverage of white, middle class males. I’d like to believe that our course’s assessment ecology’s attention to difference and constructing borderlands in the rubric and in our discussions of drafts (the assessment
processes) allowed Zach to make this dangerous proposition that implicated
himself in Cristina’s project. This would be a kind of problematizing of his own
existential situation. No matter the impulse, Zach’s labors seem not only to be
self-aware but racially problematizing in nature. Assessment becomes a critical
process, a process that implicates Zach’s own subjectivity in his colleague’s writing, a potentially problematizing process for both Zach and Cristina.
These impulses toward questioning assumptions and claims of texts and ideas
began to develop in Zach’s own writing of his Project 2 drafts. It should be noted
that like Lyna, Zach produced a lot of text for assignments, and always followed
our process directions carefully. But while he was very good at reflecting on his
work and assessing his colleagues’ papers, like Lyna, Zach had trouble managing
the dominant academic discourse of his field (viticulture), and the conventions
of our local SEAE in his own project drafts. It appears that when he felt free of
the obligations to make “arguments” or write a research paper, Zach could think
clearly and cogently, ask good questions, and ponder tentatively on the page, as
his reflections, labor journal, and the above assessment document show. However, in project drafts, his language was often riddled with errors, oddly used
words, and tangled syntax. He was less sure about how to cite and quote sources
appropriately, as well as integrate them into his own thoughts and ideas. And yet
there were moments of more clarity and a coming to “appropriate the discourse”
of the academy (although I would not say Zach was equally appropriated by his
academic discourse), as Bartholomae (1985) has said. In his later drafts, which
I’m arguing are linked to his assessing practices, Zach tries to question and manipulate sources, practices he migrated from his assessment processes.
A few weeks later in the second full draft of Zach’s Project 2, he explores his
research question, “what are the cultural perceptions of the wine industry and
how does the media play in those perceptions,” by looking at one example, the
movie Sideways (2004). Late in the draft, Zach incorporates his assessment pro-

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cess as a rhetorical pattern into his project’s draft:
One example of media directly relating to the wine industry
would be shown by the devastating wine market change from
the release of the movie “Sideways”. “ The movie sideways
was released on October 22, 2004, nominated for 5 Academy Awards on January 25, 2005, winning one (best adapted
screenplay) , and closed in theaters on May 19, 2005. In the
30 weeks the movie was in theaters, gross domestic ticket sales
were over $70 million with worldwide sales reaching just over
$100 million, making it the 40th highest grossing movie of
the year.” (Cuellar, Karnowsky, Acosta, 2009) the reason this
is being presented is to show the magnitude of the movie,
also it represents the size of audience that viewed the film for
those who have not seen or heard about the movie. “In the
movie Sideways, there is a memorable scene in which the lead
character adamantly refuses to drink Merlot … the effect of
the move has become folklore in the wine industry and has
even started what is known as the “Sideways effect”. (Cuellar,
Karnowsky, Acosta, 2009) … After the large study being done
by those in the particular article being represented the “Results suggest that Sideways did have a small negative impact
on the consumption of Merlot while increasing the consumption of Pinot Noir. However, far from having a “devastating”
affect, the positive impact on Pinot Noir appears greater than
the negative impact on Merlot. For example, while the sales of
merlot slow following the movie, sales of Pinot Noir Increases
significantly.” (Cuellar, Karnowsky, Acosta, 2009) Now as we
can see that this is a prime example of media and its power to
change the perceptions of a whole industry more specifically
the wine industry. As we can see just by a couple of lines form
a movie has the power to take sales of two products and drastically change them. As for the perception goes the movie was
able to negatively portray Merlot, and glorify Pinot, in result
the public perception followed.
Zach has trouble with the local SEAE and citing and incorporating sources into
his own thoughts, but he does make the right kind of rhetorical moves that most
academic discourses expect. And these moves mimic what he did well in assessment processes. This was also something the dominant translation of our project
rubric seemed to be prompting students to explore in their drafts. Our project
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rubric asked students to “provide multiple perspectives fairly,” and suggested
it might be seen in a project as “[a]ddress[ing] or acknowledge[ing] multiple
sides to the issue or question[ing] and substantiat[ing] those experiences with
research.” From the feedback that Zach received from his group members, it
appears they all accepted this dominant way to translate the rubric. And Zach
attempts to use sources in his text, but he tends to lean on one. Still, he uses
a quotation from a source, inserts a parenthetical citation in APA style, then
explains what readers are to make of the quoted material. While there are issues
with each of these moves in his draft, the details he brings to bear on his question
about the media’s influence on people’s perceptions of the wine industry are all
relevant and appropriate.
More important, Zach uses the same rhetorical pattern provided in the process instructions in the stop and write assessment method, which amounted to
three moves truncated to two moves: (1) point to a source text which offered
the claim/observation about the “Sideways effect,” then (2) explain or analyze
that source. What he still lacks is enough contact with academic discussions that
would provide him examples of the kinds of appropriate and meaningful things
to say after those quotations, or the kinds of counters an academic audience
might reasonably have to the “Sideways effect.” The fact that he truncates his
own observation is also a problem, but a minor one in this early- to mid-draft.
The discourse has not appropriated him, nor has he fully approximated it. But
this is where Zach is at, which is much farther along than where he began the
course, and he is conscious of it, since he made these same rhetorical moves
consistently throughout his paper.
While Zach transfers the course’s assessment processes to his drafting processes, I wonder about his ability to problematize his existential situation in
his own writing. That is, does he question his role as a white male with some
affluence (his family does own a farm and he has aspirations to be a grape grower
and winery owner)? What is his stake in his essay’s question? Perhaps expecting
a discussion from Zach along these lines is unfair. It would require a cultural
studies orientation to this project that he likely was unprepared to undertake. It
may also have required him to change much of his purposes for his project. But
he could problematize his writing labors as ones that are informed by a white
racial habitus. He could see the rhetorical moves he makes as ones that are in
some way implicated in the hegemonic that he simultaneously takes advantage
of (white skin privilege) and is penalized by (in his own inability to fully mimic
the dominant discourse of the academy). Again, these are difficult problems to
pose for any student because they are paradoxes.
Note that I’m not making the argument that Zach’s paper was mimicking
well the academic discourse expected of him, nor am I saying that his paper was
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one of the best in the class. Instead, I’m saying that these judgments of success,
like “better papers” or “improved drafts,” whatever that may mean in any given
assessment ecology, are less important to Zach’s appropriation of the dominant
academic discourse, a discourse he wanted to appropriate. And it was less important to his success in our writing assessment ecology, less important to Zach’s
ecological products, his learning, his coming to critical consciousness. Zach’s
academic goals were never to be an academic. They were to help his family with
their farm and open his own vineyard and winery. He and I had several discussions about these goals. So entering academic conversations and reproducing
fluently our local SEAE—being appropriated by an academic discourse—are
mostly intellectual exercises that, to his credit, he valiantly attempted, but were
not on his career horizon, at least as he saw it at that point in his life. Zach’s purposes for writing in the course and for the assessments on his writing, then, were
to produce some other learning product. This is the case for the vast majority of
college writing students, particularly those in first-year writing courses.56
For the above draft, Zach’s group decided to use a version of the stop and
write method for assessing, only they used the comment feature in Word. Like
Lyna’s group, Zach’s group exhibited a locally diverse character. Susan, an older,
white, monolingual, third-year student, whom I mentioned earlier in this chapter as vocal about grades, was a strong and articulate assessor and a strong writer
of the local SEAE. Her assessments on Zach’s draft focused often at the sentence
level, whereas his other group members tended to offer their annotations after
each paragraph or page. At the end of the above paragraph, Susan comments:
“This whole paragraph is really good, but again, check your grammar and use of
certain words. Sometimes the misuse of a word changes the intended meaning.”
And in her overall comment on his draft, she explains,
I also felt like some of your points could use a little further
discussion by way of examples or research. You talk about
owners being passionate and I would be curious to know what
causes that passion. Since you are majoring in this field, you
might consider discussing your own passion and what makes
you want to own a vineyard. Is it tradition? I know your
family farms but not wine grapes, so where did your passion
come from?
Susan is pushing Zach to do at least two things in his draft. One, she wants him
to look for those errors in his attempts at the local SEAE so that his meaning
comes out clearly; and two, she sees a need to have alternative voices, perhaps
ones that challenge the ideas or claims he already has in his draft. One place he
might start, she thinks, is his own reasons for his passion for the wine industry.
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The use of more voices, more “examples and research,” is a common theme
in his other colleagues’ assessments. Adam, a monolingual, African-American
business major, a junior with a wife and two children, offered this comment
on the same paragraph: “The discussion about the movie is a strong point for
me. What other sources agree or disagree with its said impact?” In his global
comments on the draft, Adam makes similar observations about his own expectations: “I don’t see an end to the paper right here. A good argument to me
would be discussing if there is another influence over the wine market. What else
creates perceptions other than the media?” Additionally, Adam wonders if Zach
might be able to criticize his sources more, “attack them fairly,” and asks, “do
you agree with all of your sources or do you feel that they could be wrong? If so
I would like to hear about it.”
Cristina, a multilingual Latina, in similar fashion as Susan, mentions Zach’s
troubles with the local SEAE, but focuses her overall feedback on her interest
in knowing more about Zach’s position in the project, and perhaps on the ideas
he quotes from others. Cristina explains: “What I would have like to have read
more about was your opinion. You had a lot of great information about your
topic, but being able to see where you stand in your arguments would show
us the reader why you are so passionate about viticulture and your take on the
arguments being discussed.” His assessors were uniform in their readings of his
draft as not meeting the local SEAE expectations, and wanting more perspectives represented, particularly ones that challenged the ideas he had in the early
drafts. He received similar kinds of comments from his colleagues on his Project
1 drafts, but at this point in the semester, Zach held on to his own purposes for
his writing. He wasn’t, for example, trying to force a purpose like perfecting a
local SEAE in drafts, and perhaps he wasn’t sure how to insert his own ideas and
opinion yet. But the ecology allowed him to ignore or put aside these suggestions. Things seemed okay to him. He could have his own purposes for writing.
However, when Zach tried to force-fit our dominant purpose into his assessment and drafting processes, it seemed to cause him a good deal of frustration
and cognitive dissonance. In a reflection around the same time as the above draft
was submitted to his group, he reflects on the differences between his colleague’s
assessments of Project 1’s later draft and my assessments of it, focusing on the
contradictory ecological products of those assessments:
So after reading my reviews that my colleagues wrote about
my project one I truly didn’t seem to find anything said to be
constructive. All of the comments that were left were basically checking off to see if I meet our rubric or not. According
to 2 of the 2 individuals that read my paper I have indeed
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completed my project according to the rubric. So this leaves
me with a bigger question “where do I go from here?” I do
understand that there are probably a lot of grammar errors
to be fixed. And I’m sure there is some part of my project
that’s weak and could use some more attention. So my bigger
concern is what areas does my project need some improvement. This leads me to the comments left by Dr. Asao, which
were very constructive but yet made it very clear that I was
no where near meeting any of our rubric benchmarks which
is the contradiction. So I do respect what was said about my
article by Dr. Asao, but at the same time I feel that all of the
group work in class has just been a huge waste of time. To
clarify, I do respect my group members and feel as if they have
helped me in many ways, but I just don’t understand how I
can be so close, but way off at the same time. For the future I
plan on going through my document and closely analyzing it
to see how I might be able to make the changes needed to get
me back on track. And hopefully change a few things to make
my project to be more rhetorically acceptable. For my future
project 2 I have no idea on how I will be able to change my
writing practices but for now I just plan on working hard and
continue to improve day by day.
Zach appeared to be unsure of what to do. He was frustrated. He saw a contradiction in the assessments of his writing, between what I said on his Project 1 draft, which was mostly about helping him come closer to the dominant
academic discourse, and what his colleagues had said, who appeared generally
to be less concerned with those things. Because they used versions of the stop
and write method, and because I had coached the class not to make judgments
about passing or meeting expectations in assessments, instead I asked them to
make observational judgments, ones that described their reading experiences.
Zach’s colleagues’ assessments didn’t include the binary judgments mine did
(i.e., “meets expectations” or “ does not meet expectations”). Keep in mind, this
frustration is a true frustration about learning, not earning. Grades aren’t a part
of assessments, as our grading contract stipulates. Zach knows that no matter
what folks think of his writing, he’s getting at least a “B” course grade, and probably an “A,” something he makes a point to mention in his final self-assessment
letter in the course. So the real issue here for him is “how I [Zach] can be so
close, but way off at the same time”? His concern is about what to make of the
locally diverse set of readers’ judgments of his writing.
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What was difficult for Zach, and many of his colleagues in class at this point,
was how to read and use assessments that didn’t try to grade or judge his writing
as passing or not. Instead, colleague assessments presented writers with a series
of ambiguous decisions that were framed in personal terms, as Susan’s, Adam’s,
and Cristina’s assessments of Zach’s Project 2 illustrate above. This creates a borderland for Zach, which he experiences as conflicting judgments on his writing
when he gets my assessment. In my assessment documents, I explicitly listed the
project rubric’s codes, the dimensions, and stated a clear judgment of “meets
expectations,” or “does not meet expectations.” But the rest of my assessment
document looked similar to Zach’s colleagues’ documents, in that I attempted
to describe my experience of their texts and my expectations as a reader along
each dimension.
The simple act of judging whether they met or didn’t meet my expectations
created a lot of confusion and frustration in the class. I seemed to be saying dramatically different things than their colleagues in groups. Additionally, I seemed
to say contradictory things in my judgment and discussion of each dimension.
And in a way, I was. When placing a judgment like “does not meet expectations”
next to a descriptive assessment that may say similar things as their group members’ assessments of their writing did (as in the case of Zach), a writer cannot
help but focus on the binary judgment, even a student as dedicated as Zach.
That judgment feels and acts much like a grade, a final, summative decision,
even though it wasn’t a part of the calculation of course grades.
My students, even after 10 or so weeks in our class, reacted to the codes in
my assessments (my summative judgments), in ways they had been acculturated
to do in school. The other writing assessment ecologies were bleeding into ours,
affecting the ways in which they read my feedback. They reacted to them as
parts, not as borderland-places of negotiation and conflict. If they could see the
contradictory assessments of their drafts as a place, a landscape of judgments,
then they might see a dialogue, a conversation about their writing that is equally
about readers’ different habitus.
Instead of using the differences between my assessments and their colleagues’
as an opportunity to investigate the differences in assumptions and how those
differences may help them as writers to problematize, my students tended to
see the differences initially as a result of a flawed system. Why listen to students
when they cannot read like our teacher? Isn’t it all just a “waste of time” if the
teacher says something different from our colleagues? In retrospect, while my
summative judgments did offer students like Zach a chance to dwell in a borderland that was uncomfortable and dissonant, shocking, one he would eventually emerge from, I’m not sure that all the angst and frustration in the class
was necessary. Perhaps I should have prepared them for my assessments before
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they received them. Maybe I should not have provided the judgments on each
dimension. One thing is for sure, our classroom writing assessment ecology did
not prepare them well for my binary judgments, but the confusion and angst
that they created in most of the class was productive for many. It posed a problem about the judgments on their writing.
Like many in the class, Zach’s cognitive dissonance occurred because he had
difficulty rectifying the two seemingly contradicting sets of assessments on his
writing. For instance, my assessments of Zach’s project focused on the same two
issues that his colleagues’ assessments did on both of his projects (i.e., his issues
with our local SEAE, and his need for more sources or counter arguments).
But as the stop and write method illustrates, readers framed their assessments
in personal ways, drawing on their own inventories and feelings about the text
in order to translate the rubric’s dimensions (e.g., “[a]ddress or acknowledge
multiple sides to the issue or question and substantiate those experiences with
research”). This was intended to produce assessment documents that offered a
variety of interpretations of what the draft was doing and what the rubric dimension meant, which could lead to investigating assumptions and values that
inform those personal judgments. The assessment ecology, then, worked as I
had planned it, at least initially. But because I didn’t incorporate critical consciousness raising activities to explicitly investigate the borderlands created by
the conflicting assessment documents, students may have dwelled too long in
those borderlands without any way to navigate them and see the structural in
the personal feedback of their colleagues. What Zach’s reflections suggest is that
he saw my feedback coming from larger, structural and disciplinary sources, but
didn’t see his colleagues’ feedback in the same way. Their feedback seemed to
be more personal in nature, maybe even random or merely idiosyncratic, but
certainly less relevant than mine.
Additionally, I think, Zach and the class may have been looking for direction
at this point, a point in the semester when teachers typically give direction to
students, but our assessment ecology resisted providing this to him in an unambiguous way. He was not able to simply follow my orders. Ideally, I should have
offered some additional ways to help students like Zach through the borderlands
that at this point stymied and frustrated them. Maybe I should have modeled
the process of making a decision from conflicting judgments on a draft, focusing
on the way all the assessment documents create a conversation, a place where
people are talking about a writer’s draft or him as a writer. Then again, Zach
and his colleagues needed to sit with difference and conflict for a time, then
figure out how to make decisions as writers. I did not always know how students
should negotiate these borderlands. Zach was frustrated because in his eyes in a
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uous about their judgments. They would agree. But in our assessment ecology,
these things didn’t happened because the people were locally diverse in a number
of ways and the processes and parts embraced that diversity.
In our discussions in class after the reflection activity comparing my assessments to their colleagues’, I asked students if they felt I was a substantively
different reader than their colleagues. They said, yes of course. I was the teacher.
I was an expert in composition theory. I had more experience in writing and
teaching writing than they did in school.57 I asked them if they were experts in
their own readings of texts—that is, did they feel that what they said in assessment documents was truthful and honest, or was truthful to their experiences
of the texts at hand? Of course, they said. So I wondered aloud in front of them
if it’s possible that all of us could be right about each other’s drafts at the same
time, and why we as a class generally might want to measure everyone’s judgments against mine. In other areas of our lives, did we do this kind of comparing
of judgments to validate them, to make sure they were correct? In those other
places in our lives, is there always a right or correct answer or response? Is there
always a yardstick to measure by?
I didn’t ask them these questions directly, since I only wanted them to think
about them. I reminded them of our on-going discussions about difference and
conflict and about writers making decisions. This didn’t solve their problems,
but that wasn’t my goal. I wanted them to sit with the differences and find a way
out as writers in the places of their groups, since we still had more assessments
and drafts to engage in. Finally, I reminded them that these were good tensions to have and to try to solve, and fortunately for us, these contradictions of
judgment do not affect one important product of our assessment ecology, their
course grades. They were free to make decisions without risking a lower course
grade. The question was not what decisions do they make, but how and why do
they make them. So in a tacit or covert way, I was asking them to problematize
their existential writing assessment situations, which came to a head in the contradictions between my assessments and their colleagues’.
What I didn’t connect to this problematizing is the ways that my judgments,
and the habitus I enacted in my assessments, was deeply informed by a white
racial habitus. I didn’t show them how our stop and write assessment process has
roots in a white racial habitus, and this is both a good thing and something that
could harm us if we used it to grade one another. Thus our assessment ecology,
one that didn’t grade using a white racial habitus to form judgments of writing,
was antiracist in this respect, but it didn’t use this antiracist method very effectively to help students become critically conscious of such racism in all writing
assessment.
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ments is seeing the assessments as a place in the ecology. Their writing groups
were also places, ones that resisted norming (to my expectations or those of a
white racial habitus), even as those places attempted to norm students to a dominant discourse and our local SEAE. This norming and anti-norming could only
happen if students exercised enough power in the assessment ecology, which I
argue they did, and that the power they exercised allowed for the presence of
alternative interpretations of what we expected in writing. So while Zach may
have left Project 1 and entered Project 2 confused and frustrated, it did make
him more alert, more vigilant, which is a step toward critical consciousness. The
assessment of his writing was clearly not going to be about correcting his drafts,
but about constructing and negotiating a borderland of diverse judgments.
In his final portfolio’s reflection letter, Zach returns to this moment in the
course, in part because it was a potent moment for him and because he included
both the Project 2 and the above reflection in his portfolio. He reflects:
The last aspect that I truly struggled with project two would
be speeding up my conversation. Ever since receiving this
feedback [on project 1] from Dr. Asao I have always been left
with this final question. “How does one speed up their conversation? And what does this exactly mean?” as for me I do
not have the time nor energy to properly attack this allegation
but I defiantly feel that it should be a place where I could use
some improvement.
As for the journal entry that I provided I would like to briefly
say that this is the best example of how emotion will change
my tone or attitude within my text. At the time I was very
upset with the reply I received from Dr. Asao regarding my
project one. I just simply felt as if I let myself down because
I truly put so much time and effort into that project just to
receive what I took at the time to be negative feedback. Later
I realized that he actually was providing me with the best
feedback I could possibly have gotten. Lastly I just want this
journal to be recognized for the sheer emotion that was represented. Now looking back at it I sometimes wish I could write
in such a manor or emulate this in other texts.
Is Zach’s reflection proof that our assessment processes led him to all the answers
he sought, to a critical consciousness about his own language practices, about
the judgment of his writing in the class? I think he is more ambivalent than
that, but ambivalence is an important characteristic in good, critical reflection.
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It reveals the student’s willingness to acknowledge ambiguity and complexity,
to resist in some way the powerful pull of the progress narrative that so many
portfolio reflection letters tend to engage in since the genre itself leads students
toward that disposition, as Tony Scott (2005) shows in his research on the Kentucky portfolio project. While I’m positive Zach got much from our class, this
reflection engages in, among other things, two interesting questions that are
never given a final answer. Both come from the contradictions he saw between
my assessment of his writing and his colleagues in his writing group. And because I was not the bearer of grades, he initially struggled with how to answer
these questions.
The first question he raises, “how does one speed up their conversation?”
comes from a comment I gave him in which I said that as a reader I was looking
for him to stop summarizing so much and move to his argument, his ideas, his
questions (this is tied to the way he tended to truncate the rhetorical moves he
was mimicking from our assessment processes, mentioned above). As a reader, I
expressed a need, one that urged him to move more quickly to his ideas and perhaps wrestle with his sources. In the above reflection, he seems to agree with me
but uses some strong language to do so, which could be simply some language
miscues, but these decisions lead to a sentence with interesting tension in it. The
first half of his conclusion, meant to be an answer to the question, seems on the
verge of attacking my assessment: “I do not have the time nor energy to properly
attack this allegation.” The clause sounds defensive and oppositional. Does Zach
see that he’s used two phrases that could be read as defensive or even attacking
me? He doesn’t have time or energy to take my assessment seriously, to “attack”
it as an “allegation,” suggesting that my assessment is false. What student in a
conventional writing assessment ecology, where the teacher holds most of the
power, would make such a statement?
This statement shows agency, a willingness to suggest that the teacher’s own
assessment is wrong, or could reasonably be seen as wrong. I wish he had the
time to follow up on my assessment. It would have told us more, and more important, told him more. The second clause begins in the same way, but quickly
warms to a kinder, gentler, more humble voice, one I had come to associate
closely with Zach: “but I defiantly feel that it should be a place where I could
use some improvement.” So he “defiantly” (or is it “definitely”?) agrees with
my assessment. I like to think that the statement ends on a note of defiance, a
defiance that opposes my own judgment of his work, yet he sees my judgment
as reasonable, worth some consideration that may lead to “improvement.” This
is the kind of agency that our ecology attempted to encourage and develop in
students. The ability to talk back to the hegemonic. I realize I could be reading too much into this final statement of Zach’s, but given the way Lu (1994)
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demonstrates that such language miscues could be read as a writer making conscious choices that are counter-hegemonic, not errors or miscues, suggests that
this kind of reading is worthwhile. It reveals an exercise of some degree of power,
agency, critical consciousness.
The second question that Zach ends this section of his letter on deals with a
question of how to infuse more emotion and passion into “other texts,” which
I’m assuming are academic texts since he’s referring to his informal reflection
as the one filled with emotion. He sees the value in “how emotion will change
my tone or attitude within my text,” which is extraordinary in a class based on
helping students appropriate academic discourses, ones that typically do not value emotion and passion, at least not in the ways Zach is describing it here. His
emotional reflection, however, gives him access to another contradiction that
I had hoped students would confront, that time and labor in writing may not
always lead to improvement, that learning isn’t a linear process. While he doesn’t
explain why my feedback was “the best feedback [he] could possibly have gotten,” this statement is situated between two statements about how useful writing
with emotion was for him, how it helped create text that was more powerful.
His more emotionally charged reflection (a self-assessment) provided Zach with
a way to work through the differences in the assessment borderland that had
frustrated him earlier in the semester. Even though he doesn’t explain how things
made sense to him, he sees a lesson and less frustration. He sees the usefulness
of difference, of conflict, and even of his own earlier frustration. Zach finds
answers in emotion and passion, not reason and logic, and he articulates these
conclusions in somewhat ambiguous terms by saying, “sometimes wish I could
write in such a manor or emulate this in other texts.” In his final self-assessment
letter in the course, he shows just how self-aware he is of all these issues, which
I’ll discuss in more detail in the next section.
Finally, it is significant that Zach focuses on emotion and passion, and that
he wishes he could “write in such a manor” in other places. I want to read this as
Zach tapping into the ontological aspects of writing as labor, as an act of being
that Yagelski (2011) discusses. It seems to me that what Zach is finding out in
this final reflection letter is that writing can be deeply enjoyable and engaging.
It can be emotional and passion-filled. It can be a way of being that is good and
helpful and insightful. And in these ways, it poses different problems for Zach
to ponder, raises a different kind of critical consciousness for him, one that is
connected to the sensual, to the bodily, to the material, to feeling.
Der engaged in different kinds of assessment labor than Zach, but with some
similar results. At first glance, Der (a third year, Hmong student, majoring in
business) appeared to have more difficulty migrating our assessment processes
to her drafting processes, but she too migrates the processes of assessment to her
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drafting and texts. For draft 1 of Project 2, Der’s group decided to change the
ecological part that their stop and write method produced. They decided to offer
bulleted lists that addressed the questions in the original stop and write method
instructions. Unlike Zach’s group’s narrative form (paragraphs that talked to the
writer) that accompanied annotated texts, Der’s group’s ecological part, their
assessment documents, were only lists, usually asking questions to the writer.
Refocusing their assessment labor practices on making fragmentary lists that did
not try to explain their statements or reactions (the group felt they could explain
in their group discussions) made migrating assessment practices, such as those
Zach migrated, more difficult, but not impossible.
While the form of their assessment documents made it difficult to know
exactly how useful their assessment processes were to assessors and writers, Der’s
assessment lists do illustrate what she as a reader cogitatively had to do during
her reading and feedback processes. Der’s assessment document of Gloria’s draft
1 was typical of her labors:
Gloria: Is It a Good Time to Come Out of the Shadows Yet?
-
-
-
-
-

