#70 = Volume 23, Part 3 = November 1996
Kenneth M. Roemer
Utopian Literature, Empowering Students, and Gender
Awareness
1. Utopian Hesitancies and a 36-Year-Old Grandmother. Most young
professors, still caught up in the glow of completing their dissertations, yearn
to teach their specialties. I didn't yearn. I hesitated for some obvious general
reasons: inexperienced professors who teach their specialties tend to assume too
much familiarity about their topic, and hence fail to clarify or support their
claims; or, because of their infatuation with the topic, they smother their
students with too much detailed support. Most likely, they alternate between the
two extremes, and their students walk away in a fog of generalities and under a
mountain of detail. I also hesitated because of the unusual problems posed by
teaching utopian literature. (My brief working definition of a literary utopia
is: a fairly detailed narrative account of one or more imaginary communities,
societies, or worlds. These fictional constructs represent radical, though
identifiable, alternatives to the readers' cultures, and they invite
iconoclastic and normative evaluations of those cultures. For an extended
definition, see Appendix A.) These problems often involve reading processes,
redundancy, and depression. Students often want to read utopias as if they were
novels and, hence, try to force them into molds that are inappropriate for the
genre's historical, cultural, and literary contexts. Since certain themes,
structural devices, narrative viewpoints, and character types tend to reappear,
a conventional chronological approach could raise the problem of redundant
reading experiences. And doubly depressing experiences at that: well-known
20th-century dystopias can certainly be depressing, eutopian works can depress
students by making the worlds students inhabit seem bleak in comparison to
utopian worlds.
By the late 1970s, I was still hesitant, but I hoped I had achieved enough
distance from my dissertation to avoid turning my students into foggy-headed
detail spouters. Moreover, I had decided that the problems of teaching utopian
literature could be minimized if a teacher acquainted him or herself with the
growing number of bibliographic and critical tools available to utopographers;1
and if he or she conscientiously and imaginatively presented the historical,
rhetorical, and perceptual differences between novels and utopias, drawing upon
the tremendous diversity of utopian literature and emphasizing the positive
intellectual and emotional aspects of reading utopias. In an unexpected arena, a
freshman composition class, I had also experienced a new impetus to teach
utopian literature. As I have described elsewhere ("Using Utopia" 2),
I asked the students to pretend that they had all the financial, popular, and
intellectual support imaginable and then to describe how they would transform
Arlington, Texas, where I teach, into utopia. Soon after most of the students
were writing, one student—probably the brightest in the class with a good deal
of "life experience" (she was a 36 year-old grandmother)—nervously
approached my desk. She asked, "What if I believe that Arlington is
utopia?" The students who overheard her laughed. And yet, their papers
echoed her sentiments. Most of them projected utopias that were rather
unimaginative, minor tinkerings with their present environments (a few more
parking lots, a winning season for the Texas Rangers, etc.)
This experience convinced me that many of my students were speculative
illiterates. Their educational experiences had conditioned them primarily to be
dependent on teachers-as-experts who gave them knowledge about the past and
present which was legitimized when they gave it back to the teachers in
appropriate oral and written forms. This exchange does involve learning, even
empowerment: the students gain knowledge, and the teacher expands his or her
sense of power by creating a mirrorlike feedback situation. But such teaching
does little to develop independent decision-making skills or to foster
speculative thought processes that can add significantly to students' abilities
to measure themselves and their environments against alternative possibilities.
My student's question also exposed my pedagogical illiteracy. I thought I
knew how to teach students certain types of concepts, skills, and knowledge, but
how could I answer their speculative illiteracy? How could I convince them of
the value of what they brought to class (a necessary prerequisite for
independent speculation), while simultaneously encouraging them to evaluate
critically their ideals and values? How could I foster critical and speculative
thought that would not be overly dependent upon the students' perceptions of my
own values and ideals. I simply didn't know how to achieve these types of
student "empowerment."
And I'm still baffled. But I've been impelled to continue my search for
answers by my strong belief that exposure to the types of speculation and
critical perspectives found in utopian literature can liberate students from old
habits of thought and by the advice and help I've received from several critical
perspectives (especially reader-response theorists), from pedagogical experts
(particularly those interested in problem-solving, group-discussion methods),
and from the many participants in the teaching panels at the meetings of the
Society for Utopian Studies and the Modern Language Association.2 In
the remainder of this essay, I will focus on two of several methods I have used
in a particular course that emphasizes the types of student empowerment
described above.3 I've selected illustrations that relate to
students' abilities to define and analyze their attitudes about gender and
family structure.
The 36-year-old grandmother never took this course. If she had, by the end of
the semester, she might still think that Arlington, Texas, was utopia. But I
would hope that she would be more aware of the value, power, and limits of the
views she brought to class, of a variety of other models of utopia she could use
to support and critique her views, and of her own ability to evaluate and
speculate independent of a teacher's influence.
2. Empowerment Through Reader-Response Analysis. I begin the process of
the reader-response paper with a blatant act of totalitarian teaching: I require
them all to read the same book, Edward Bellamy's Looking Backward (1888).
In part I do this for selfish reasons; I am conducting research about how modern
readers give meanings to Bellamy's utopia (see Utopian Audiences). I also
require one text because the shared reading and writing experience facilitates
class discussions. (In other classes I have, however, used other texts and
allowed students to make their own selections. In all cases, the students have
gained insights into the processes that shape their reading experiences.)
The reading and writing processes begin almost simultaneously. Besides using
their individual systems of note taking, I ask the students also to pay
particular attention to strong positive or negative responses (intellectual
and/or emotional) to sections of the text and to note any possible connections
between these responses/sections and what they bring to the text (e.g.,
awareness of immediate circumstances, memories of previous texts, classes,
people, and other types of experiences, or general attitudes about politics,
religion, economics, human nature, etc. See Appendix B.) When they have finished
their initial reading and note taking, I ask them to survey what they have
written, looking for recurrent patterns of "outside" influences that
dominate how they responded to passages, characters, styles, ideas, and other
entities "in" the text. (Of course, one of the outside forces is my
requirement to read/write about the book in this fashion. Some, though not many,
of the approximately 700 American, Canadian, and Japanese students who have
participated in this experiment have described this as an important influence.)
The discovery of patterns constitutes a step toward organizing a paper around
discussions of particular kinds of interrelationships between the marks on the
page and the perceptual systems of individual readers. Rather arbitrarily, and
again so that the students will share constraints that become touchstones for
discussions, I ask each student to focus the paper on only five types of
significant influences. For each influence, and in whichever order they deem
appropriate, I expect them to define the nature of the influence, to indicate
the relevant section or sections of the text, and to discuss the interaction
"between" the two.
Whether Looking Backward or some other text is used, one obvious
advantage of the assignment is that it teaches the value and importance of what
students bring to class. Specifically, they realize that the confines of their
academic reading experience is not limited to the actual "reading" of
the text, to any assigned critics' views, or to the teacher's or their fellow
student's comments. Rather it is a complex process shaped by many academic and
reading experiences, as well as many non-reading experiences and non-academic
attitudes.4
Especially experiences and attitudes related to gender. Every time I have
used Looking Backward in Texas and Japan, and in six other states and in
Canada, where students and faculty have used this approach or a variation of it,5
students have routinely included gender-related influences among those that
dominated their responses to Bellamy's utopia. Elsewhere, I have used statistics
and evaluative descriptions to define and analyze these responses and their
implications ("Late 20th-Century Reconstructs"). For this essay, two
striking examples may suffice to illustrate how students discover the importance
of what they bring to class.
Several years ago, a young man—Caucasian, in his early 20s, and raised in
Texas—focused on his strong negative responses to Dr. Leete, the primary guide
figure in Looking Backward. He decided that the most probable reason for
his response was that Dr. Leete reminded him of his father, a very successful
dentist. Specifically, the tone of confidence and authority in Leete's answers
to Julian West reminded him of past father-son conversations when his father
taught him that a real man was always right, always had The Answer. The student
had been struggling with this restrictive concept for years. Reading about and
imagining Leete and writing the paper enabled him to articulate the tremendous
power (burden) of his view of masculinity and to begin to identify how it shaped
his perceptions of Dr. Leete and by implication other fictional and
"real" males, including himself.