What are the bills / laws that would make one hesitant?
Who would be against the Dream Act?
o What professions? – Why would they be?
Would you be including people who have done it and what
they say about it?
What would you want us as readers to do? (Rubric)
What are the opinions of non-immigrants / citizens?
o Why would they react the way that would?

Her group members had similar lists, so Der was typical in the scope and depth
of her questions. All of her items are questions to Gloria, and they likely are
organized by where in the draft Der came up with the questions during her
reading. For instance, the first two pages of Gloria’s draft discusses the Deferred
Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) federal memorandum, passed in June
of 2012, while the rest of the draft draws out a history of laws that affect individuals taking advantage of DACA in California. Der’s first two questions seem
to belong with those first two pages, while the others relate to items Gloria had
put into her draft later. Der’s questions are good ones, helpful I think, even
if under-explained. She makes reference to our project rubric when she asks
Gloria to consider “what would you want us as readers to do?” Der is referring
to the rubric dimension, “Use Rhetorical Methods, Purposes, and Strategies.”
We recorded several features by which one could translate this dimension, two
being, “attempt to provoke a purposeful response in readers,” and “use and dis256

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cuss appropriate examples that help illustrate and/or complicate the ideas of the
project.” Der seems to use the idea of provoking a response in a reader to frame
her question. In effect, she’s asking Gloria, what is the purpose of this paper?
My own reading produced this same question since this early draft is mostly
a list of summaries. Der appears to have figured out as a reader how to consider
purpose and the use of various perspectives in order to complicate ideas in an academic discussion, something she’ll attempt in her own drafting. What is less clear
from Der’s assessment document is what assessment processes she can migrate to
her other writing, and whether a list of questions will provide her the ability to
problematize any existential situation (assessment or otherwise), as Zach’s narrative-based assessment documents appeared to offer him and Cristina.
Could Der’s group’s listing process for assessment documents be as successful
as Zach’s group’s more elaborate processes? Like most groups, Der’s was very talkative. Recall that Jane, one of Der’s group members, mentioned in her reflections
during our contract renegotiations that our writing assessment ecology allowed
her to “enjoy” her “group discussion the most,” “always [leaving] class in a great
mood,” and found that reading her colleagues’ papers helped her in her own
writing. So likely, the question listing method they employed was not meant to
stand on its own. It was a method to allow them to have discussions in the ecological place of their group, not in the parts of their assessment documents. It was
a method that accentuated their group’s material conditions around feedback.
But did Der’s assessment processes lead to successful drafting processes and
textual parts in her projects? And did they lead to a rising critical consciousness?
In her final portfolio, Der decided to include just her Project 1, which had gotten
the more elaborate and lengthy stop and write method assessments earlier in the
semester. It seems significant that after the experiment with the stop and write
listing method that Der’s group attempted, Der decided to leave out Project 2
from her final portfolio, a fascinating inquiry into the representations of Asian
females in contemporary popular media. Der’s Project 1 was personal, and she
seemed more invested in it. Her research question asked: “how has being Hmong
influenced my reading and writing?” She uses several kinds of evidence to explore
this question, researched studies of Hmong students and their literacy practices,
her own personal experiences with her family, and an extended interview with
her older sister, who was also a college student, majoring in business accountancy.
Her paper developed in a cumulative way, starting with the literature review,
then adding the interview, placing it in the second half of the paper. While
Der’s paper offers no rationale for the two-part structure or its order, concludes
abruptly with one sentence, and doesn’t quite come back to answering directly
her question, she does indirectly explore the question in fascinating ways and
could arguably be said to offer a counter-hegemonic discourse to the dominant
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one the rubric re-presented. At the paragraph and section levels, Der makes
some sophisticated moves, some of the most sophisticated of the class. After
opening the paper with her question and a brief overview of who the Hmong
people are and where they came from, she discusses research, then implicitly
applies those findings to her own life experiences:
In the work of Katherine Fennelly’s and Nicole Palasz’s,
“English Language Proficiency of Immigrants and Refugees in
the Twin Cities Metropolitan Area,” a study was done on how
well the understudied Hmong, as well as, Russians, Somalis,
and Mexicans were able to pick up the English language.
Fennelly is a professor at the University of Minnesota whose
expertise is in immigration and public policy; diversity and
cross-cultural relations; as well as health and public policy.
Palasz is a K – 16 Outreach Coordinator for the Institute of
World Affairs in the Center for International Education at
the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee. Compared to all of
those researched on, Hmong people had the least amount of
people over the age of fourteen that knew English well. Only
thirty four percent of the sampled Hmong in the research,
which was conducted in 2003, had a high school diploma.
The conclusion to why this is the reason is because Hmong
people lived in a secluded environment from other people prior to their movement to the United States. Even when being
compared to just other Asian refugees in the United States,
“Hmong are at a significant socio – economic and educational
disadvantage.” (120).
Growing up within the Hmong community, we were taught
to keep to our own kind. We were not supposed to mingle
with others, well at least outside of school. When in school,
we were to be an ideal student, but as soon as we go home
we are supposed to forget all the “American ways” and be the
ideal Hmong daughter or son. In my early years of elementary
school, my family which included most of my father’s extended side all lived in the same apartment complex. During this
time it was hard, as well as wrong, to ignore the Hmong heritage in me as well as around me. I believe that I chose not to
question the Hmong culture because even before I was aware
of how taboo it was that my mother was a single parent, in
both the Hmong and the American worlds, I did not want to
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let my mother down. She could not stress enough the importance of keeping our culture going. In the Hmong culture,
once you are married you are part of the husband’s side now.
If the husband dies, then the wife is supposed to marry one of
his brothers, primarily the youngest one. The reason for this is
because without the husband as the connection to the family,
the wife as well as the children would be basically disowned
from the whole. My mom chose not to marry any one of my
uncles. This is because she highly respected my aunts and
because of the move to the Americas changed a lot of feelings
about disowning family. Another reason could be that the oldest of my siblings is my brother who is almost a decade older
than me. With him around my family would be able to say
we are of our father’s. My father’s side also figured it would
not be necessary because we all needed to stick together to be
able to fend off the American ways. The American impact was
of course inevitable. In some ways it hit them right in the face
of our parents’ generation.
Unlike the stereotype of the multilingual writer, Der integrates her sources more
conventionally than Zach (a monolingual writer), and in many places above uses
our local SEAE more fluently than Zach’s draft did, although her language does
break down periodically. More interesting, Der’s family experiences substantiate
and subtly complicate the findings of Fennelly and Palasz. It appears Der, much
like Zach, still produced a project draft that was clearly attempting the things we
asked of each other in the project rubric. But it could be argued that Der was doing more complex things by including an interview and her own experiences as a
way to make sense of the research she draws on, which Zach had been asked by
his colleagues to include in his writing but choose not to. While Der’s local place
in the writing assessment ecology didn’t produce as interesting or provocative
assessment documents as Zach’s place did, Der still ends up producing effective
drafts and appears to be equally cognizant of her learning. In fact, Der’s draft
is a kind of problematizing of her own existential language situation in school.
Der’s draft, unlike most others in the class, tacitly complicates her sources
and topic question, in large part because she includes the personal in ways that
problematize her own existential situation as a multilingual Hmong woman in
Fresno. And it is also, I argue, a closer rendition of what I was asking students to
do in their assessment processes. I wanted assessors to explain their judgments to
writers, to reveal how they came to judgments about drafts, not simply support
judgments with textual or other evidence. In her draft, Der doesn’t truncate the
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three parts of the stop and write method of assessing that Zach does in his drafts,
and it ends up making her draft more complex, even more critically conscious of
how her own language history and practices are racialized and cultural.
In the above passage, Der explains who Fennelly and Palasz are, providing
her reader with their ethos (why we should listen to them), summarizes their
study, then quotes them on Hmong’s “significant socio-economic and educational disadvantage.” Her second paragraph moves to her experience with her
family and quickly nuances Fennelly and Palasz (the very move she was urging
Gloria to do in her paper on DACA). Der’s disadvantage at learning English
in school wasn’t simply due to socio-economic or educational disadvantages,
instead it was a number of things that pulled against each other: Der’s complex
family demands to do well in school; the demand for her to come home and
“forget the ‘American ways’ and be the ideal Hmong daughter”; her mother’s
urgings to “keep their culture going”; her mother’s complicated and contradictory position as a single Hmong mother in the U.S. who elects not to follow
Hmong traditions and not marry one of Der’s uncles; her own sense of duty to
her mother and not wanting “to let my mother down.”
Der sees and attempts to represent in this passage the complex ways that
Hmong girls/women must negotiate the demands and expectations of family,
siblings, and children. It’s not simply about language use in the home being different from the English expected at school. It’s not simply about Hmong verses
U.S. cultural ways. It is also about Der’s specific cultural and material conditions in her family, a family who lacked a father, one whose older male siblings
were not around much, one in which Der had to take on the duties of translating public documents for her mother and younger siblings because her mother
didn’t speak or read English well enough (she mentions this earlier in the draft).
Der also suggests a portrait of her mother as a complex figure who is perhaps
more precariously balancing an American and Hmong habitus. She doesn’t remarry one of her uncles, as is Hmong tradition because she respects her aunts,
and her son is there to take over as patriarch. I think it significant that despite
the family’s acceptance of her mother not remarrying, finding a rationale that fits
the Hmong cultural traditions and that serves their needs to safeguard their family from American ways, Der articulates this key moment as her mother’s choice:
“My mom chose not to marry any one of my uncles.” In a culture in which
Der describes women as second-class citizens, ones mostly without agency, her
mother takes control of her own life, and the implication is that this was a good
use of American ways, but that this “American impact was of course inevitable,”
hitting her parents’ generation “right in the face.” So while Der’s mother wants
her to keep Hmong cultural ways, she herself cannot help but be influenced by
those same American values, gaining agency in a cultural hybridity filled with
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tension that Der seems quite aware of. Her question about her Hmong heritage
affecting her reading and writing practices clearly is a complex matter of material circumstances, language use, gendered expectations at school and home, the
preserving and loosing of cultural customs and ways of living, family relations,
and a respect and honoring of her mother’s contradictory wishes.
If we read Der’s draft as subtly exploring her research question, “how has being Hmong influenced my reading and writing?” then Der’s answer is complex,
even counter-hegemonic, working against her sources and beyond the convenient binaries readily available. It is a coming to critical consciousness, a problematizing of her own existential situation as a Hmong-American, multilingual
English speaker and writer. For Der, the question about her Hmong heritage’s
influence on her use of English is not simply a binary choice, like the one that
Richard Rodriquez (1982) offers in his famous account of his education: either
Der accepts her Hmong heritage or she takes on American ways with language.
It is contingency in material action. It is hybridity in practices. This complexity
likely could not have occurred so clearly without her practicing the assessing
processes of her writing group, and her willingness to let contentious and conflicting ideas sit next to each other in her draft, which springs from her use of the
personal to nuance the research she reports on.
In more conventional peer review activities, students are asked to focus their
attention only on ecological parts, drafts, rubrics. These parts are decontextualized from student labors and processes that created those parts. This doesn’t allow
students to consider the material conditions that create such drafts and rubrics.
In our ecology, Der’s focus was on the processes of reading, making judgments,
then understanding those judgments as produced from material processes. This
simple rhetorical pattern, seen in Der’s draft repeatedly, is the stop and write
method. Zach used it to help integrate and explain his sources, while Der used
the method to complicate her sources by juxtaposing her family experiences.
Process becomes part. Part becomes place. Thus, ecological elements flux into
one another easily, and our ecology appears to allow students to take advantage
of this and notice it. Noticing, in fact, provides more critical perspective.
It could be argued that Der was less self-aware than I’m giving her credit for,
that she did not see such nuances in her discussion of Project 1, or more important, that she did not migrate her assessment processes to her drafting processes.
But consider her final self-assessment of the course. In it, Der focuses mainly on
the utility of her assessing processes, as well as the ecological place of her group
as its context. She explains:
In my past college English courses, I always felt as though I
had to make my paper be as good as it can be on my own.
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I never really had a professor who showed helpful processes
of brainstorming as you did. Some of these things would
include the construction of the project rubric, article models,
and the annotated bibliographies. For the longest of time, I
always hated the thought of having to brainstorm for essays.
I always felt the need to start my ‘final’ draft and just turn it
in as such. I do not remember any helpful constructive ways
my previous English professors has helped me to develop my
portfolio. Even though some professors have done similar
things, I never felt like I grasped it until now in this class.
In this final assessment of her learning in the class, she identifies the assessment processes, which she calls, “processes of brainstorming,” that is processes
of invention, and links them to her drafting of the projects. Der identifies the
rubric-creation processes, the reading processes with model articles, an inductive activity that produced ideas for what made for good literature reviews,
and the annotated bibliography processes that came just before the exploratory drafts, as important pre-drafting or invention processes. In each case,
the processes that Der refers to had the same three components: (1) reading
a text or set of texts, (2) marking or annotating those texts, and (3) producing a document that demonstrates the reader’s reading process to others (i.e.,
explaining the reader’s assumptions and reasons for making judgments). Der
is quite aware of what she’s been doing in the class and how that labor is situated within her group’s place. Assessment processes, as such, were key to Der’s
writing practices.
A bit later in her final self-assessment, Der explains the importance of her
group in the above processes:
My group members helped me in more ways than I can ever
explain. I have never really taken the advice of classmates
before, but from this class, I learned to not rely on just the
feedback from you as the professor, but from those who are
in the same boat as me. The trust of colleagues and their
advice / opinions on topics has me feel more secure in the
fact that criticism can actually be helpful considering the
fact that those opinions would be voiced by others as well.
Being within the same group every class session helped me
feel a role of consistency in the classroom. Each of group
member has shown me new method of thinking for reading
and writing.

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Der finds the ecological place of her group to be most valuable to her learning
and to the “consistency” of the course. She defines the importance of this place
and the people in it as ones opposed to me, the teacher: “I learned to not rely on
just the feedback from you as the professor, but from those who are in the same
boat as me.” Even in her metaphor, she visualizes her group as one isolated and
different from me, and perhaps others in the same class, and these differences
are important for her to see “new method[s] of thinking for reading and writing.” Much like I described Lyna’s group, Der associates her group with a locally
diverse place, filled with diverse people who need their differences to help each
other for judging processes. And this help concerns not just the pedestrian help
with drafts, but help with thinking, with the meta-activities that our assessment
processes were designed to encourage.
What I hope is clear is how students migrated assessment processes to their
drafting processes, and how that was the typical flow of practices from one location (assessing essays) to another location (drafting essays), from ecological
process to part to product, or from process to place to product. In both cases,
a different kind of critical consciousness surfaced, each problematizing the student’s existential situation in different ways. For Zach, it was his own white
racial habitus in the assessment processes of Cristina’s research on the media’s
role in racializing criminals and victims. Zach’s assessment processes pushed him
to implicate himself in her paper, then upon reflection, our assessment processes
of the class helped him also find emotion and passion as critical feelings that aid
him as a writer. For Der, it was her process of drafting that she migrated from
our stop and write assessment method, a method that allowed her to problematize her own existential language situation through a discussion of studies on
Hmong students and an historicizing of her family. Der’s project, not her assessment documents, is the place where she finds critical practices, yet they flow
from her assessment processes and group.
The flux of ecological elements shows also how consubstantial they all are.
When we talk about the place of a writing group in an assessment ecology as a
collection of students, as people, we are simultaneously talking about the way
they are also the processes, parts, and products in the ecology. In most cases, students self-consciously used assessment processes in their drafting processes, which
became parts and products, and students were able to talk about these elements
cogently and in ways that tended to situate them in the specific places that their
groups cultivated in the ecology. However seeing assessments and drafts as ecological places tends to be a better way to form critical stances toward language and
judgments, ones that have the best opportunity to critique the habitus involved
in judging writing. Students’ near universal migration of assessment practices to
drafting practices was designed into the assessment ecology by making assessment
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the central activity and defining it as processes. Assessment was introduced to
them in their entrance into the ecology by way of our grading contract negotiation processes; it was reinforced through our rubric-creation processes; it was
practiced weekly in their groups; it was reflected upon multiple times; and it was
reconsidered one last time in their exit from the assessment ecology.

EXITING THE ECOLOGY
I wanted my students in some way to be aware of the way they were exiting
and taking learning products with them. Instead of asking students to assess
their colleagues’ portfolios, which would have asked them to look mostly at the
past by focusing on ecological parts but not necessarily on themselves as learners,
I asked them to assess each other as on-going learners in a final assessment letter
addressed to me and their colleagues. Each student had to write a letter that
assessed each group member, and one that assessed themselves. All letters were
written to the person being assessed and me. In our final conferences during
finals week, each student and I read together her colleagues’ final assessments
of her, her own self-assessment, and mine. Just like all of the other assessment
processes in the ecology, these readings constructed a landscape of judgments, a
final borderland-place. These letters addressed three evaluative questions, asking
for evidence of each: (1) how would you describe your colleague as a learner
and writer? (2) What did you learn from your colleague during this semester?
(3) What do you think your colleague can still work on, learn, or continue to
develop? I asked students to spend at least 30-45 minutes writing each letter, and
in their self-assessments, they could write just about items 1 and 3.
The final conference is always my favorite moment in every semester. I get
a chance to see my students individually in my office one last time. Sometimes,
I admit, I’m a little tearful. I cannot help being attached to my students, their
success, and their writing. I’ve watched them do so much in many cases. At this
culminating moment, a moment in which I help them all out of the ecology, I
get to tell them in writing and in person the kind of learner they were in my eyes,
what I learned from them, and my hopes for them in the future, which is usually
a positive and warm conversation, even when some students do not always meet
my expectations. Most of all, I get to hear their versions of themselves as learners
and their hopes as writers and learners for the future, which often is surprising,
humbling, illuminating, and wonderful.
I’m always surprised by a few students, ones I thought didn’t buy into the
class, or seemed too distant most of the semester, or those whom I thought
I’d lost somewhere along the way, or who were enticed by what I consider the
wrong product to focus on, a grade. Then final conferences happen, and some264

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times, those students surprise me with beautiful articulations of lessons learned
and questions lingering. Of course, there are also those students who from the
beginning of the course clearly bought into the grading contract, took to every
assignment in the spirit that it was asked, and moved through the writing assessment ecology in the ways I’d hoped all students would. Zach was one of those
students. His journey wasn’t free from danger or problems, but in his attitude
and willingness to labor for its own sake, he was ideal.
Zach’s end of semester self-assessment letter reveals him to be self-aware of
much of the assessment ecology and its intended products. He picks up on all
the themes I’ve discussed in his reflections on the grading contract, the rubric
building process, his own drafting processes, his reflections on assessments, and
the assessments made on his own writing. Many of the lessons he learns come
from his dwelling in the borderland created by his conflicting assessments on his
writing, encapsulated in his earlier question, “how I can be so close, but way off
at the same time,” which I believe amounted to his own coming to critical consciousness about his writing and its judgment as a complex network of people,
texts, and habitus. Zach opens his final self-assessment document by discussing
his initial feelings about the course, and how the contract’s focus on labor laid
the foundation for his learning:
On that first day as I walked into the class I never felt so uncomfortable and insecure, growing up writing has never been
my strongest attribute. By knowing this about myself I would
be lying if I couldn’t say that I was nervous about what might
be expected of me throughout this course. I wasn’t sure if I
was going to be able to achieve the writing level that would
be expected and therefore providing me that insecurity. Latter
as we begin to discuss the contract which stated that I will
receive no lower than a B if I provide the labor being asked.
This was a very foreign and new idea because like most of us
we always just earned our grades through the quality of the
work completed. Now by having to not worry as much about
writing to please the professor this contract provided me with
a whole new outlook on writing. And simply provided me the
confidence I have always wanted throughout my educational
career. The reason why the contract provided me with the
confidence is mostly due to the fact that I can just write and
try my best without having to worry about a grade.
In one way, I hear Zach saying he writes with ease by not having to write to
please. The contract did that for him. For Zach and most of the other mono265

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lingual and multilingual writers in the class, the grading contract opened the
writing assessment ecology to them because it changed the way grades operated
in the ecology. Even when grades are thought of as a reward, there is still the
threat of punishment when one doesn’t get the grade. Zach knows this, and it
amounts to always “writing to please the professor.” For Zach, our contract ecology provided “confidence,” a confidence he “always wanted” but could not have
because grades were always present in past ecologies, which is significant given
the research on self-efficacy and its positive association with students’ success in
writing courses (McCarthy, Meier, & Rinderer, 1985; Reynolds, 2003; Shell,
Murphy, & Bruning, 1989). Also interesting because many have discussed the
negative association between grades and student performance in writing classes
(Bernard-Donals, 1998; Bleich, 1997; Elbow, 1993, 1997). And this final statement of his (the self-assessment letter) occurs after Zach knows what his grade
in the course is, so he has nothing to gain by telling me what he thinks I want to
hear (he’s not trying to please, but he is at ease). In fact, I made a point in class
to tell them this, telling them that as long as they showed up for their conference
with their assessments written and posted, as usual, it didn’t matter what they
said. They still met the contract’s obligations. I wanted them to be honest and
at ease.
When discussing the things he took away from the class, he immediately
goes to his assessment practices, which he rearticulates as reading practices:
One major aspect that has helped me grow in my writing is
learning how to properly annotate sources. I never did this before and would often find myself rereading sources again and
again until I had it almost memorized …. I was able to have
a better understanding of the information at hand by using
the stop and write method provided by this class. Overall I
feel that this aspect alone has helped me in so many ways as
a writer, and also has taught me how truly important it is to
progress in reading before trying to progress in writing.
Without me saying anything, Zach figures it out and explains the benefit of our
assessment processes, the stop and write method, which is not simply an assessment method but a method to read and annotated academic texts, a practice he
struggled with in the past. Zach sees as he exits our ecology that the stop and
write method wasn’t just a way to provide feedback to his peers, but was a reading process, which then became a writing process for him, and now it is learning
product. During the semester, I didn’t talk to Zach about this method or him
using it to write his papers. These lessons he came to on his own organically, yet
in a determined way (i.e., I limited the options and pressed him toward their use
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and repurposing). Like all writing assessment ecologies, the ecological processes
and places determines the ecological products, even though students have choices, arguably more in our assessment ecology. I expected some students to migrate
their assessment processes to their drafting processes in some fashion, and most
did in a variety of ways, as Der also shows in her practices. Finally, Zach also
figures out an important academic behavior: read first, find your position on
things, then write.
Near the end of his self-assessment letter, Zach closes the narrative loop
that he began by discussing his initial reaction to the class and the contract.
This time, his reflecting is framed in terms of what he has come to understand
about himself as a writer and communicator in other ecologies. His conclusions
are personal and nuanced, in some ways learning the lessons his colleagues had
asked of him in Project 2 about considering the personal in his writing:
project one was extremely personal to me do to the fact that
it made me look at how I became the person and writer I am
today. By grasping a better understanding of my family and
my upbringing I was able to make some real connections to
why and how I have such weak communication skills. As
stated in project one I discovered that the lack of communication between my father and grandfather, and then me has
truly rendered me with a far weaker ability to argue and write
in this manner [academic manner]. As a result I learned that
I must be the one to break this bad habit and not allow my
future generation to carry this unfortunate family tradition.
How did he come to this very personal statement about his family and his own
ways of communicating? Was it his access to the emotional and passionate ontological aspects of writing he found in our course? Was it his assessment processes
that led him to problematize his own existential situation in the writing of others
in his group? Is this a statement that suggests Zach is coming to critical consciousness about his own habitus, one inherited from his father and grandfather?
Regardless of the answers to these questions, our writing assessment ecology
provided Zach with a way to see his own history of communication, a way to
come to personal insights on his own—not be told of them by some authority.
He sees that his own language and ways with words are not simply due to his
personality or interests, not arbitrary, but also due to long family histories that
are gendered and difficult to break, determined. He sees how language is social
and how particular groups, discourse communities, form communication practices, even how they embody them—his grandfather, father, and he are their
discourses. And he takes a stance against the dominant practices of his family,
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a stance of difference, a counterhegemonic one. I’m not sure I could hope for
anything more critical from a student than these kinds of learning products.
In his final self-assessment letter, Barry, a third-year African-American student, who was always a cautious but willing participant in the class, offers an
unequivocal positive assessment of our grading contract, but discusses it as an
ecology that had people involved in flexible decisions:
The idea of flexibility in this class is something I will remember and attempt to adapt to my lifestyle in the near
future. To start off the class was a metaphor for change in my
estimation. It was completely different from any sort of class
I’ve ever been involved in. First the students got to pick the
requirements for the grading of the course. In my opinion
this was great. The teacher was not a tyrant and we actually
got to participate in the blueprints for the class, this not only
made the students engage in the class but it made us want to
engage in the class. I find myself loving this idea. By using
this idea, we became a lot more creative as a group, everyone’s
opinions were heard, everyone felt involved and there wasn’t
a lot of stress on one person. In the future if I’m ever given
the responsibility to have some sort of control over people,
I hope to use my power as gracefully as our professor did. I
hope to be flexible. This means being open to suggestions
like our teacher was. Or being willing to forgive or change
codes of agreement. When I note forgiveness, I am specifically
thinking about the instance where we decided as a class to
give those who were late on assignments a few more free late
assignments. From this I learned to not be so rigid. At this
moment in my life I can’t explain why this was good, but it
seems as if forgiveness on some occasions may be an asset.
When students take control of the ecology, or at least their place in the ecology,
as Barry and his group (Jane, Gloria, Gideon, and Der) did, they often come
to their own lessons. They had, as Barry emphasizes above, power and control
of things. They negotiated the terms of their work and its assessment, which
encouraged them to “want to engage in the class.” The lessons Barry learns I
could not have anticipated as well as I did Zach’s. Barry describes the class as a
“metaphor for change,” which I find intriguing, even though I’m not sure what
he means by it, but I know it means something to him. He says that “everyone’s
opinions were heard, everyone felt involved and there wasn’t a lot of stress on
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one person.” Perhaps the change is in the way the ecology felt to him, the way
it felt more engaging, or gave him more stake in more of the decisions being
made. But his most intriguing lessons for me have to do with non-writing products, about his own bourgeoning habitus, the lessons I couldn’t have anticipated.
They are about the kind of leader he wants to be, one who isn’t a “tyrant,” but
one who uses his power “gracefully.” If there is one thing that assessment does
in classrooms and other places in schools, it is manage power. Barry has figured
this out and articulated it well.
And then, there is his lessons on forgiving. He isn’t, I think, saying that
forgiveness is needed when leading others, but “forgiveness on some occasions,”
which is more contingent and nuanced—it seems more rhetorical, more Sophistic-cated. These lessons, unlike Zach’s, are less about Barry’s writing or reading
and more about Barry’s stance in the world as a person, his habitus, about how
power works, and how forgiveness is needed to exercise power ethically. He reminds me that forgiveness is power enacted. Remember, Barry found that our
labors around the rubric made “better adults.” I did not, could not, plan for
such products to be produced for Barry in our ecology, but they are good ones,
needed ones in our world, ones that also could be argued reveal writing assessment as an ontological act of compassion through the “graceful” use of power
and forgiveness.
As mentioned earlier, Ashe often was ambivalent about the class and what
she could get from it. She was always a respectful and good student, doing the
labors asked of her, but in her reflections and self-assessments, she was also honest about what she learned and what she didn’t understand. In her final self-assessment letter, Ashe again provides similar ambiguous conclusions about her
learning journey in the class. As many students did, her letter’s opening begins
with a discussion of our grading contract:
I remember reading the class contract for the first time and
I noticed how different the grading contract was from other
courses I have taken. One aspect of the contract that appealed
to me was the fact that we were able to negotiate the grading
contract with you as a class. Honestly speaking, I’ve seen my
shares of professors who run their class as if students don’t
have a life to live other than focusing on academics or how
they shouldn’t have taken the course if one unexpected issue
occurred in their life. Having this aspect in the contract gave
me extra stepping stones if I happen to fall short along the
way.
One of the class activity that I found interesting was getting
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feedbacks from my colleagues. It was an interesting process
because of the different ideas and analysis my colleagues made
to help me better understand what they didn’t understand
or what they felt was missing. Getting feedback from our
professor was also interesting. This was one of the confusing
feedbacks I received this semester. I’ve come to think that it’s
really hard to satisfy anyone with my writing, anything really,
because of how critical people are with how they want writing
to be delivered. In any case, I hope to continue to write and
not get too focused on other’s expectations, but just write.
Despite her more measured tone, Ashe noticed similar aspects in our grading
contract as Barry and others did. Students “were able to negotiate” it, and like
Barry’s “forgivingness,” she sees our assessment ecology as one that offers her
“extra stepping stones” on the terrain, just in case she “f[e]ll short along the way.”
But the lessons she learns from our assessment processes are more ambiguous
than most of her peers. This ambiguity stems from the “confusing feedbacks”
that she received from me, which I’m assuming was because my assessments
seemed so different from her colleagues (they had the binary judgments on
them). What she learns, however, is that “it’s really hard to satisfy anyone with
my writing, anything really, because of how critical people are with how they
want writing to be delivered.” Yes, a good lesson about audiences and writing,
I think. Likely, in her mind, I am the most critical person in the ecology. She
seems to be talking directly to me in a gentle and respectful way, perhaps asking
me, “why must you be so critical?” She ends on hope, a hope to keep writing,
not to “get too focused on other’s expectations, but just write.” I’d like to read
this as a counter-hegemonic hope to disregard future readers like me in her
efforts to “just write.” But I’d also like to think that Ashe’s concerns, similar to
Zach’s question about his conflicting assessments, his borderland, is Ashe’s first
steps toward a critical consciousness through a similar struggle in a borderland
of assessments on her writing.
Later in her letter, she comes back to her confusion and on-going concerns
about her learning in the class:
This journey that we took together was quite a ride; the confusion and frustration that we shared, the exchange of ideas
that we commuted, the time we spent listening to each other’s
advice, and the time and efforts that we dedicated to read
each other’s work was time consuming, but it has brought us
all to understand each other more than an average classmate
would. All in all, my colleagues were the first individuals I am
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able to see around campus and beckon a hello to, especially as
a first time student at Fresno State.
I still think that I don’t really understand rhetoric. I understand what it is, but not to the point where I know where to
apply it. Sometimes I think that some professors are so critical
with how they grade my papers that they ignore the reasoning
and purpose that I may have intentionally made that sentence
that way or why I put that comma there even if they don’t
think it is necessary.... I don’t know whether my writing is
meaningful to others, but it is meaningful to me, that’s why
I am writing. ...writing down what I feel or think at that
moment and those who read this will do whatever they please
with it.. take whatever it is that you think is meaningful to
you ....you may find something meaningful to you along the
way of thinking it as unimportant.
It seems significant to me that Ashe, a shy, introverted, multilingual (Hmong),
“first time student at Fresno State,” would find through the “time consuming”
labors and “confusion and frustration” of the ecology friends she could talk to
outside of class. It seems significant for Ashe that she could say, “my colleagues
were the first individuals I am able to see around campus and beckon a hello to,”
and that she would say this in a letter of self-assessment, describing herself as a
learner. These, to me, are important products of our writing assessment ecology,
and not ones that everyone could or should get when they leave it. They certainly are not part of the formal learning outcomes of the course, but definitely make
for warm, inviting, and educative environments.
Equally significant is her return to the frustration of “professors” who are
“so critical,” which could be another reference to me, but maybe not since she
links these readers of her writing to graders. I was clearly not a grader. Ashe’s
focus on her closing paragraph above is on these readers’ lack of empathy for her
intentions when she writes: “I may have intentionally made that sentence that
way or why I put that comma there even if they don’t think it is necessary.” This
is such a good lesson for any teacher to remember about his students, especially
his multilingual students, a lesson that reminds me of Min-Zhan Lu’s (Horner
& Lu, 1999, pp. 175-177) wonderful example and pedagogy that asked her students to map the contact zones in student writing that initially looked like error,
but quickly revealed in deeper discussions possible writer intentions. Perhaps, I
did not do this enough in this class when responding to Ashe’s writing, a lesson
I need to heed more often.
Yet Ashe isn’t finished. She shows herself as a stronger woman than her shy,
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introverted persona suggests. She concludes strongly about herself as a writer in an elegant and bold fashion, reminiscent of Hellenic Sophistic rhetorical
thought: “I don’t know whether my writing is meaningful to others, but it is
meaningful to me, that’s why I am writing....writing down what I feel or think
at that moment and those who read this will do whatever they please with it.”
This isn’t despair, at least not as I read it. It seems to come from a sense that
writing is an ontological act, an act of being in the world. I see Ashe in this final,
passionate passage finding her own way as a writer, determined to keep writing,
no matter what others think. The ellipses are hers, and they appear to be places
she pauses for emphasis, or asks her reader to pause and think. Despite her own
sense that she doesn’t understand how to apply rhetoric, I also hear a nascent
Sophistic rhetorical philosophy of language in her final words, one akin to Protagoras’ human-measure fragment. This is significant since Protagoras’ fragment
is one about judgment (Inoue, 2007, pp. 45-46). How her writing is assessed by
readers, how it is read, is intimately connected to her sense of herself as a writer.
I believe our ecology revealed this to her and could be one way to see her problematizing of her existential writing assessment situation. Despite the stumbles
and falls in the ecology, Ashe had some stones to step on, ones she knew would
be there, and they may have saved her in order that she might keep on writing.
Susan, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic about the writing assessment
ecology in her final self-assessment letter, preferring one that offers “structure,”
and “the ability to write a comprehendible sentence,” so that “even a brilliant
idea is [not] lost.” Susan, I should mention, was a consummate student. She
was white, older than most, and had a full-time job and a daughter in college
as well. Susan did her work thoroughly, and was always present for her group
members. Her assessments were detailed and helpful. Her drafts were clear and
exhibited the markers of our local SEAE. Despite her semester-long concern
about the way our class was structured, she accepted my invitation to have some
faith in our processes, to do the labors asked of her in the spirit asked. I think
her willingness to have some faith in our contract and processes helped her see
the good products she took from our environment. Susan explains near the end
of her letter:
Being older than most of my classmates, I think I unconsciously assume that I have nothing to learn from them and
am frequently pleasantly surprised to learn how wrong I am.
The feedback I received from my group members was helpful
in keeping me on track and motivated. I struggled a lot this
semester with motivation and this class, although the source
of MUCH stress helped me get back on track. It is refreshing
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to spend time with young minds that have goals and opinions
and purpose. It gives me hope for the future and keeps me
grounded. Thank you for the opportunity to learn something
new. Although not a 100% fan of the structure of this class,
I can see the benefit of the approach. Personally, it made
this particular journey more difficult but it also gave me the
opportunity to push myself and learn something about myself
in the process.
Susan wasn’t converted “100%” by the end of the semester, but because she
labored so diligently, cultivated a place with her group members, she still found
products worth taking with her as she left the ecology. She learned to listen to
her younger student-peers, and through that listening she gained some “hope for
the future.” Additionally while her journey through our ecology was “more difficult” for her than perhaps a more conventional assessment ecology would have
been, ours still offered her “the opportunity to push myself and learn something
about myself in the process.” While I wanted so much more for Susan—I wanted fireworks and dancing elves, spectacular insights about writing and assessment at her exit—because she gave her colleagues so much, it is not always clear
at the end of a semester to anyone what products a student may eventually gain
from any writing assessment ecology. Perhaps, Susan (or I) will find in years to
come other products from her journey in the course. For now, I must be satisfied
that Susan accepted her agency in our ecology, acted upon it, and while more
difficult than it could have been for her, she pushed herself and learn something
about her herself that she wouldn’t have otherwise. And these products were
revealed most noticeably for her in the ecological place of her writing group.
In contrast, Gideon comes to very specific insights about the products of the
ecology, some expected, others unexpected. When discussing the writing and
assessing processes in the class, he makes a distinction between different kinds of
discourse in his life now:
I learned the value of looking at the related work by academics whose work normally is scrutinized enough to be mostly
objective valuable analysis.
This was not natural for me and it was something of a milestone to find that there isn’t as much bias and spin in academic writing as I previously thought. I found that the same holds
true with academic papers as is true with news reporting.
The stuff that is easiest to get to is usually the worst, but with
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sources have that good news reporting doesn’t have is a more
clear explanation of the questions that lead to certain information being presented which then leads to more questions.
This sticks with me because until about half way through the
semester I watched a lot of network news. My research of the
healthcare legislation got me to see popular media for what
it is. By and large they are selling conflict, not information. I
haven’t watched network news since.
In his usual fashion, Gideon coins a nice phrase, “selling conflict,” which is a
conclusion that comes from another product about rhetoric that he takes from
our ecology. He explains that the information which is “easiest to get to is usually the worst,” like all the network news he has watched. Additionally, these
insights come to him by his seeing how laborious good academic work is, and
how that hard labor corresponds to better writing of his own. It is through “diligence” that one finds “great information.” Gideon shows a coming to critical
consciousness about language in his world, how it is used around him and on
him, and how he has understood it next to how he understands it now. And this
product for him is another version of assessing, assessing news or the rhetoric in
the world around him.
I have to believe that it wasn’t just his research and thinking on his project
that led him to this stance, but also his assessment labors in the course. All
of those labors were ones focused on this kind of discrimination, on asking
questions, on seeing questions in texts as important to academic inquiry and
important to understanding things in our world. Gideon sees the importance
of questions, saying that academic discourse offers “more clear explanation of
the questions that lead to certain information being presented which then leads
to more questions.” For Gideon, good writing practices appear to be hard labor
that focuses on asking good questions that lead to more questions. Questions
were at the heart of our assessment practices, so in this very practical way, again,
the ecology set up writing assessment labors so that they flowed into other elements in the ecology, which ultimately manifested as ecological products.
Gideon continues his reflection by turning to non-writing or indirect writing products, but quickly returns to the theme of questions:
This was one of those courses where it was impossible to
blame the instructor for anything. That includes not having
a substantial background in the subject at hand. This isn’t
always the case. When this isn’t the case there is almost a
built in excuse, or motivation, to put in a certain amount of
effort. In either case what you get out is more closely tied to
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what you put in. I think I ought to have made more the good
fortune of your presence. I also learned to fight becoming
jaded in my education experience through the grading rubric
discussions and through being asked questions you and my
peers more often than I was told to accept answers.
I learned that the rhetoric in messages can hold more information that what’s being communicated. While the value of
considering rhetoric isn’t limited to this the messenger’s rhetoric can hint at what values or questions drive them or what
they are assuming about you and how to get a message to
stick in your head or heart. What answers you think you may
have found in that will lead to a wonderful endless stream of
questions about the messenger and the message.
Most importantly I learned questions are more important
than answers. A good question is hard to answer and what
I learned from sharpening a good question to using better
sources to attempt to explore my questions rather than find a
finish line will serve me well in life.
He learned to “fight becoming jaded” about education “through the grading
rubric discussions and through being asked questions.” This sounds like something that may have been a fortunate by-product of the engagement and stake
in the assessment ecology that Barry mentioned, who was one of Gideon’s group
members. And recall, it was Gideon and Der’s group that attempted the question-listing method for assessing. Questions perhaps mostly obviously embodied
assessment for Gideon’s group. But as I argued already, these kinds of products,
ones about building student agency and engaging students with questions about
grading and judging, which for Gideon were questions that led him away from
being jaded by his educational experiences in the past, were determined by how
I designed the ecological elements of our writing assessment ecology. Gideon,
through his focus on questions as his most enduring product, demonstrates the
effectiveness of that design. If there is another way to describe our rubric processes, the rubric itself, and our assessment processes, it is that they all at their
core are methods for posing questions, problematizing. To me, this simple but
powerful stance is Gideon’s coming to a critical consciousness about language
and his own stance as a citizen, his own problematizing.
What I have attempted to reveal in Zach’s, Barry’s, Ashe’s, Susan’s, and Gideon’s exits from our classroom writing assessment ecology is the variety of ecolog-