More recently, an African-American woman in her late thirties who was raised
in Cleveland articulated a very different type of gender awareness. She was a
very strong person. I expected her to be upset by Dr. Leete's off-hand
pronouncements about protecting women from too much physical exertion
(§25:263). Instead, she enthusiastically described a very positive response to
the role of women in the industrial army. In part she attributed this reaction
to a Cleveland experience. When she was younger, her father, a construction
foreman, had hired her. Because of her strength, she had no trouble wielding a
trip-hammer or lifting heavy materials. She did, however, have problems with
onlookers. Crowds gathered to gawk at this female doing a man's work. She
resigned. She feared that her father, who wanted her to stay, would suffer
reprimands for hiring someone who caused work slow-downs. Unlike some of the
other women and men students, she was not particularly bothered by Leete's
comments about women's physical limitations, by the separate status of the
female industrial army, by a ranking system that discriminated against unmarried
women, or by a model of femininity that didn't seem particularly liberating
(Edith Leete). From her viewpoint, these were relatively insignificant drawbacks
to a system that promised equal educational and career opportunities, to a place
where people wouldn't stare at a woman doing a good job at what she wanted to
do. (Ironically, both Leete and Bellamy would have probably gawked at a female
construction worker. By the time he wrote Equality, 1897, Bellamy might
have been a bit more tolerant, though the comments Leete makes about
African-Americans in that book [e.g., §37:364-65] would probably offend my
student.)
In both these cases, the students learned how the attitudes and memories that
they brought to a book can obscure—even render invisible—certain parts of
the text (in the first, the genial side of Dr. Leete is obscured; in the second,
the limitations placed on women are downplayed). This type of awareness, though
unsettling (the "how-did-I-miss-that" syndrome), can empower students
by sharpening their ability to understand how they process texts and by teaching
them the power and value of what they bring to the classroom. Whether the text
is Looking Backward or some other book, the reader-response paper also
teaches students that they are co-creators of the utopias (and by implication
all other texts they read) because they actively translate the marks on the page
through their individualized networks of experiential and attitudinal schemata.
They are not passive receptacles; they are active shapers. They are also experts
in areas where teachers are ignorant. I may know a great deal about Looking
Backward and utopian literature, but I know little about the students' lives
and how those lives interact with the texts I assign. They have real power
"over" me. If my women students, for instance, thought that I liked to
read about female construction workers, they could invent appropriate pasts and
use them in their papers. A much more constructive way to view this expert-nonexpert
role reversal is to mention that after I return the papers to the students (an
act which, because of the grading, still is disempowering to some students), I
tell them what I have learned from them. I offer an overview of the influences
described most frequently and compare them to the influences examined by other
students. This empowers them in the sense that they realize that what they have
taught me is worthy of publication and of comparison to the ideas readers have
articulated at well-known universities in America, Canada, and Japan, including
Minnesota, Harvard, and the University of Tokyo.
3. Empowerment Through Guided Design. One reader-response paper completed
early in the semester can give students a new sense of their power as text
co-creators and as experts. Ending the course with an "exam" that
requires students to outline the characteristics of their utopias can also
encourage the development of valuable speculative and evaluative skills.
Nevertheless, to achieve the types of goals described at the outset of this
essay, professors will have to do more than dream up different types of papers
and exams. They should at least experiment with different approaches to the
entire classroom experience. One alternative that I have found to be effective
is the Guided Design approach to teaching.
Guided Design is not new. It was developed by a group of engineers at West
Virginia University during the 1970s (see Wales). From the instructor's
viewpoint, a Guided Design course begins when the teacher decides which
concepts, skills, texts, and information he or she wants or needs to teach.
(Thus, Guided Design is still, in one sense, a teacher-oriented method of
instruction, since the instructor is making assumptions about what the students
should know.) Then he or she conceives of a series of open-ended problems,
suitable for small group discussions, that require an acquaintance with or
mastery of the selected concepts, skills, texts, and information. Each problem
is then articulated in a set of written instructions and feedbacks that reflect
a traditional process of discovery. Students begin by reading an introduction
that implies but usually does not define a problem. The process typically moves
through the following general phases: problem definition, tentative hypothesis
formation, information gathering, evaluation, modification, even rejection of
the initial hypothesis, more information gathering, the development and
evaluation of more probable hypotheses and solutions. The instructor visits each
group, responding to questions and evaluating the written responses to each
step. When he or she is satisfied with the group's work, the teacher gives each
member a previously written feedback that outlines one approach to the stage and
continues on to the questions of the next stage.