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ical products possible in an assessment ecology that focuses mostly on assessing
but uses no grades during the semester as products. Some products are determined, like student agency and the lessons learned from that agency and the
deeper engagement in the ecology. Zach and Barry are good examples of such
products that students recognized upon their exits. Some products are unexpected, such as Ashe’s finding friends to talk to on campus or Susan’s seeing value in
younger voices. And some products are not so clearly positive, such as Susan’s
less than “100%” approval of the course, or Ashe’s uncertainty about meeting
audience’s expectations in her writing.
Most students’ final self-assessment letters were positive in nature, similar to
Zach’s and Gideon’s. In this closing section, I tried to use final self-assessment
letters that were the most representative of the class, while also attempting to
close the stories of some of the students I had opened earlier in the chapter.
Perhaps the only truly atypical self-assessment letter was Susan’s, since it was not
fully supportive of our assessment ecology, but this is not a requirement of the
course, or these final self-assessments, or even of exiting the ecology with worthwhile products in hand. I am arguing that most students left with a fledgling
critical consciousness, a problematizing attitude that came from the central labor
of assessing. All the insights, all the ecological products each student discusses,
come from our labors as assessors, aided by constant reflections on assessment,
the rubrics, and our labors themselves. For my students, the ecology was visible,
and this made a difference.
To close, I turn to Jessica’s self-assessment letter. Jessica, a monolingual, Latina,
who was a third year psychology major and budding musician, was perhaps the
most complete in her appreciation of the grading contract, group work, and the
writing assessment ecology as a whole. She was a very good student, always seated near the front, always ready for discussions, always prepared. In many ways,
I didn’t worry much about Jessica during the semester. In part, because she was
extraverted enough to ask questions when she had them in class, or after class. She
also produced a lot of writing, much like Der, Zach, Jane, and Susan. She had,
like most in the class, some difficulties with the dominant academic discourse
promoted in the course, but through revision she always improved her drafts. Jessica seemed always to be doing fine. However, I end with Jessica because in some
ways, like Zach, she represented the sweet-spot of the class and their exit from the
ecology. Jessica’s comments represent what most said about themselves as learners
and about the products they took away from our ecology, only Jessica’s letter personalizes the lessons at every turn, which to me highlights the local diversity of our
classroom and shows how any writing assessment ecology always produces locally
diverse products from locally diverse people in them that we cannot anticipate.
In Jessica’s final self-assessment letter, she begins in typical fashion, discussing
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the contract. Her first paragraph, however, moves quickly from the abstraction
of grades to herself and her relations in the ecology:
First and foremost I would like to thank you for incorporating this new grading method in my writing, it was something
very new to me and I will admit at first I was a bit hesitant
but I think it definitely grew on me. I don’t know if you
remember but the first day that we went around and discussed
what we were hoping to take from this class and the grade we
wanted etc., I said all I cared about was getting an A, after
that you went on to discuss how that was not important and I
thought “psh an A not important, right!” but now I see it the
way you do. I mean do not get me wrong, I love getting A’s
and if it is possible I will get it, but I do not look at it the way
I did at the beginning of this semester. I think your method
gave me a lot more freedom to write, which is something that
I want and need when I write. It made me feel secure that
my writing was not going to simply be given a letter grade
after it was read only once, I had the chance to work on it
until I made it into something better than the last, and I got
feedback, and I felt very secure. I think it is because I did not
have to stress about making it so amazing the first time so that
I could get a decent grade, I was comfortable and I knew I
was going to get another chance to work on it again. I do not
know how to explain it, but to make this short I definitely see
what you meant that first day now.
The sense of writing with ease, freedom, and comfort—feeling secure. These were
common sentiments in most self-assessment letters. I hear her saying a version
of Zach’s sentiment: I wrote with ease, not to please. These sentiments embrace
writing and assessing as ontological acts, as ways we are in classrooms. Most, like
Jessica, link these sentiments to the contract and the larger classroom writing
assessment ecology that gave them power. I do not take lightly sentiments like,
“it made me feel secure,” which Jessica makes twice, as well as saying, “I was
comfortable.” Feeling secure, while not my number one priority in class, surely
for students is vital and necessary for writing. Security came from a lack of grades
on drafts—or rather, not punishing drafts. Not only does Jessica figure out why
grades are so harmful, why they are an ineffective product in a writing assessment
ecology, she also explains the value of our assessment ecology in terms of a “method,” a process, which led her to have “more freedom to write,” a common comment on the grading contract at Fresno State in first-year writing courses, only it
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typically occurs in Hmong student formations (Inoue, 2012a, p. 89).
What I find encouraging about this self-assessment is Jessica’s focus on her and
her group members’ labors of writing, reading, and assessing. It is these labors, not
the approvals or positive comments from a teacher, not a grade or even a positive
validation from me, that matters most to her. This is more powerful, and I think
more productive, than any set of teacher comments on her writing or grades could
have been. What matters most is her labor that is focused in a direction that she
determines and controls, which in some ways is very similar to Ashe’s determined
hope to keep writing. In a different way not so like Ashe’s, Jessica writes because of
the ecology, because of the feedback she got, not in spite of it.
Jessica continues with method and process by describing the way the ecology,
through our processes, changed her own processes and relations with others:
This class as a whole changed not only my mindset but also
the way I write, and the way I work with others. I hated
group work before this class, I felt it was a waste of my time
and I dreaded being stuck with people who were irresponsible
and did not get the job done in time, and then I’d have to
deal with lecturing them and then them end up hating me because I do not know how to keep my mouth shut. But in this
class I was able to work great with my group, we got the job
done all the time, and sometimes we even talked about stuff
that had nothing to do with the class (pretty bad, I know) but
I think because we got to know each other that way as well, it
helped our understanding of each other, the way we approach
things, what is important to us, we learned to respect each
other because of that. I cannot say I will enjoy working in a
group as I did in this class in another class, but this changed
the way I look at group work at least for now. I believe that
is the biggest milestone that I was able to accomplish, along
with as I stated before in my letter of reflection, the whole
idea of me actually taking the time to read someone else’s
work and give helpful feedback.
The place cultivated by the locally diverse members of her group was important to
the success of the assessment processes in the class. And perhaps most interesting,
Jessica makes a good argument for the importance of the personal in academe, at
least for students writing and reading each other’s work: “because we got to know
each other that way as well, it helped our understanding of each other, the way we
approach things, what is important to us, we learned to respect each other because
of that.” Respect through the personal, through getting to know the locally diverse
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people around you, knowing their habitus, this seems an important learning product to take away, one only determined by the processes of assessing in the course.
But of course, Jessica doesn’t connect our group work with all group work. Like
Barry’s lesson about forgivingness, Jessica’s lessons about group work are contingent and qualified. It may not work out so well in the next class.
Finally, Jessica’s following paragraph moves to her dispositions as a writer. I
don’t think it is typical of most in the class, but my hope is that there is a degree
of her enthusiasm for writing before and after the class that could be a product
of our writing assessment ecology for more students. That is, I hope that through
focusing on the labors of writing, reading, and judging, students not like Jessica,
or not like Ashe, who are both determined to keep writing, but students more
like Zach or Der who could produce text but may not call themselves writers at
heart, or like Dwight, Gloria, and Kyler, who had various struggles with writing,
could find a space in which they liked to write, could problematize the judgment
of their writing. If writers like them could feel more like Jessica, they may experience writing and reading as ontological acts of judgment that can and should
be problematized for their own good. I’m not sure how I could encourage this
ecological product, but it seems important to strive for, and it’s surely connected
to antiracist writing assessment ecologies that feel safe and secure. Jessica reflects:
As a learner I came in to this class thinking I knew what it was
going to be about. I thought it would be all about just writing
papers, reading stuff and writing a paper on that, grammar,
essay structure, boring stuff like that, but it was not like that
at all, and I really loved that! I feel that I grew as a learner as
well. As where before I hated writing such long papers for a
class, this class was different, I was able to choose my own
topics, approach it in the way that I wanted to approach it and
everything just made me feel so comfortable. I love writing,
but I only love writing outside of school, I like to go in depth
with things and discuss what is important to me, show empathy, create different scenarios, take the time to let my mind let
everything out onto a piece of paper, everything important to
me that is, I like to speak to the paper as if it were an actual
person listening to me, and in this class I was able to do that.
I cannot say I did it in my first project but I definitely did it
in my second project. I was able to talk about something that
is important to me, which is music. I listen to it, I sing it, I
write it, I read it, I breathe it, it has been a part of my life for
so long. There are musicians in my family as well, so it is kind
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of easier to see that writing about music was important to me
and it was easier. I was able to take country music and turn it
into something not so personal, which I had no idea I would
be able to do, and I still do not think I did such a great job in
that area, but definitely better than I thought.
What a profound statement to make: “I love writing, but I only love writing
outside of school.” I’ve heard versions of this sentiment from many students in
the past. And it’s frustrating, not the student’s statement, but the conditions I
know that create such a response by a student, conditions I’m sure are similar if
not the same as those that created Gideon’s frustration and jadedness, or Ashe’s
ambiguity, or Der’s and Zach’s insecurities. These conditions are created by writing assessment ecologies that are not comfortable or secure, even harmful, and
likely racist, despite their intended purposes. They don’t let writing be an act of
ease because they are too focused on it being an act to please.
One of the most memorable examples of this sentiment was from an African-American female student, a fifth year student graduating that semester (at
a different university), who told me in her reflections how she’d loved keeping
a journal, writing poetry and stories in high school, then took a timed writing
exam for placement in college, and “failed it,” placing her in study skills courses
and not the first year writing course. This experience, as I imagine so many other
similar writing assessment ecologies do, quickly and efficiently killed her love for
writing—that is what she told. It killed it, clipped it from the vine while it was
still blooming. She stop writing immediately, didn’t begin again until five years
later in my class. It’s heartbreaking at times to know that this fundamental aspect
of the college experience, writing assessment, fucks up so many young students
who stop using writing for their own ontological purposes because the assessment ecologies they enter are unfriendly, caustic, uncomfortable, and unsafe. In
my past student’s case, it was because that placement ecology was racist. I know
this because the first-year writing exemption exam at the same university, one
based on the placement exam, never exempted an African-American student
writer in its entire time of use.
But for Jessica, what she means by writing is something quite cerebral, creative, organic, and explorative. Writing for Jessica, as I would hope it could be for
more of my students, is a labor that allows her to “take the time to let my mind
let everything out onto a piece of paper, everything important to me that is, I
like to speak to the paper as if it were an actual person listening to me,” which
our ecology allowed her to do and rewarded her for it. But she also demonstrates
why writing assessment ecologies kill students’ organic love for or enjoyment of
the act of writing. As she puts it, “I listen to it, I sing it, I write it, I read it, I
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breathe it, it has been a part of my life for so long.” This is a similar description
of how my past student who was so destroyed by her placement exam described
herself as a writer, a writer who wrote daily in a diary, wrote poems and stories,
then took an exam and stopped writing completely. If writing and its assessment
are ontological acts, then the words they produce, the labor they expend, and the
products they create are of them, which means that the writing assessment ecologies that simply rank, rate, grade, or push students around, that give them very
little power or agency, that do not allow them to cultivate their own ecological
purposes, that do not acknowledge students’ labors as valuable—central even to
the ecology—will destroy students’ interest, engagement, and love of writing.
This is the real academic tragedy of most writing assessment ecologies. They kill
most students’ love of writing and willingness to have others read and discuss it.
There is much to like and say about Jessica’s letter. For this discussion, I’ll
conclude by saying that it is a good demonstration of the way locally diverse
writing assessment ecologies always transform the intended products of our pedagogies and learning outcomes. Zach, Susan, Ashe, Barry, Gideon, and Jessica
demonstrate the ways locally diverse students transform broader determined
consequences, and do so because the ecology is visible to them. Locally diverse
ecological products are a result of the contingent nature of what and how we
teach writing, as much as they are of the locally diverse students and teachers
who inhabit and construct the assessment ecology. Chris Gallagher (2012), in
fact, argues a very similar point when arguing for writing programs to focus on
assessing for “consequences” or “aims,” not for outcomes (p. 47), because “consequences direct our attention to singularity and potentiality” (p. 48). This, I believe, is one of the strengths of using an ecological theory of writing assessment.
It assumes the inherent diverse nature of students, their languages, their evolving
purposes, their reading and writing processes, their parts or artifacts, the degrees
and kind of power exercised (or not), the places on the landscape they construct
in order to survive, and the products with which they leave our classes. It also
makes visible and dramatizes the interconnected nature of all these elements.
Finally, what I hope I’ve shown through my discussion of my classroom as a
writing assessment ecology is, among other things, the ways that every writing
classroom is first and foremost a writing assessment ecology that is either racist
or antiracist. To be antiracist, it first must be visible to everyone as an ecology. I
believe that making more obvious to ourselves and students our own classroom
writing assessment ecology as such, even when a teacher has not taken advantage
of key opportunities, can still provide ways to offer students the seeds of critical consciousness, ways to problematize their own existential writing assessment
situations, ways to become antiracist in their languaging. And as teachers and
WPAs, we should be inquiring about these elements when we design, revise,
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and assess our pedagogies, and especially when we assess our assessment ecologies (when we validate them). If we do not, it may appear that our students are
not learning, or not learning enough, when likely, they are learning what they
want to learn, or can learn, or what’s important to them, or some hybrid, codemeshed, translingual version of products we (teachers and writing administrators) think our students need or want. In other ways, they may be learning things
we, their teachers, cannot possible learn. Ultimately though, to understand any
of the learning in our writing classrooms, and how to assess such learning, we
must understand our writing assessment ecologies as borderland-places where
local diversities, dominant discourses, and hegemonic structures of norming and
racing clash and shock/choque one another, flux and move, creating expected
and unexpected ecological places, people, and products.