In my "Build Your Own Utopia" course, the four open-ended problems
focus on questions relating to concepts of the utopian individual, family,
community, and culture; the fourth, which I sometimes place first, also requires
students to consider the structural, narrative, and stylistic elements of
utopian literature that invite readers to suspend their tendency toward
disbelieving utopian possibilities. Gender awareness is an important component
of all four problems, but Problem Two: "The Spartan Family and the New
Mexico Commune" places special emphasis on the significance of concepts of
masculinity, femininity, and family structure. My goals in this problem are to
encourage students to examine several types of sex roles and family structures
within particular historical, cultural, and ethical contexts. I also want to
introduce them to a variety of utopian works and descriptions of intentional
communities that either focus on or contain important sections about sex roles
and family structures. In each problem, students can use the readings from the
previous problems. Typically, by the completion of Problem 2, they have read
Genesis and utopias and dystopias written by Plato, Plutarch, Campanella, More,
Swift, Bellamy, Gilman, Skinner, Huxley, Orwell, Rimmer, Le Guin, Piercy, and
Lessing. They've encountered descriptions of Ephrata, Shaker communities, New
Harmony, Amana, Brook Farm, Oneida, Shalam, Helicon Hall, and late 20th-century
urban communes. Students can also use relevant readings from other courses or
"outside readings," including internet sources, and life experiences
as resources for discussions.
"Spartan Family" begins with a description of an imaginary New
Mexico commune (dubbed the New Wavers by nearby residents) established during
the 1960s as an alternative to the culture and economics of the American,
suburban, nuclear family. It is a heterosexual "free-love" community
of 30 women and 30 men supported by the cooperative production of yucca shampoo
and embroidered backpacks. For the first five years, the community is
economically successful, psychologically liberating, and fecund: by the early
1970s, 40 little Wavelettes are part of the community. Unfortunately, during the
70s, the yucca and backpack markets are saturated and tensions rise about
responsibilities for the children who are often sickly and disobedient. All the
tensions disrupt work schedules causing serious threats to the community's
financial stability. In the early stages of the problem, the students are
directed to concentrate on defining the community's "family"
difficulties. Then they are presented with a possible solution to these
problems. An unemployed visitor with a Ph.D. in Classics suggests that the
community adopt the Spartan family structure as described by Plutarch. After
reading about and outlining the major characteristics of this structure, the
students are asked to evaluate its potential as a solution to the problems they
defined. At this stage, the instructions allow evaluation in an ethical,
historical, and cultural vacuum. Without these constraints, the Spartan system
seems to be an effective approach to the commune's woes. But in later stages,
when the constraints are added, the students raise serious objections. (No group
has ever approved of infanticide.) At the very least, the Spartan family must be
drastically modified. New information-gathering stages begin. Students examine
the above-mentioned materials and a variety of other sources. (Life experiences
are often valuable. The age diversity at my university usually allows me to
include at least one parent in each discussion group.) The final aim of the
problem is the description of a family structure or structures that will reduce
the problems defined earlier and have a good chance of being accepted and used
by the New Wavers.
Certainly, I still have a great deal of control as the students progress
through each stage. After all, I wrote the instructions and feedbacks, and I
evaluate each stage. Nonetheless, I make it clear from the outset that the
written feedbacks (prepared before the course began) do not equal The Answers.
Furthermore, gaining permission to go on to the next step does not require
groups to devise responses that approximate my feedbacks. Students can, and
usually do, modify or reject my models and build excellent cases for their
approaches. In the "Spartan Family" problem, the families described in
the final stages range in nature from variations of
"Leave-It-To-Beaver" families (the reruns are still popular) to
combinations of Piercy's co-moms and Le Guin's partners.
I wish I could conclude my comments on notes consistently positive. I
have been very pleased with the students' discovery of the value of what they
bring into the classroom from their outside lives and with their ability to
design convincing and imaginative solutions that I haven't "taught"
them. Several times, I've even been startled. One year a student wrote a novel
based on his outline-of-utopia final exam; another year a group of students—without
my knowledge—formed a cooperative living experiment that lasted for more than
a year. Nevertheless, evaluating and "tabulating" the reader-response
papers takes much effort, and writing the instructions and feedbacks takes a
long time. Then too, Guided Design is not an inspiring approach to learning for
all students. I vividly recall one student evaluation that claimed that I didn't
deserve my salary; the citizens of Texas, the student maintained, were paying me
to stand up in front of the class and lecture, and I wasn't doing my job.
Various teaching situations can also cause problems. For instance, Guided Design
night classes, especially those beginning at 5:30, can be high risk ventures.
Most of the students work; inevitably some of them can't get to class on time;
hence, tensions arise over late or no-show group members who aren't pulling
their load. Of course, at any time of the day, a teacher could misuse the
instructions and feedbacks, turning them into straightjackets that stifle
students' critical and imaginative abilities.