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CHAPTER 5: DESIGNING
ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES
In this final chapter, I offer a heuristic for building antiracist classroom writing assessment ecologies. I assume that when designing any writing course, a
teacher must think very carefully about the ways that writing will be assessed
in the course, from rubric activities, feedback, and peer responses on drafts to
assessing in-class impromptu writing, and grading. This thinking through one’s
assessments comes before (or at least simultaneously with) thinking through
one’s pedagogy and curriculum. In fact, as I hope my example in Chapter 4
illustrates, it may be most productive to think about one’s classroom writing
assessment ecology as one’s pedagogy. Writing assessment in its fullest sense as
an ecology, is pedagogy.
Thus a large part of designing a writing course is considering how the assessment of writing creates the ecology of the classroom in which students and
teacher interact and learn together. An assessment ecology is the heart of any
Freirean problem-posing pedagogy, which I’ve articulated in this book as the
central practice in antiracist writing assessment ecologies. Learning in writing
courses is driven by assessment if that learning is understood as a product of the
ecology. In one sense, the assessment of writing completes the cycle that drafting
begins. It forms the audience, their purposes for reading, and that audience’s
responses to writing, which provide information to the writer. But writing assessment as ecology is more than reading and providing feedback, it’s also thinking privately and publically about expectations for writing, about the nature of
judgment, about the nature of discourse itself, about one’s own existential writing assessment situation, one’s relation to the dominant discourse expected in
the classroom or academy, and one’s own habitus that informs one’s judgments
of texts. Thus a writing classroom that purports to “teach” writing cannot fully
do so without interrogating the nature of judging and valuing language, the nature of dominant discourses (e.g., local SEAEs or white racial habitus), and the
students’ relations to these phenomena.
Antiracist writing assessment ecologies explicitly pay close attention to relationships that make up the ecology, relationships among people, discourses,
judgments, artifacts created and circulated. They ask students to reflect upon
them, negotiate them, and construct them. Antiracist writing assessment ecologies also self-consciously (re)produce power arrangements in order to exam283

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ine and perhaps change them. When designing an antiracist writing assessment
ecology, a teacher can focus students’ attention on a few of the ecological elements discussed in Chapter 3, which inter-are. This means addressing and negotiating one element, say the part of a rubric, means you are addressing others,
such as power relations and the ecological places where students problematize
their existential writing assessment situations.
When designing the foundations for an antiracist writing assessment ecology, I offer the following heuristic, a set of questions that can be used to guide
a teacher’s thinking and planning. I have reordered the elements in a way that
makes sense to me when designing a course from scratch, but I see no reason
why a teacher couldn’t begin in the heuristic where she wishes. I begin with
purposes and processes, thinking about them together, because my own orientation as a teacher is to think first about what I want my students to do, what
I envision they will be doing each week, and why they might want or need to
do that labor. The heuristic is not meant to be exhaustive, but generative. There
are surely other ways to ask the questions below or consider each element in an
ecology. The heuristic is aimed at helping teachers begin to think about the ways
their classrooms are antiracist writing assessment ecologies, and ways to invent
such ecologies. Furthermore, these questions may offer ways to prompt students
to investigate and negotiate each element as well.
• Purposes. What various purposes for learning are made explicit about the
assessment of students’ writing, and how well do they articulate a problematizing of the students’ existential writing situations? Why are you or
your students reading or judging any particular piece of writing or a
draft in the way you are? Does each assessment process have its own
unique purpose? How do you ensure that students are not penalized
because they are not white and middle class, yet still guarantee that
they develop as readers and writers in meaningful and productive
ways? In what ways are you asking students to problematize their existential writing assessment situations, or asking them to see their own
habitus next to ideal ones that assignments imagine or other readers
imagine? How are students’ various relations to the dominant discourse expected in the course, which is usually based on a white racial
habitus and a local SEAE, accounted for in the purposes of assessment
in the course? How are the purposes for assessing writing helping students critique the white racial habitus and local SEAE that they may
still have to approximate?
• Course/Teacher Purposes. Is there a larger antiracist purpose for the
assessment of writing in general in the course? Is that larger purpose
made clear to students and is it consistently maintained across all the
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activities in the course? Is there a formal moment when students can
reflect upon this larger purpose, and connect it to their own practices
and experiences?
Student Purposes. How involved are students in constructing and
articulating the purposes for each assessment process? Do they have
opportunities to create and act upon their own purposes for individual
assessment activities? How are those individual purposes accounted for
in the assessment processes and parts in the ecology?
Processes. What processes, work, or labor will students do each day or
week that contribute to, feed into, or create the parts, products, or places of
the ecology? What processes do you plan for or anticipate students doing in order to read, make judgments, then articulate and disseminate
those judgments to writers? What processes occur because of or after
those articulations (e.g., discussions, revisions/rethinking, reflections)?
How are processes or labor accounted for in the calculation of course
grades?
Rubric-Building. How are the codes and expectations for writing (the
rubric) constructed, articulated to students, and justified to them as
appropriate expectations of the course? Can your rubric(s) be an articulation of something other than standards, such as a set of dimensions
worth exploring and questioning, a starting point, not end point?
What role do students play in the creation or revision of the rubric
and writing assignments? How does the rubric address, identify, or
name the dispositions it promotes as a part of a white racial habitus?
How are students’ habitus made apparent and used as a critical comparative lens to critique the rubric? Is the rubric (or the course’s writing expectations) set up as static or do they change during the course
of the semester? Are there processes in place that help encourage and
discuss those changes? Are students a part of those processes?
Feedback. How do students create feedback for peers’ writing? What
do students do with feedback or assessments? How is difference and
conflicting judgments created or manufactured in feedback processes?
How do students confront difference and conflict, particularly in the
judgments on their writing? How are the goals of that confrontation
in processes expressed (are they about finding agreement or understanding difference and perspectives)? Do students dialogue or revise
their original judgments and feedback after discussing them face to
face? How do the processes of reading and judgment help students to
articulate a white racial habitus as an arbitrary set of expectations for
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stand, then articulate their own habitus used to judge writing?
Reflection. Are there on-going reflective processes that ask students
to make sense of peer reviews, rubric building activities, or your
feedback? How do the processes of reflecting help students toward
a problematizing of their existential writing assessment situations?
How do these reflection processes show them a way to consider their
own habitus in reading and writing as a habitus, as a set of historically
determined dispositions that they don’t have complete control over,
and that are not inherently better or worse than the dominant habitus
of the academy or western society?
Labor monitoring. Are there ways students can keep track of their
labor, its duration, frequency, and intensity? How might students
reflect upon their labor practices in order to interrogate them as a part
of their habitus? What patterns might students look for in their labor
practices that might tell them something about their language practices, or their reading practices, or what they can (or are able to) read and
value in texts? Are there ways to compare students’ labor practices, not
find ideal practices, but notice the diverse ways students attend to the
course processes?
Places. What ecological places (figurative or real) are created through
the judgment of writing or the assessment processes students enact? What
attention is paid to the places created in the ecology and can students reflect on the conditions and effects of those places? Where do
students inhabit or dwell in the ecology and what are the effects or
consequences of dwelling in those places? What places are created by
judgments of writing and how do students engage in conflict in those
places? Are there ways in which the places your ecology creates become
places that unconsciously or unreflectively norm students to some universal standard, such as a white racial habitus? Are there places in your
ecology that are constructed by the presence of mostly students of
color, places where mostly multilingual students inhabit, where Blacks
or Latinos/as inhabit? How much control do students have in creating or changing the places created by the ecology, for naming them,
critiquing them, resisting them, establishing the processes or labor
that constitute them, or identifying what they get from those places?
How is that control formally designed into the ecology and how much
attention is paid to the ways those places are controlled?
Writing groups. Do students work in consistent writing groups, or
different ones each week? How many students make up those places?
How are those places composed or designed? Do you hand-pick in

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order to ensure diverse writing groups? Do students have a say in their
creation, or in their on-going cultivation? How much reflection is
done on the dynamics of their writing groups, and what happens with
those reflections afterwards? How is trust and respect built into the
writing group dynamics?
Failure and Success. How is failure constructed as a place in the ecology? How often can students fail at writing (either publically or privately)? How is success constructed and how often are students positioned
in the place of success? Is success public or private? Are there grades? If
so, how do your grading practices construct places in which students
are positioned, and then become inherent to that place? Do you offer
any formal moments in the course to ask students about how failure
and success are created in the class, in their writing, in their labors, or
how the nature of success and failure have changed for them?
Texts. How are the places of texts, particularly those used as examples
for discussion (either published or student texts), constructed relative
to the expectations of the course, which often are a product of a white
racial habitus? Are published texts used as model places only? How
are those same textual places compared to (set against, set next to) the
locally diverse habitus of students that organically occur in the classroom and in student writing? Is race made present in the writing and
authors of published examples or “models”? Are there ways that white
textual places and textual places of color might be juxtaposed so that
students might problematize those places and their writer’s ethos?
Parts. What ecological parts (i.e., the codes, texts, documents, and artifacts that comprise writing assessment processes) are present, developed,
exchanged, and manipulated? How is each part generated and agreed
upon by students and teacher? How do the ecological parts and students’ reflections on them help students consider the course’s expectations as participating in a white racial habitus that may be different
from their own? How might students compare non-hierarchically
their own writing dispositions (their own various habitus) next to the
dominant white racial habitus, not to see themselves as inferior but to
see the diversity of languaging and making meaning, and perhaps to
critique the hegemonic? How might those insights be incorporated
into the purposes, processes, and products of the ecology?
Rubrics. How are the expectations of writing (e.g., assignment instructions, assignment processes, and rubrics) created and revised? Do students have a say in their creation or revisions? What does the artifact
that embodies expectations in writing look like? What do students
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do with it? What does the teacher do with it? How is the articulation
of the rubric such that it calls attention to its own participation in a
white racial habitus, or others?
Discourse of Assessment and Judgment. How do you ensure student
participation in developing the codes of assessment and judgment,
the ways that writing is talked about, reflected upon, made sense of,
and theorized in the class? In what formal ways do students reflect
upon the codes and artifacts of assessment, not their drafts, but the
discourse around their drafts, feedback, dialogue, rubrics, etc.? How
is that reflecting informed by any pertinent literature on whiteness
and race, feedback to writing, or composition theory? How is their
reflecting used to help students problematize their existential writing
assessment situations?
Texts. What student-generated texts are expected? How are students
involved in creating the general expectations for their texts? What are
those texts expected to look like? What are readers expected to do with
them, or how do students read in order to make judgments? What
assessment texts (or texts that articulate judgments of peers’ writing)
are students expected to produce and what do they look like? How are
they produced? Will the teacher produce the same kind of assessment
texts? What do students do with their assessment texts? How do they
function in writing groups or in class discussions? How much freedom do students have in deviating in form, format, or content of the
texts they are asked to produce? Are there discussions that set up those
conversations if and when students do deviate from expected forms,
formats, or content?
Power. What power relations are produced in the ecology and what are
the most effective or preferable ones for students’ individual learning goals
and the course’s overall learning goals? How much control and decision-making do students have in the creation and implementation of
all assessment processes and parts? How are vulnerable students (e.g.,
quiet students, introverted students, students of color, multilingual
students, students with disabilities, etc.) respectfully and conscientiously encouraged to participate in the creation, monitoring, and revision of the assessment ecology?
Monitoring. How might the teacher and students monitor power and
its movements in the class in ways that can help make sense of judgments, processes, and parts? How might observations be made about
the way particular habitus carry with them or assume more power in
communication contexts, say in past writing classes or in the present

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one? How is that power embodied? Are there racial aspects to it? Are
there trends that seem racialized?
Student Participation. How are students involved in the assessment
ecology generally? Do students get to create or control any aspects of
the ecology? Do they have any say in what is assessed, how that writing is assessed, who assesses it, and what those assessments mean to
the calculation of their course grades? Do students get to negotiate the
way their grades or any evaluations of their writing is done?
Difference (from the white racial norm). How will power relations be
affected by various students who come with different habitus from
the dominant white racial habitus that informs the expectations of the
classroom? How will students interactions with you or with each other
be mediated so that power relations can be explicitly discussed with
students and equalized (realizing they are never made equal)? How do
you plan to discuss and get students to listen to each other, to listen
for difference in productive ways, to engage in what Trimbur (1989)
calls “dissensus,” or what Ratcliffe (2005) calls “rhetorical listening”?
Teacher Power. How do you mediate your own power as the teacher
in the ecology? How do you plan to get students to avoid seeing your
position in the ecology as someone who will tell them what to do or
fix in their writing? What control of the ecology does the teacher have
that she might reasonably and explicitly give up or share with students?
People. How are the various people involved in writing assessment (students, teacher, outside readers or experts) defined in the ecology and what
are their roles? How are their various literacy histories and dispositions
with English acknowledged, reflected upon, and used to help judge
writing and think about writing as (counter)hegemonic?
Interconnection. How are the people of the ecology (i.e., students,
teacher) interconnected in explicit ways? How is any individual’s success or failure in any activity connected explicitly to his peers’ success
or failure? How are students encouraged to see or explore the ways
assessment is a diverse ecology that is about cultivating a livable and
sustainable place together for everyone?
Local Diversity. How are the locally diverse students and teacher in
the ecology used to understand the local white racial habitus? In what
ways might the local diversity help construct difference in writing as
more than the expectations, and help link that value added to writers
and readers? What methods or processes are in place to help students
understand their own habitus and ways of judging and valuing writing,
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reflect upon those habitus, and discuss them as a part of the dispositions used in the assessment processes of the course?
Inter-being as Problem-Posing. How do various people participate in the
assessment processes and the construction of the ecological parts, purposes, and products? How might the ecology help students experience
the interconnected nature of all the elements in the ecology so that the
lessons learned are ones about one’s own existential writing assessment
situation in a socially structured and hegemonic historic bloc? In other
words, how do you help students see that lessons about what a rubric
(a part) means are also lessons about their own individual reading and
writing practices, lessons about choices and degrees of consent to larger structural forces, to the hegemonic? How do you help students see
their own ways of judging language as determined (both constrained
and pressured) in particular directions?
Products. What products or consequences do you reasonably foresee the
ecology producing? What direct products are there? Will there be a
course grade, or even individual grades on drafts? Will there be decisions about proficiency, placement, learning, development, or passing
that must be made at the end of the course? What indirect products
might there be and how might these products change given different
locally diverse students? In what ways are those products fair and
unfair to produce?
Discussion. How is the subject position of the writer discussed in or
around student texts? How is learning and development discussed?
How is that learning or development compared to formal expectations of the course? Are those expectations explicitly associated with
a white racial habitus as such? In feedback activities (with the teacher
or among students) what responses to feedback might student-writers
reasonably have? What opportunities do writers have to respond back
to readers or assessors of their writing? How are those responses fed
into students’ articulations of learning?
Products of Other Ecological Elements. What effects or consequences
might the kind of ecological part used to articulate judgments on
students’ writing have on various locally diverse writers, or in writing
groups that may discuss them? How might those ecological parts or
processes have historically racialized consequences for your students,
patterns that students intuitively have accepted or not questioned?
Could some racial formations in your classroom have different
experiences than what you reasonably hope for or expect, and thus
learn something very different from the same ecology? How might

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the class monitor these differences? How can this alternative learning
be acknowledged? How would you measure these unintended consequences (learning) or observe them? How might students be involved
in measuring or observing them (e.g., reflections that ask about their
learning and its relation to their past ways of learning)?
In the above heuristic, I move between a macro sense of the course as a large
ecology that is most characterized by the way a writing assessment ecology creates the course and the experiences of students moving through the course to
micro ecologies that are characterized by individual activities, assignments, and
processes, which ultimately make up the larger classroom writing assessment
ecology. When designing beforehand, a teacher should think in terms of the
macro ecology of the course that evolves throughout the semester, an ecology in
which every element inter-is the others. This will help maintain consistency and
reduce contradictory processes, parts, or other elements.
An antiracist classroom writing assessment ecology, then, is interconnected at all levels. All elements inter-are. And so, in each category above, I blend
elements, prompting teachers for instance to consider issues of power when
considering processes. This means that one could think about a rubric as an
articulation of expectations (part) which is used in the processes of feedback, a
set of activities and labor that constructs evolving expectations (process), or an
articulation of learning, of what students have been getting out of the ecology
(product). This inter-being is intentional. While we can talk about ecological
elements as distinct and separate entities, when we design them into a course we
must keep in mind the way they exist in the material world as interconnected
and dynamic elements.
This interconnectedness of the elements makes designing antiracist assessment ecologies complex. When you consider a part, you should consider the
ways it becomes a place or a product at some point or for some reason. A feedback activity with peers feeds into, informs, inter-is with the larger classroom
writing assessment ecology that produces a course grade (product). A rubric
(part) inter-is the people that designed it, or the place of the writing classroom
or group that uses it. It may even be an on-going process that gives power to
students, which in turn provides indirect learning products. This interconnectedness of ecological elements shows why a teacher designing an assessment ecology can begin anywhere in the system, begin with the element that seems most
important or salient to her. They all lead to each other. In fact, much like Burke’s
(1969) dramatistic Pentad, the key to making the ecology critical is seeing the
interconnected nature of the elements, seeing their consubstantiality. Burke discusses this by thinking about ratios in the pentad. In a similar way, I’m suggesting that a teacher begin where she feels most comfortable thinking about writing
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assessment in her course, then discover (perhaps with her students) the ways that
ecological element inter-is the others.
However, there is a caveat to this method. The ecological element you begin
designing, say processes, will likely be more primary than what those processes
become. In my ecologies, I’m usually thinking first about process, since my larger purposes for most activities are the same, so each week’s activities often are a
variation on the same purpose. So the process, the labor, that students engage
in is where we spend most of our time making decisions and discussing, not
on the parts. For instance, the rubric building processes in my class discussed
in Chapter 4 do produce a part, a rubric, but the experience of students tends
to be a process, to be the laboring they do. I doubt many remember the items
on our rubric after the course is over, but it is clear from their end of semester
reflections and assessments that the labor and processes of building the rubric,
testing it, revising it, reflecting upon it, using it in reading peers’ drafts had a
lasting impression. The rubric process inter-was a part (the rubric) as much as
it inter-was a set of learning products (lessons about writing), but primarily it
was a set of processes (labors). And this was a big part of my larger purpose in
the ecology. I cared more about students laboring with words and judgment in
meaningful ways than forming them in particular ways in ideal products. This
is due to the fact that the other half of my larger purpose was to have students
confront their own existential writing assessment situations, and the only way
they could do that is over time, through laboring, writing, reflecting, assessing,
and being conscious of these processes as processes structured by their habitus
and the white racial habitus that informed our rubric.
Additionally, my larger antiracist purpose is threaded into the above heuristic. In one sense, I’m suggesting that it be a part of any antiracist writing
assessment ecology. Consider again my rubric-building activity, where students
inductively created a rubric they used to judge each other’s drafts by finding
models in their research then distilling from those models a set of expectations
they all wished to develop in their drafts. If the processes of reading, discussion,
agreement-building, and articulation of the rubric are pointed back toward the
student as an element in the ecology, which I tried to do, then the student can
see the interconnection between the rubric as a part and herself as a person in
the same ecology. This illustrates how they inter-are for the student. This could
be done in reflections that ask the student to consider the rubric as a set of dominant dispositions (a habitus) that the class agrees upon that is similar and different from her own dispositions to judge and write. Or she might reflect upon
the challenges she thinks she’ll have when she writes from the rubric, or when
she reads and uses it to judge her peers’ papers. Or she might reflect after using

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the rubric in a reading process, discussing the problems she had with making it
work, or agreeing with it, or its inadequacies, or the way it could not account for
important or valuable aspects of her peers’ papers and why.
Let me reiterate for emphasis. My tendency is to have a larger ecological
purpose-product established in the ecology, one that fits my antiracist agenda.
In order to confront any racism, students should experience a problematizing of
their existential writing assessment situations as racialized situations (at least in
part). I begin this through rubric-building processes. The problem posed, then,
is one that must ask students to consider carefully a white racial habitus, say in a
rubric, and the local SEAE we may be promoting in the course, say in models or
published writing discussed in class. This means we need some additional theory
or information that helps us think in productive ways about our own racialized
subject positions in language next to the social, disciplinary, and racial structures
that form expectations of English language communication in college, in the
world, in our families, in churches, in other affinity groups.
My class didn’t provide this literature. I should have offered some of the
readings I list in Chapter 3. This also means that my references to race (in the
heuristic and in my classroom) are really references to power, references to particular groups’ relations to power, to the hegemonic, to whiteness, to a white
racial habitus. And the language of power (or lack of it) is often how I begin in
some classes that seem resistant to discussing race. However, an antiracist writing assessment ecology would encourage students to confront race in language
in ways connected to the personal, the habitus of the individual student as a
person who participates in larger racial formations in society. Frankie Condon’s
(2013), Catherine Myser’s (2002), Maurice Berger’s (1999), and Victor Villanueva’s (1993) discussions seems most accessible as a way into such discussions
with students.
In many ways, what I’ve been attempting in this book is an extension of what
I’ve tried to do my entire life, first as a boy, then a student in schools, then as a
teacher. So I end this book with a few perhaps self-indulgent, personal stories
about me as a writer and assessor, stories that illustrate the problems that classroom writing assessment ecologies reveal to me when I see them as antiracist
projects, good problems that should not be ignored, but racial problems that
go beyond the classroom and words on the page. I should warn you. My stories
of writing assessment ecologies in my childhood and early adulthood are not
school stories, not really, which should suggest things about the problems that
writing classrooms have with creating healthy, sustainable, engaging ecologies
for students of color or multilingual students. Creating healthier, fairer, more

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sustainable assessment ecologies in classrooms is not always about the classroom.

FINAL STORIES OF WRITING ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES
When I was eleven or twelve years old, my identical twin brother and I
would often type stories to one another on my mom’s old manual typewriter, a
Signature 440T Montgomery Ward’s model that typed in black and red ink. We
lived in Las Vegas and attended year-around schools, so there were significant
periods of time in elementary and junior high in which we were “latchkey” kids,
confined to inside our apartment, curtains drawn, doors locked. “Don’t answer
the door for anyone,” my mom would say, “and be quiet—no one can know
you’re here.” So typing stories to my brother was a silent escape in which we
could go anywhere, be anyone, and do almost anything. I can still feel the plastic
of the keys that felt almost like cold bone, feel their tension when pressed, and
the snap of the type bars when they hit the old-fashioned typing paper. The paper was crisp, like a thin skin of dried onion, but more durable. Typing on it and
holding the paper in my hands made my words feel real, feel important. I found
joy and engagement in both writing to my brother and discussing with him my
stories. The discussions always ended up as collaborative sessions in which by the
end it was hard to tell who was the writer and who the reader.
Now, my brother and I were always very rhetorically savvy, good with words
on the block, quick-witted, fast with a snappy comeback. Our momma was
well-defended. But writing in school was always a difficult task because I was
never rewarded for it, and no one really took my ideas seriously, at least not as
seriously as my errors. In fact, I was in remedial reading classes until about the
eighth grade, yet I won reading contests—you know the ones: how many books
can you read in a semester? But for some reason, despite my interests in language
and books, I didn’t like writing for school, or rather, I didn’t like turning in my
writing to a teacher. The feedback I got on all my writing in school was lots of
marks, often on every sentence I wrote. Writing for school was usually about
finding out how bad or wrong I was in putting sentences together. It was about
being measured, not communicating or dialoguing with someone else. It was
always about submission, submitting to power, losing power, being measured,
graded. And it was always, always, without fail, a submission to a white racial
authority figure. What I experienced in school, even into college, were writing
experiences that separated, and often ignored, three important aspects of any
meaningful writing activity to me: (1) the importance of my labor in writing, (2)
the importance of the material conditions in which I labored to read and write
and that allowed me to read and write the way I did, and (3) the importance of
the way all my writing participated in an ecology of assessment, which meant
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that what I wrote inter-was who I was. My words were me. A teacher never was
just reading my paper. That paper inter-was me, my labor, my context for writing at home or in the classroom. No matter what they said, my teachers were
always grading me, not simply my papers.
Let me explain the third aspect, the one I’m guessing is the most confusing
to readers, a sense that all my early joyful and engaging writing participated in
ecologies of assessment. I wouldn’t have voiced things this way back then. My
typing experiences with my brother were ecologies themselves, organically produced by one of us simply saying, “let’s write stories. You can read mine and tell
me what you think, and I’ll read yours and tell you what I think.” We certainly knew the paradigm of correction and grading from school, but our ecology
didn’t mimic that. We were not in school. We were on break, trapped in a trailer,
unable to go outside. It was just us, a typewriter, and paper. Those school ecologies, those grading and correcting ecologies, didn’t seem appropriate because
we weren’t looking to be corrected or meet some idealized standard. That wasn’t
our purpose at all. We were looking for an experience of writing with each other.
We wanted to labor in particular ways because it was enjoyable to do so. We
constructed our ecology by first thinking about the two people, the writers who
would also be readers, and what they wanted to experience and do alone in a
trailer in Las Vegas.
And now that I think about it, our stories, the parts created, inter-were us.
My story was me, and that is how my brother talked about it, responded to it,
and talked to me about it. The two of us sitting cross-legged on our bed (one we
shared) in front of the typewriter was the ecological place created by our labor of
writing, and the typewriter, and us, and the discourse we created over those stories. It didn’t matter that we were poor. It didn’t matter that our language wasn’t
the standard expected in school. It didn’t matter that we had few friends, or that
our neighbor would yell racist slurs at us as we walked past his house almost every day. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought or did. It only mattered that
we did this thing together, that we played with words together. Our purpose was
simple, even simpler than to communicate to an audience. It was to create words
and share those words with the only person in the world who was as consubstantial to oneself as another can be, an identical twin brother.
Power in this situation flowed from our control over everything, the purpose,
process, the writing as an artifact, the responses (the products), the typewriter
and material conditions (place), and our time, our laboring in time. There were
no teachers or adults to tell us what to do, or how well we did it. I don’t even
think anyone knew we wrote those stories. We embodied power in all that it
could be, and we did so equally. Being a twin can be the most democratic and
equal relationship one can possibly experience, more so than a partner or spouse.
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As a twin, you feel your inter-being with your sibling most acutely. For me, my
interconnectedness to my twin brother defined me growing up.
This inter-being, this sameness, is not only something a twin can feel but
something that is placed onto you as a twin by everyone around you. My mom
always made sure that everything was equal, that what I got my brother also
got, from clothes to toys to food to space in the bedroom. She made a point to
say so: “you get what your brother gets,” “you both will get the same,” “you are
both equally special and wonderful.” And being identical, you confront on a
daily basis how much the same you are to your twin, how equal you are and are
perceived to be by others around you every day. People constantly compare you.
“Look how similar they are.” “Do you think the same things?” “Can you read
each other’s minds?” “Wow, you two look exactly alike.” “You sound exactly like
your brother. You talk just like him.”
The discourse and practices of inter-being around us as identical twins constructed an equal power relationship, even to this day. Thus there were no power
plays in our language games as kids. My language could be interrogated and
judged by my brother, and I could take those judgments as they were, not as rule
or law, but as my brother telling me his perspective of my text, as me interrogating myself. It was as pure as any judgment and dialogue could be.
“I don’t understand this. Why is he jumping into the water
here? It would be better if he ….”
“He’s jumping because he wants to get over to the island. He
wants to get to her.”
“I know but he could take the boat.”
“How is that exciting?”
“Maybe he takes the boat, maybe he gets into trouble on the
way, maybe ….”
“Maybe the boat has a leak, and ….”
“Yeah, maybe there are sharks in the water?”
“And he has to paddle faster and faster.”
Our discussions, as I remember them, always were like this. We were one organism. His ideas inter-were my ideas. Our unique power relations allowed us to
engage in a collaborative process that was both judgment and drafting, that was
assessing and writing. That’s literally what I remember about our exchanges, not
a lot of details, just emotions and feelings, just images of the typewriter, of the
onion paper and its feel between my fingers, of the feeling of creating words and
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seeing them on the page—a clean text on paper—of talking to my brother about
his words and mine, of the excitement of creating and recreating together, of
playing with words with myself who was my brother, of feeling like a real writer
who writes, of writing and judging text as joy. In short, what I recall most is the
ecology of writing assessment as an embodiment of inter-being, yet more than
that, more than just stories, more than just talk about words, more than just an
escape from the racist conditions of our lives.
Part of what made this private ecology with my brother so special is that it
could escape all the problems that plagued us outside the trailer, on the block
and in school. And these problems were dictated by our racial subject position
next to our white, working-class neighbors, who all—just about to the very last
one—disliked us. In short, my private twin ecology escaped racism in the only
way one can escape racism today. The people in it, my brother and I, were not
diverse. We were the same, linguistically, racially, culturally, age-wise, all of it.
This isn’t the answer to racism in the classroom. I point this out because it seems
clear to me now that I needed this democratic, monolingual ecology in order to
find joy and love for the written word since there were few places outside this
ecology that offered joy or love in language to me, and that joy and love was a
direct consequence, a product, of the private twin ecology of assessment. I needed to write to myself, a raced body, and not to a white teacher.
But outside this ecology were other ecologies that were more complicated,
less equal, more hurtful to me as a person of color in mostly white, working-class
schools. During this period, we lived in Pecos Trailer Park. It seemed a step up
from the last place we lived, a government subsidized apartment on Stats Street
in the Black ghetto, North Las Vegas. It was a strange transition for a brown boy
like me. I was the lightest skinned kid on Stats, but at Pecos, I was the darkest.
And it mattered to everyone, recall the letter written to my family threatening
our eviction. I was loud and boisterous on Stats but at Pecos I was quiet, especially around adults, all of whom didn’t want me near their children. For most
of my childhood in order to play with anyone my age, I had to sneak around
parents, hide behind trailers, waiting for friends to sneak out and play. None
of the kids in the trailer park, not one, were allowed to be around us or play
with us. If they were caught being seen with my brother or me, they would get
grounded, punished.
And the ironies of my situation didn’t escape me. One of our neighbors,
whose daughter I liked quite a bit (her name was Heather), was adamant about
how “bad” my brother and I were. He was vocal to me about my negative influence on his daughter. I was a troublemaker. I can still see him standing on his
porch, looking down at me, glaring at me with eyes that said, “Get away from
my daughter, you dirty spic.” He banned his daughter and son from associating
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with my brother and me. It hurt. But within a year after they moved into the
park, he was arrested and sent to a federal prison. The family wouldn’t say what
happened, except that he’d done some bad things at work in Arizona, where they
had most recently lived, perhaps some embezzling or skimming. Even then, I
remember thinking to myself, “And I’m the bad influence?”
Another neighbor kid was arrested for stealing in a department store. Her
sister smoked weed, starting in junior high (and their father was a police officer).
Another kid on my street, the park manger’s grandson, was constantly in trouble
for destroying property and fighting. Another kid, the assistant manager’s son,
was a bully in school and out, fought all the time, got bad grades, flunked out
and was held back one year. All these kids were white, and clearly possessed the
privilege of whiteness. None were banned for being “bad kids” or “bad influences” on anyone else. None were given a warning of eviction. I saw the irony in this
every day, and I saw it connected to my perceived racial subjectivity. And I wrote
in this context, from this habitus.
Flash forward. I moved to Oregon my senior year of high school. While
expected of me by my family, college didn’t seem realistic in my mind. I wasn’t
good enough. I didn’t read the right things. I didn’t have any money, nor did
my mom. My writing wasn’t very good. I wasn’t smart enough. I was still that
troublemaker, somehow. I could still feel my poverty in my skin. I could feel
the judgments on me from my past. I was the dirty spic. Forget that by high
school I was almost a straight-A student. The A’s ceased to matter. It was the
real judgments of me that mattered by people around me. It was the looks, the
comments, the racial slurs. It was a general assessment that no matter what I did,
what I said—no matter what—I wasn’t good enough.
The army seemed a good delay. When I enlisted into the army national guard
and spent nine months training in New Jersey and Missouri, I turned again to
writing. Writing was a kind of escape for me, and it proved deeply enjoyable,
mostly because of the way response and assessment were a natural part of the
labor of writing. You see, it was the first time I was away from family and friends,
alone with strangers, doing something I was not that thrilled about, but had
made a commitment. I was eighteen. And while we never agreed to do it, never
made any plans up front, my brother and I wrote each other letters every day I
was gone, every day for the entire nine months. Not a day went by that I wasn’t
deeply engaged in reading my brother’s words, hand-written for me so far away
in Oregon. And I never let a day go by in which I didn’t write and reply back to
him. The reading and writing of letters to my brother that I did each night in
my bunk in an army barracks far from home was the most meaningful literacy
experience of my life. It felt like it saved my life, saved me from feeling isolated
and alone, reminded me that my twin brother was out there, far away, thinking
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about me and only me, writing to me, showing me that our life, friends, college,
were all still going on. One could say my brother and his letters gave me freedom
to write, freedom to reflect upon my choices, and freedom to see myself as a twin
far from his brother, far from his real self. And all this freedom came from words
and their affirmations, my brother’s responses to them.
This long-distance ecology we created, much like our more intimate typing
of stories on the Signature typewriter, was ironically an embodiment of freedom
in a place and time I felt the least free in my life. The letters created a figurative
place that was free, free from my obligations to the army, free from the daily labors of training, free from the company of strangers, free from the green of army
uniforms, free from marching and marching and marching, free from weapons
ranges and classrooms. The ecology of letters was an ecology of freedom to be
me with me, with my brother.
Freedom, though, is a tricky word. It is a powerful word. It is yoked closely
to race in U.S. history. In the U.S. whites have always been free in most aspects
of their lives, so much so that freedom of choice and doing and being are often
taken for granted. We call it white privilege. This isn’t the case for Blacks, or Japanese, for instance, especially before the end of WWII. It isn’t true for Latinos/
as who are always suspected to some degree of being “illegal aliens” in public,
especially if they speak with an accent or speak Spanish (a language that reminds
me of their history of colonization). And it isn’t true for Native Americans, who
live with the legacy of the slaughter and genocide of their ancestors, customs,
and their languages.
Freedom is also a theme that many Fresno State Hmong students voice in
reflections and exit survey responses in the FYW program each year (Inoue,
2012a). They are the only racial formation that articulates this theme. When I
read such reflections by Hmong students, I cannot help but think of the well
know book of testimonies by Hmong refugees, Hmong Means Free, published in
1994 by Sucheng Chan, which recounts several families fleeing Laos from oppression and massacre, emmigrating to the U.S. around 1976. Or John Duffy’s
(2007) historical account in Writing from These Roots of Hmong literacy practices
and school experiences, which were filled with “loneliness, racism, and physical
abuse” (p. 139). Or the powerful memoir by Kao Kalia Yang, The Latehomecomer
(2008). The lack of freedom in the lives of Hmong punctuate their migrations:
they flee from the Yellow River Valley to the jungles of China, then to Indochina, then to northern Laos. After the war, they are hunted and slaughtered
by the North Vietnamese. Even when they escape, they’re herded into refugee
camps with armed guards. Several groups have attempted to colonize them, the
Chinese, the French, the Japanese. It appears that freedom to do anything, to
live and prosper, let alone to write or read, is crucial to many Hmong’s sense of
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well-being, learning, progress, and development. Freedom appears often to be a
racial condition.
Furthermore, what makes a sense of freedom important to writing assessment ecologies, what makes it important to antiracist ones, is the way in which
it signifies a sense of racial equality, or liberation. Freedom has usually been
the purpose, the goal for most racial movements. The feeling that one is free,
free to choose, free to speak, free to act, free to labor in the ways one is most
accustomed, free to be, inter-is agency. I know this is too simple of an equation
for agency. It seems to erase the degrees of choice in agency, the complications,
particularly those I’ve pointed out around the hegemonic and Marxian determination. But I’m only talking about a feeling of freedom in the writing classroom,
not actual freedom. I wonder how many writing assessment ecologies possess
the character of freedom in students’ experiences, and if that character is evenly
distributed across the various racial formations that exist within the ecology? I
wonder what freedom feels like to various racialized students in a writing assessment ecology that promotes blindly or uncritically a white racial habitus?
My mom used to say that my twin brother and I spoke a special language
only to each other for the first few years of our speaking lives. I only vaguely
recall the language, but do remember using it. And perhaps the writing assessment ecologies I recall were us trying to escape the confines of our lives, to be
free in language, free from racism, to reinvent our lost twin language, a pure
and organic, non-judgmental language of consubstantiality, a twin language of
inter-being.
I think over the years as a teacher and scholar of writing, I have tried unconsciously to understand and recreate my writing experiences with my brother in
my classes for my students, tried to find ways to cultivate ecologies that conceive
of the inevitable and scary assessment of writing as writing and the writing of
“primary texts,” essays and such, as feedback or dialogue, as the student’s own
urge to communicate and identify with others. Reading and writing are just
other ways to say assess, judge. I have tried to construct ecologies that work as
sustainable, livable, fair ecologies that address racism by not avoiding it in the
language we write or speak. Perhaps mostly though, my stories I hope demonstrate that even a remedial student like me from the ghettos of North Las Vegas,
from a poor, single-parent home, can find freedom and power through writing
assessment ecologies, but to do so means one must confront racism himself in
his own language, in school, on the block, and in the nature of judgments on
him and from him.