For me, the most frightening experiences are the dreams. Usually they begin
about a week or two into the semester and recur once or twice before the course
ends. I'm in the middle of making a thoroughly convincing justification of the
reader-response paper or giving a brilliant response to a question from a group
member. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that two students aren't listening
to me. They begin to chat. A few more join the dialogue. Then another and
another group take up conversations. Soon the entire class is actively debating
and actively ignoring all my wonderful discourse. For some educational theorists—even
me, considering the general goals I defined at the outset of this essay—this
might sound like a utopian classroom. But for someone like me raised in a system
that defined the teacher as the expert and placed him (in college it was usually
a white "him" like me) at the front of the class, this situation tends
toward the dystopian.
Fortunately, I'm inclined to ring hopeful signs out of dismal situations.
Most political theorists argue that in any power relationship, in order for one
group to increase their power, another group must relinquish some of theirs. If
my dreams express some truth and if being ignored means losing power, then the
power must be flowing out from me to those citizens of Texas who share the
classroom with me. Some student empowerment must be going on. I hope it's
constructive, vital, and a good taxpayer investment, even for the 36-year-old
grandmother (who must now be 50) who lives in utopia.
NOTES
1. Since 1990, many of these tools have been mentioned in the
journal Utopian Studies, and since 1975 in Utopus Discovered, the
newsletter of the Society for Utopian Studies, which for a few years appeared as
part of Alternative Futures as the "News Center" and the
"Checklist of Recent Utopian Studies." For information about past
issues, contact Kenneth Roemer, English, University of Texas at Arlington,
Arlington, TX 76013. To fill in partially the gap for the several years during
the early 1980s when the newsletter did not appear, see Roemer's "Utopian
Studies: A Fiction with Notes Appended."
2. For example, see the Works Cited titles by Bleich, Fish,
Flynn, Holland, Iser, Mailloux, Ruppert, Steig, Suleiman, and Tompkins (reader
response); Wales (problem solving); and the programs of the SUS conventions
printed in Utopus Discovered and "News
Center"/"Checklist" from December 1976 through the last issue of Alternative
Futures 4.2-3 (1981). Recent relevant MLA sessions include #597 chaired by
Libby Falk Jones, 29 December 1989, Washington D.C., and #660, chaired by Peter
Fitting, 30 December 1995, Chicago. Professor Jones is preparing a collection of
essays on teaching utopian literature.
3. See Appendix A. For other types of courses that emphasize
historical or literary introductions and analyses, different methods may be more
appropriate.
4. Initial results of my own research indicate that the
process is particularly complex for utopian literature because of its
multi-fictional and non-fictional forms and because of its controversial nature.
5. At the University of Texas at Arlington, International
Christian University, Rikkyo University, and University of Tokyo, students wrote
papers and filled out a questionnaire. At the University of Minnesota, RPI, Hood
College, the University of Louisville, Harvard, University of Regina, Arlington
High School, and Wesley Palms retirement community in San Diego, readers
indicated the five influences in outline form.
WORKS CITED
Bellamy, Edward. Equality. Boston: Appleton, 1897
))))). Looking Backward,
2000-1887. Ed. and lntrod. John L. Thomas. Cambridge: Belknap-Harvard UP, 1967.
Bleich, David. Subjective Criticism. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins UP, 1978.
Fish, Stanley. Is There a Text in This Class?: The
Authority of Interpretive Communities. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1980.
Flynn, Elizabeth A., and Patrocinio P. Schweickart, ed. Gender
and Reading: Essays on Readers, Texts, and Contexts. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins UP, 1986.
Iser, Wolfgang. The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic
Response. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1978.
))))). The Implied Reader:
Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett.
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1974.
Le Guin, Ursula K. "A Non-Euclidean View of California as
a Cold Place To Be." Ursula K. Le Guin. Dancing at the Edge of the
World: Thoughts on Words, Women, and Places. New York: Grove, 1989. 80-100.
Mailloux, Steven. Interpretive Conventions: The Reader in
the Study of American Fiction. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1982.
Roemer, Kenneth M. Build Your Own Utopia: An
lnterdisciplinary Course in Utopian Speculation. Washington: UP of America,
1981.
))))). "Using Utopia to
Teach the 80s: A Case for Guided Design." World Future Society Bulletin
July-Aug. 1980: 1-5.
Holland, Norman N. 5 Readers Reading. New Haven: Yale
UP, 1975.
))))). "Utopian Studies: A
Fiction with Notes Appended." Extrapolation 25 (1984): 318-34.