300

NOTES
1. In this book, I use the term Standardized Edited American English (SEAE)
to denote the kind of discourses typically promoted and valued in academic settings in the way that Greenfield (2011) and other linguists use the term. My use
of this term, SEAE, highlights the superficial and typographical features of text,
which often are characterized by particular conventions of grammar and punctuation. I realize SEAE is not singular but varied and multiple, slightly different
at each site and classroom. Additionally, I use “standardized” and not “Standard”
to emphasize, like Greenfield, the local brand of English valued in a writing assessment as not inherently the correct version of English, but one actively made
standard. There is no single preferred or correct version. There are only versions
promoted and made standard by their use in writing assessments. Thus I often
use the term local SEAE.
2. Throughout this book, I make a distinction between a local SEAE and a
local dominant discourse promoted in a writing classroom. Beyond conventions
of grammar and punctuation, a dominant discourse, which is the broader term,
also includes particular rhetorical moves that are typically judged as acceptable
within the community that uses the discourse. The discourse of summary and
engaging in academic conversations that Graff and Birkenstein (2014) offer in
their popular text, They Say/I Say, is a good example of a text that focuses on
explaining and showing the rhetorical moves that make up part of a dominant
discourse. Conventions within local SEAEs certainly intersect within this dominant discourse, and their text may even influence such SEAEs.
3. Catherine Prendergast (1998) makes a similar argument about composition studies generally.
4. I thank Tom Fox for bringing this important point to my attention.
5. Omi and Winant (1994) define racial projects as projects in society that
create or maintain racial groups, identities, or categories in some way. They link
racial projects to the function of hegemony (pp. 55-56, 68). Racial projects
could be racist (those that contribute to racial hierarchies and subordination) or
work against such categorizing by race.
6. According to today’s U.S. common sense, for a language practice to be
efficient and effective, it would need concision, which SEAE doesn’t always have.
Take the use of articles and plural endings that cause many L2 speakers difficulty.
Oftentimes, they simply are not needed to communicate an idea. For instance,
“I walked the dog around the block three times” (nine words, 36 characters)
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Notes

conforms to most local SEAEs, but a more concise and still communicative way
to say this could be, “I walked dog around block three time” (seven words, 30
characters).
7. For a fuller discussion of remediation and its institutional construction
and reification, see Soliday (2002) and Stanley (2009). For a related summary
of the field of basic writing, see Otte and Mlynarczyk (2010). For an important
complication and rethinking of who the basic writer is, see Horner and Lu’s
(1999) important collection, which also prefigures their work on translingual
approaches (Horner & Trimbur, 2002; Horner et al., 2011) that they advocate.
All these scholars reveal associations between the concept of remediation with
the body of color.
8. While the Asian-American population is mostly Hmong, I realize that the
figures shown also include other Asian-American formations, but this is how California State University reports EPT results. When I’ve looked more closely at just
the Hmong formation, the remediation rates are even higher. According to Fresno
State’s Office of Institutional Effectiveness, the average remediation rate for all
Hmong students at Fresno State between 2007-2012 was 77% of the population.
9. The famous motto originated during Chavez’ 25 day fast in Phoenix,
Arizona in 1972. He and Dolores Huerta coined the phrase (Rodriquez, 1998).
10. For a discussion of the way race is an historically changing concept, see
Hannaford (1996); for a discussion of an instance of a racial formation that
changes, see Ignatiev’s (1995) discussion in How the Irish Became White; and for
a discussion of the way race is an historically changing construct that produces
racial hierarchies and categories, see Omi and Winant (1994).
11. I realize that Bonilla-Silva’s sociological work on racial frames comes
from frame analysis, a methodology created by Erving Goffman (1974). Goffman’s methodology attempts to explain the way people organize experience into
conceptual frames, like a picture frame. A frame in Goffman’s terms is a set
of conceptual terms (concepts) and theoretical perspectives that then structure
and influence actions. To be clear, I’m simply cherry-picking from Bonilla-Silva’s frames, and because he speaks in terms of the language used that articulate racial attitudes, his frames amount to rhetorical tropes, rhetoric. Villanueva
(2006) also identifies such “new racist” language through the use of four kinds
of tropes that come from Burke (i.e., metaphor, metonymy, synecdoche, and
irony), which amount to Bonilla-Silva’s racial frames (Villanueva even references
Bonilla-Silva).
12. For key discussions on whiteness, see Lipsitz’ (1998) discussion on the
way whiteness is connected to and supports a whole range of social projects, such
as immigration, labor, white desire, and identity politics; see Roediger (1991)
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for the ways whiteness is connected historically to wage labor in the U.S.; see
Munro (2004) for a summary of scholarship on whiteness that connects it to
antiracist Marxism and Black antiracist traditions; and see Myser (2003) on the
ways whiteness affects bioethics research and classrooms.
13. Brookhiser (1997) identifies the following traits as those of the WASP:
a Protestant conscience that often functions from seeing truth (optically) and
guilt if truth is ignored (p. 16-17); civic-mindedness that prioritizes society as a
whole, and demonizes groups or special interests (p. 18-19); an anti-sensuality
that constructs sensual pleasures or enjoyment as bad or wrong (p. 21); a focus
on industry that places a value on doing work, which is often connected to capitalism (p. 17); a valuing of use, which says that everything and everyone must
be useful for something (p. 19); and success, or the “outward and visible signs
of grace” (p. 18).
14. The directed self-placement at Fresno State was designed after the one at
Grand Valley State University and discussed by Royer and Gilles (1998; 2003).
15. To see a study of grading practices in the Fresno State writing program,
see Inoue (2012a); to see the validation study of the DSP along racial formations
in the program, see Inoue (2009a); to see a fuller discussion of the failure rate
changes after changing course writing assessments (grading systems), see Inoue
(2014b). All show one thing: how various racial formations’ are constructed
through writing assessments as racial projects.
16. The National Poverty Center (2014) at the University of Michigan explains that the threshold for poverty in the U.S. for a two adult household with
one child is $17,552, two children is $22,113, and three is $26,023. For a single
parent household with one child the threshold is $15,030, and for two children
it is $17,568.
17. It is worth noting that the Kingdom of Thailand is the only nation in
Southeast Asia not to have been colonized by either France or Great Brittan. So
to U.S. Americans’ eyes of the 1950s, the Siam of the 1860s is an ideal place to
imagine white-Asian racial relations.
18. I find the title of the film The King and I to be particularly telling, as
it reveals clearly the primary subject(ivity) of the film. It isn’t the king, nor his
children, but the white female teacher, sent to educate, who is the subject of the
film. It is her story. And this seems analogous to our writing classrooms and their
assessments. The dominant subject(ivity) of the assessment ecology, the central
habitus, is a white one, perhaps a white female one. The vast majority of writing
teachers at Fresno State are white females, and this has been the case at every
college and university at which I’ve taught (three other state universities and one
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Notes

community college).
19. The 18 clans represented at Fresno State are: Cha, Chue, Cheng, Fang,
Hang, Her/Herr/Hue, Khang, Kong, Kue, Lee/Le/Ly/Lyfoung, Lor/Lo, Moua/
Mouanatoua, Pha,Thao/Thor, Vang, Vue/Vu, Xiong, Yang.
20. These are the terms the NCES uses.
21. Validity refers to a judgment that explains the adequacy of an assessment’s decision. Samuel Messick (1989) provides perhaps the most definitive
treatment of the concept and its procedures (validation), and defines validity as:
“an integrated evaluative judgment of the degree to which empirical evidence
and theoretical rationales support the adequacy and appropriateness of inferences
and actions based on test scores or other modes of assessment” (p. 13, his emphasis). As one can see, validity is an argument, as several have argued already
(Cronbach, 1988; Kane, 1992; Shepard, 1993), and so it is a rhetorical process
(Inoue, 2007).
22. CSU’s Division of Analytic Studies separates the category of “Asian-American” from “Pacific Islander” and Filipino, thus these students are certainly mostly Hmong students. As a comparison, the remediation rate for whites entering
Fresno State in Fall 2011 was only 25.3%, Mexican Americans was 58.5%, and
African-Americans was 58.9%.
23. I am mindful of one concern of assessment ecologies that define course
grades by labor. Students who work and go to school, or who have complex family obligations that take up much of their time may be at a disadvantage. But as
those in travel and mobility studies (a field that looks at the processes, structures,
and consequences of people’s movement across time and geography) remind us,
people may do all kinds of labor and work as they move from bus to park, to job,
or from home to school to wherever. I thank Tom Fox for this reminder.
24. I realize that many students work outside of school, take care of family
members, and have other constraints on their time, so not all students have the
same amount of free time. These limitations can be negotiated with each class
since they will be different for each class.
25. I realize the there is no indication that Lindsey is white, but the whiteness I reference here is not a white skin privilege, rather a white habitus associated with her dispositions in language.
26. Lester Faigley (1989) offers a concise way to think about Althusser’s
interpellation that is helpful here:
discourses interpellate human beings by offering them an
array of subject positions that people recognize, just as when
a person turns when someone shouts “hey, you.” The term
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Notes

subject contains a pun. People are subjected to dominant
ideologies, but because they recognize themselves in the
subject positions that discourses provide, they believe they are
subjects of their own actions. The recognition, therefore, is a
misrecognition because people fail to see that the subject positions they occupy are historically produced, and they imagine
that they are freely choosing for themselves. (p. 403)
27. I realize we are not talking about liberation in the same ways as Freire
may have, but I believe that providing students ways to problematize their existential writing assessment situations is a form of liberation from the hegemonic
in the assessment of their writing.
28. In the places I cite from the prison notebooks, Gramsci provides historical analyses by invoking Lenin’s Theses on Feuerbach and Marx and Engel’s The
Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, The Civil War of France, and Revolution
and Counter-Revolution in Germany. He makes his own analysis in section VIII
(2000, pp. 249-274).
29. It should be noted that through the dialectical term base, Gramsci extends the traditional concept of economic base to include the moral, ethical,
and cultural aspects and practices of civil society (2000, pp. 194-195), which
he describes as “ethico-political,” a term from the Italian idealist philosopher
Benedetto Croce.
30. In The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud (1913) explains overdetermination
as a confluence of “dream thoughts,” in which “[e]very element of the dream
content turns out to be over-determined—that is, it enjoys a manifold representation in the dream thoughts” (par. 13). Later in the same chapter, he discusses
the term by considering the dream of the neurotic character: “Hence emotions in
the dream appear as though formed by the confluence of several tributaries, and
as though over-determined in reference to the material of the dream thoughts;
sources of affect which can furnish the same affect join each other in the dream
activity in order to produce it” (par. 266). Contrast this with Marxian determination that has both constraints and pressure toward some hegemonic end. The
hegemonic appears not to be a part of Freudian overdetermination.
31. Black, Daiker, Sommers, and Stygall (1994) found that white female
student reflections tended to be judged more highly in portfolios at Miami University. At Fresno State, Hmong female student reflections also were rated by
judges more highly than their male counterparts (Inoue & Richmond, in press).
32. The average EPT scores for Hmong students during 2007-12 was 134

305

Notes

for males, and 135 for females. The cut score that determined remediation is 147.
33. I discuss the contract’s focus on labor in detail in Inoue (2014a) and in
Chapter 4 for my own classroom. I also discuss the labor model next to quality
models of failure from empirical data from the Fresno State program in Inoue
(2014b).
34. The study was conducted by nine graduate students (Meredith Bulinski,
Jocelyn Stott, Megan McKnight, Sharla Seidel, Andy Dominguez, and Maryam
Jamali, Holly Riding, Adena Joseph, and Patrice Isom) and myself in a graduate seminar of mine in the spring of 2008, then presented at CCCC in 2009.
The session was titled, “‘Shit-plus,’ ‘AWK,’ ‘Frag,’ and ‘Huh?’: An Empirical
Look at a Writing Program’s Commenting Practices” and the study was presented by Meredith Bulinski, Jocelyn Stott, Megan McKnight, Sharla Seidel, Andy
Dominguez, and Maryam Jamali. The video they produced for that conference
session can be found at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LA6nBFkNb8.
35. All EPT scores discussed here are taken from CSU’s Analytic Studies
Website (CSU, Division of Analytic Studies, 2013).
36. I use subaltern as a term to identify individuals of a particular social
formation (not class) that is subordinate to other formations, realizing that in
much critical and post-colonial theory, the subaltern is often defined as one who
is outside the hegemonic, excluded; however, one who is subordinate is inside the
hegemonic power structures, since subordination is a relative concept. I use the
term more closely to its original reference in the British military, which identified
officers of lower rank, relative to a higher ranking officer. This appears to be in
line with Gramsci’s own use of the term. Morton (2007) explains that in Prison
Notebooks, Gramsci uses the term to “denote subordinate groups such as the rural
peasantry in Southern Italy, whose achievement of social and political consciousness was limited and their political unity weak.” As a subaltern, the rural peasantry had not become conscious of their “collective economic and social oppression
as a class,” not like the industrial proletariat of Italy had (Morton, 2007, p. 96).
Thus subaltern is not referencing a class but rather a more loose-knit social formation, like students, or even Hmong students at Fresno State. Additionally, one
is not simply subaltern or not. There are degrees of subalternity.
37. For instance, the first edition of Blumenbach’s On The Natural Varieties
of Mankind (1775) contained only four racial categories by geography: people
from (1) Europe; (2) Asia, the Ganges river, and parts of North America; (3)
Africa; and (4) North America. The second edition (1781) contained five categories by geography: people from (1) Europe, including North India, North
Africa, North America; (2) Asia and beyond the Ganges river; (3) Africa, except
for North Africa; (4) America, and (5) the southern world, such as the Philip306

Notes

pines. And the third edition (1795) contained five refined, abstract categories:
(1) Caucasians; (2) Mongolians; (3) Ethiopians; (4) Americans; and (5) Malays.
38. It should be noted that technically, Blumenbach’s Caucasians are geographically located in Asia (Middle East) around Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia,
and Russia, not Europe, which indicates Blumenbach’s and others’ need to locate the norm in a white European center.
39. I use the racial codes and terms used by Fresno State and its Office of
Institutional Effectiveness when citing their findings or information, otherwise
I use my own. For instance Fresno State tends to use “Hispanic,” while I prefer
“Latino/a,” which by in large refers to Chicano or Mexican-American.
40. Twitter has been helpful in other ways. For example, it’s helpful in understanding the general labor patterns of the class, when students do work for
our class most often, and who has more trouble with the labor than others.
Knowing these patterns has helped me think about what assignments will be
more productive, helpful, and doable than others. It does make some students
feel a bit vulnerable, since it can make their labors more present, more noticeable
to everyone. I try hard to let students know that when they do labor for our class
is not important to me, but that they do it, how long they do it, and the spirit
in which they do it (are they trying to engage and learn?) are more important.
Additionally, as discussed in Chapter 3, I’ve found asking students to quantify
both the duration of their labor sessions each week and the level of engagement
in sessions (usually with a simply rating) in simple spreadsheets can help us reflect more carefully in our journals.
41. I discuss elsewhere (Inoue, 2004) one version of the way inductively
built rubrics can be done and can function. The difference in the present class is
that I built two rubrics: one based on expectations for the project’s artifact, and
one on the labor expectations of those artifacts.
42. I discuss these three questions as central to my ideal course in another
place (Inoue, 2014a).
43. Recently, I have considered adding an “incomplete” category that tabulates assignments done and turned in on time (so not late) but not done according to the assignment guidelines. The initial contract might begin with a “B”
grade having two or fewer “incomplete” assignments. However, in this class a
few students initially, as usual, turned in assignments that were incomplete. If it
was in the first two weeks of the semester, particularly if it was the first instance
of a certain kind of assignment, then I didn’t count the assignment as late, but
did talk with the student about expectations and meeting guidelines.
44. Ironically, yes, A’s do mean less (are meaningless) as indicators of prog307

Notes

ress and quality, as most of the research on grades in writing classes demonstrate.
45. While Spidell and Thelin do not discuss their findings in terms of white
racial student formations, I analyze their methods and show how one might
reasonably see their conclusions concerning mostly white, Midwestern students
from Ohio (Inoue, 2012b).
46. When quoting students’ writing, I have preserved all spellings and punctuation, not correcting things, except in the most obvious cases where there is
clearly a typo. When getting permission to use each student’s work for this book,
I asked them to look at their quoted material and make sure I have not misrepresented them, or corrected a typo that shouldn’t be.
47. While Kyler, like Zach, participates in a white racial formation, both did
not always demonstrate in their writing a white racial habitus that the writing
program expected. This may be why both had misgivings about their past experiences with grades in their writing courses. They mostly deviated in their uses
of the local SEAE, while most of their other dispositions were close to a white
racial habitus.
48. For a fuller, more detailed account of grade distributions by college,
Fresno State’s Office of Institutional Effectiveness provides reports on them at
their Website (http://www.fresnostate.edu/academics/oie/index.html).
49. Ashe is a pseudonym, which the student chose.
50. Assuming one, unified audience, with a singular habitus makes sense given the conventional ways that writing has been evaluated and graded in schools.
There is usually only one teacher, and she is the only reader and evaluator of student writing, therefore, no matter what an assignment sets up as its audience(s),
students know that there is really only one, singular audience, the teacher. No
other habitus (or set of dispositions) for reading and evaluating their writing
matters.
51. Interestingly, Lyna’s use of cooking problematizes Plato’s own description of the rhetoric of the Sophists as “cookery” (a “knack” or “flattery,” containing no substance) in Gorgias.
52. I had only one multilingual male student, a student who was Southeast
Asian from India. He entered the course late, missing the first two weeks of
class, and participated minimally in the course. His work schedule often got
in the way of class and his labor, so he struggled to even complete mundane,
daily labor. Thus I cannot make many observations about his orientation to the
assessment ecology, except that it was not articulated very clearly or abundantly.
53. Gideon claims white as his racial identity, but has a middle name that is

308

Notes

historically Filipino.
54. I conducted this survey for a writing across the curriculum program
project in which I first met with the Hmong Student Association on campus,
explained the survey and project on Hmong writing practices, then conducted
the anonymous survey through an online service. The project culminated in a
2013 CCCC presentation, “The Construction of Hmong Masculinity in Fresno
State University’s Writing (and Other) Classrooms.” That presentation was first
vetted by several members of the Hmong Student Association, and in Fall 2013,
I presented it and the full survey results to the Hmong Student Association.
55. In the course, I introduced stasis theory early so that we had that language. I used excerpts from Crowley and Hawhee’s textbook, Ancient Rhetorics
for Contemporary Students (2008), in which they define four stases: questions of
conjecture, definition, quality, and policy (p. 86). For simplicity I collapsed the
first two, conjecture and definition into questions or claims of “fact.” This made
sense to my students.
56. Pageen Richert Powell (2013) makes this very argument from the literature on retention, first arguing that most first-year writing students will not need
to learn academic discourse (half leave the university and most of the other half
take careers outside academia), then offering a “kairotic pedagogy” that teaches
students writing they can use now in their lives (p. 118).
57. In retrospect, I should have helped them critique this subject position of
mine. I was a remedial reading student, in many ways less capable than many of
them in the room. I was a poor student of color from North Las Vegas, the ghetto. I had told them about my educational past already, so these facts wouldn’t
have been new, but don’t they matter to me as a reader and judge of texts?

309

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330

APPENDIX A: ENGLISH 160W’S
GRADING CONTRACT
Our Grading Contract for ENGL 160W-24

(Adapted from Peter Elbow’s contract; see Elbow, 1997; Danielewicz & Elbow,
2009.)

Asao B. Inoue
Dear Class:
In most learning situations in life outside of school, grades are never given.
The learning that occurs in Kung Fu dojos, or cooking, dance, or yoga studios
do not use any grading. Why? In these “studio” cases, it seems meaningless to
give students grades, and yet without any grades, those students get better at
yoga, dance, and cooking. These studio learning situations should prompt us
to ask some questions: Why are grades meaningless in those settings but seem
so important in a school setting? How do grades affect learning in classrooms?
What social dynamics does the presence of grades create? In both situations,
instructors provide students/participants with evaluative feedback from time
to time, pointing out where, say, they’ve done well and where the instructor
suggests improvement. In the studio situation, many students would help each
other, even rely on each other for feedback.
Using conventional grading structures to compute course grades often lead
students to think more about their grade than about their writing or learning;
to worry more about pleasing a teacher or fooling one than about figuring out
what they really want to learn, or how they want to communicate something to
someone for some purpose. Additionally, conventional grading may cause you
to be reluctant to take risks with your writing or ideas. It doesn’t allow you to
fail at writing, which many suggest is a primary way in which people learn from
their practices. Sometimes grades even lead to the feeling that you are working
against your teacher, or that you cannot make a mistake, or that you have to hide
part of yourself from your teacher and peers. And the psychological research in
education, over thirty years of it, has shown over and over that grades not only
do not help students learn but they actually harm your learning, keep you from
learning. For these reasons, I am incorporating a contract for grading in our
class, which avoids the uses of grades and numbers.
I offer this first draft of a contract that focuses on the responsibilities we’ll
assume, not the things to which someone else (usually the teacher) will hold
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Appendix A

you accountable. The pedagogical shift I’m suggesting is in part a cultural one.
Therefore, we will try to approximate the evaluative conditions of a home studio
course. That is, we will try to create a culture of support, or rather a community
of compassion, a group of people who genuinely care about the wellbeing of each
other—and part of that caring, that compassion, is acting, doing things for each
other. It turns out, this also helps you learn. The best way to learn is to teach
others. So we will function as collaborators, allies, as fellow-travelers with various skills, abilities, experiences, and talents that we offer the group, rather than
adversaries working against each other for grades or approval by teachers.
So if you’re looking to game the system, and do the least amount of work to
get the highest possible course grade, this is NOT the class for you. You’ll only
be frustrated, even angry. Things will seem unfair at times. But if you wish to
learn and improve yourself as a writer and reader, are willing to do a lot of work
to reach those goals, accept the idea that your labor will be rewarded and not the
quality of your work (although we will discuss quality and it is important to your
success, but not important to your course grade), then this is the class for you.
Finally, taking grades out of the class, I hope will allow you freedom to take
risks and really work hard. Do not be afraid to take risks in your writing and
work. Failing or miss the mark is healthy for learners. Good, deep, important
learning often happens because of failure—so it’s really not failure at all. Failure
really only happens in our class when you do not do the work, or do not labor
in the ways we ask of you. Most importantly, what looks like failure in writing
can show us our weaknesses, misunderstandings, and opportunities for growing
and changing. Furthermore, since I won’t grade anything, this allows you the
chance to rely more authentically on your colleagues and your own assessment
and revision advice. This will help you build strategies of self-assessment that
function apart from a teacher’s approval. I want you to learn to listen carefully
to colleagues’ differing judgments, assess the worth of those judgments for your
work and its purposes, express why one idea is more workable and better than
others, and most importantly, make informed, careful decisions in your writing
that you can explain to others.
The default grade, then, for the course is a “B.” In a nutshell, if you do
all that is asked of you in the manner and spirit it is asked, if you work through
the processes we establish and the work we assign ourselves during the semester,
then you’ll get a “B.” If you miss class, turn in assignments late, or forget to do
assignments, etc., your grade will be lower.
“B” Grades
You are guaranteed a course grade of “B” if you meet all of the following
conditions. Please note that in each item below, there are questions that I cannot
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English 160W’s Grading Contract

decide alone, particularly questions of definition. The results/conclusions of our
discussions will be put into this contract in the places below.
1. Attendance/Participation. You agree to attend and fully participate in at
least 87.5% of our scheduled class sessions and their activities and assignments, which means you may miss (for whatever reason) 4 class sessions.
For our class, attendance should equate to participation, so we need to figure out together what “participation” means and when does someone not
get credit for it?
NOTE: Assignments not turned in because of an absence, either ones
assigned on the schedule or ones assigned on earlier days in class, will be
late, missed, or ignored (depending on when you turn it in finally, see the
guidelines #4, #5, and #6 below).
Any absence due to a university-sponsored group activity (e.g., sporting
event, band, etc.) will not count against you, as stipulated by university policy, as long as the student has FIRST provided written documentation in the
first two weeks of the semester of all absences. This same policy applies to
students who have mandatory military-related absences (e.g., deployment,
work, duty, etc.). Again, the student must provide written documentation,
stating the days he/she will be absent. This will allow us to determine how
he/she will meet assignments and our contract, despite being absent.
2. Lateness. You each agree to come on time or early to class. Five minutes
past our start time is considered late. Walking into class late a few times in a
semester is understandable, but when does lateness become a problem (for
the class as a whole and/or for the individual)? As a rule of thumb, coming
in late 4 or more times in a semester will constitute an absence.
3. Sharing and Collaboration. You agree to work cooperatively and collegially in groups. This may be the easiest of all our course expectations to figure
out, but we should have some discussions on what we expect from each
other.
4. Late Assignments. You will turn in properly and on time all essays, assessments, evaluations, portfolio evaluations, reflections, and other assignments. Because your colleagues in class depend on you to get your work
done on time so that they can do theirs on time, all late assignments are just
as bad as missed assignments. However, depending on what we agree to in
the first week or two of the semester, you may turn in a late assignment or
two (see the “Breakdown” table below). In order for an assignment to be
considered a “late assignment,” it STILL must be turned in, at least two
days (48 hours) after its initial due date, and it should be complete and
meet all the assignment’s requirements (e.g., if an essay was due on Friday,
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Appendix A

Sept 20 at noon, a late essay must be turned in by noon on Sunday, Sept
22). Please note that a late assignment may be due on a day when our class
is not scheduled to meet.
5. Missed Assignments. A missed assignment is NOT one not turned in; it
is one that has missed the guidelines for a late assignment somehow but is
still complete and turned in at some point in the semester (e.g., after the
48 hours). Most missed assignments are those turned in after the 48-hour
late turn-in period (see #4 above). In order to meet our contract for a
“B” grade, you cannot have any “missed assignments.” Please note that
assignments not turned in at all are considered “Ignored Assignments” (see
#6 below). A missed assignment is usually one turned in after the 48 hour
“late” assignment deadline.
6. Ignored Assignments. Any assignments not done period, or “ignored,” for
whatever reasons, are put in this category. One of these in the grade book
means an automatic “D.” Two acquired gives you an “F.” Additionally, if
any of the essays or portfolios become ignored assignments, it constitutes an
automatic failure of the course.
7. All Work and writing needs to meet the following conditions:
• Complete and On Time. You agree to turn in on time and in the
appropriate manner complete essays, writing, or assessments that meet
all of our agreed upon expectations. (See #4 above for details on late
assignments). This means that assignments are not just done but done
in the spirit and manner asked. They must meet the expectations given
in class or on handouts.
• Revisions. When the job is to revise your thinking and work, you will
reshape, extend, complicate, or substantially clarify your ideas—or
relate your ideas to new things. You won’t just correct, edit, or touch
up. Revisions must somehow respond to or consider seriously your
colleagues’ (or teacher’s) assessments in order to be revisions.
• Copy Editing. When the job is for the final publication of a draft,
your work must be well copy edited—that is, free from most mistakes
in spelling and grammar. It’s fine to get help in copy editing. (Copy
editing doesn’t count on drafts before the final draft or portfolio.)
“A” Grades
All grades in this course depend upon how much labor you do. If you do all
that is asked of you in the manner and spirit asked, and meet the guidelines in
this contract, specifically the “Break-Down” section at the end of this contract,
then you get a “B” course grade. Grades of “A,” however, depend on doing advanced projects for both Project 1 and 2, which equates to about twice the work
334

English 160W’s Grading Contract

or length of the final project documents. Thus you earn a B if you put in good
time and effort, do all the work, and do both projects in an acceptable fashion.
But you earn an “A” if you do more work in the two projects—that is, do more
in-depth projects (described on the Project handout and in the Syllabus).
While you do not have to worry about anyone’s judgments or standards of
excellence to meet the grading contract, you are obligated to listen carefully
to and address your colleagues’ and my concerns in all your work of the class.
This means that when you receive feedback you’ll use that feedback to help you
continually improve your writing. So while others’ judgments of your work is
not important to your course grade, it is important to your learning and development.
Grades Lower Than B
I hope no one will aim for lower grades. The quickest way to slide to a “C,”
“D,” or “F” is to miss classes, not turn in things on time, turn in sloppy or
rushed work, or show up without assignments. This much is nonnegotiable:
you are not eligible for a grade of “B” unless you have attended at least 86% of
the class sessions (see also #1 above), and meet the guidelines above. And you
can’t just turn in all the late work at the end of the semester. If you are missing
classes and get behind in work, please stay in touch with me about your chances
of passing the course.
Break-Down
Below is a table that shows the main components that affect your successful
compliance with our contract.

Table 1. The break-down of labor that calculates your final
course grade
# of Late
# of Absences Assigns.

# of Missed
Assigns.

# of Ignored
Assigns.

A

4 or less

5*

0

0

B

4 or less

5*

0

0

C

5

6

1

0

D

6

7

2

1

F

7

8 or more

2

2 or more

*For those who were able to meet the contract’s original guidelines (i.e., three
or fewer late assignments) will receive extra consideration during the final conferences. This means a student who has three or fewer late assignments and has
335

Appendix A

met the contract in all other ways may get the benefit of the doubt should his/
her portfolio not fully meet the requirements for an “A” contract.
Plea. I (Asao), as the administrator of our contract, will decide in consultation with the student whether a plea is warranted in any case. The student must
come to the teacher (Asao Inoue) as soon as possible, usually before the student
is unable to meet the contract (before breaching the contract), in order that he/
she and the teacher can make fair and equitable arrangements, ones that will
be fair and equitable to all in the class and still meet the university’s regulations
on attendance, conduct, and workload in classes. You may use a plea for any
reason, but only once in the semester. Please keep in mind that the contract
is a public, social contract, one agreed upon through group discussion and negotiation, so my job is to make sure that whatever agreement we come to about
a plea will not be unfair to others in class. The plea is NOT an “out clause” for
anyone who happens to not fulfill the contract in some way; it is for rare and
unusual circumstances out of the control of the student.
By staying in this course and attending class, you accept this contract and
agree to abide by it. I also agree to abide by the contract, and administer it fairly
and equitably (Asao).

336

APPENDIX B: EXAMPLE PROBLEM
POSING LABOR PROCESS
REFLECTION LETTER: PROBLEMATIZING OUR EXISTENTIAL WRITING ASSESSMENT SITUATIONS [TO BE DONE
AFTER OUR ASSESSMENT DISCUSSIONS IN CLASS ON FEB
26]
The final step in this process is to reflect in writing on the problems posed by
the process of assessing your colleagues’ drafts in a letter to me. Like last time,
here are the questions that can help you think about what you might say in your
reflection letter to me:
• What problems about your own judgment of writing, of language,
might you pose to yourself at this point?
• What contradictions were there in judgments or assumptions (explanations) about language, ideas, or sentences?
• What perspectives did you notice others reading from that shaped very
different observations and judgments than yours?
These are the sources of the problems posed by your judgments of writing.
Point out one or two problems in your reflection. Show me their sources in
your colleagues’ assessment letters and your assessment letters. Quote from one
or two colleagues’ letters (you have them available on G’drive). Quote from
the drafts in question. Be precise with the language, since it is the problems of
judging language that I’m asking you to reflect upon. In your reflection, try to
come to an articulation of the problem as a question. Most important, think of
your discussion in the letter not as one in which you figure out which judgment
is correct, but as one in which you see them both (or all) as reasonable, as a paradox (a puzzle with multiple ways of approaching it and solving it). You don’t
have to have answers, but you may have some hypotheses that show tensions. To
do this labor, do the following:
1. Find a quiet spot where you can do your work in peace and be completely
there for yourself and me.
2. Using our methods from class, spend five minutes practicing mindful
breathing. As you breathe out slowly, say in your mind, “I am here,” then
as you breathe out again, say in your mind, “I give my time to myself to
problem pose.” Repeat these two statements during the entire five min-

337

Appendix B

utes.
3. Take just three minutes and review our handout on deep reading, so that
you can do some deep reading of these assessment letters.
4. Spend at least 20 minutes looking through your assessment letters and
those of your colleagues, looking for the problems you might pose about
your judgment of writing or language.
5. Next, reflect in writing for at least 25 minutes on the above questions.
Your job: problematize your existential writing assessment situation, in
other words, pose problems about your judging of writing, think them
through, consider the paradoxes (i.e., unresolvable conflicts). The final
product should be between 300-400 words. Place this G’doc in your
named folder—this will make it easier for me to get to it. Name it: your
name—problem posing 3, so an example of the file name would be: Jen problem posing 3. These are due by Mon, Mar 02 at 11:59 pm.
NOTE: Typically, this assignment is done after each assessment labor on
major drafts (usually around three times in a quarter or four to five times in a
semester). Because I now use Google Drive and Google Docs, I can quickly respond to these letters in writing, tweeting students when I’m done. This means
most students get at least one revision in before the first due date of the letter.
Most of my responses ask students to revise or respond with more discussion,
more thinking about the emerging problems they are trying to pose. My responses usually ask about their habitus (Where did this idea come from in your
life? How do these sources help you understand this text in the way you do?) or
to be more specific about the judgment of language (What did your colleagues
say exactly about this sentence?). It takes one or two times of doing this assignment for most students to figure out what I’m asking them to do.
The reference to mindful breathing comes from my own contemplative practices that I incorporate into classrooms and invite students to do with me. I
do not suggest a teacher use such practices unless, (1) she has a contemplative
practice of her own that she feels comfortable with, and (2) that she supports
such uses of meditation or mindfulness with some readings and practices in the
classroom, which my classes do. If you are interested in such practices, I suggest
Daniel Barbezat and Mirabi Bush’s (2014) excellent book Contemplative Practices in Higher Education: Powerful Methods to Transform Teaching and Learning,
which offers a range of contemplative practices and some theorizing of them.
Much of the book can be read with students. For a good reflective discussion
of how contemplative practice helps a teacher think about her teaching and
the learning in her classroom, Mary Rose O’Reilley’s (1998) Radical Presence:
Teaching as Contemplative Practice is excellent, as well as beautifully written and
accessible to students. Additionally, I’ve used excerpts from Thich Nhat Hanh’s
338

Example Problem Posing Labor Process

(1991) Peace is Every Step, Pema Chodron’s (1991) How to Meditate (2013),
and numerous online selections and videos to help students understand mindful
breathing and the research on it that shows its effectiveness in lowering stress
and increasing focus and attention.
Finally, the deep reading handout referenced is an extension of the assessment and mindfulness activities done in my classrooms. It is a labor practice that
helps us do problem posing. Students and I build a list of behaviors and actions
that we feel create a mindful and compassionate reading practice that we can use
in all of our reading labors. To help us with our thinking, my students have read
excerpts from Barbezat and Bush (2014), O’Reilley (1998), Ratcliffe (2005),
and Elbow (1993). All offer explicit discussions on listening mindfully, reading
rhetorically, and reading to like in compassionate yet critical ways.

339

Asao B. Inoue is Director of University Writing and Associate Professor
of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences at the University of Washington
Tacoma. He has published on writing assessment, validity, and composition pedagogy in Assessing Writing, The Journal of Writing Assessment,
Composition Forum, and Research in the Teaching of English, among other
journals and collections. His co-edited collection Race and Writing Assessment (2012) won the CCCC’s Outstanding Book Award for an edited
collection.

Perspectives on Writing
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ANTIR ACIST WRITING ECOLOGIES

In Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies, Asao B. Inoue theorizes classroom
writing assessment as a complex system that is “more than” its interconnected
elements. To explain how and why antiracist work in the writing classroom
is vital to literacy learning, Inoue incorporates ideas about the white racial
habitus that informs dominant discourses in the academy and other contexts.
Inoue helps teachers understand the unintended racism that often occurs
when teachers do not have explicit antiracist agendas in their assessments.
Drawing on his own teaching and classroom inquiry, Inoue offers a heuristic
for developing and critiquing writing assessment ecologies that explores seven
elements of any writing assessment ecology: power, parts, purposes, people,
processes, products, and places.

Inoue

ANTIRACIST WRITING ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES

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ANTIRACIST WRITING
ASSESSMENT ECOLOGIES
TEACHING AND ASSESSING
WRITING FOR A SOCIALLY
JUST FUTURE

Asao B. Inoue