To find one’s place is arguably one of life’s most challenging missions, present in most political, social, and occupational atmospheres; the consequences of failing to do this can be detrimental to his or her health and function in a society, as it provides the motivation and validation needed to succeed at most any goal. This is where acclaimed experts in the field of literature have identified the existence of groups of people that interact with each other for a united purpose or interest, regardless of the reason for their creation—these are known as discourse communities, or DCs for short (Swales 1990). Discourse communities provide the sense of belonging that all aspire to have and can take many different forms; these encompass all interests, workplaces, and activities. In order to qualify as a discourse community, associations must meet certain criteria set by language professor John Swales; in sum, DCs must hold interpersonal communications, use a unique lexis, and have a common goal, or goals, met through their own methods and expectations. This holds the term to cover only those groups which have active engagement between members, rather than speech communities, really only characterized by language use. Two that differ entirely, but still share identities as discourse communities are the “running community,” consisting of sports track and cross country, and the members of the Corps of Cadets at VMI.

Running is used as a metaphor for many things, and with valid reason; with running, both distance and sprinting, one faces total body engagement and overwhelming muscle burn, and, if performing at maximum effort, total body failure. This struggle is shared by all who run competitively, and to borrow from a common saying, common hardship is the key to strong brotherhood. This is apparent through how easily social connections at races can be made; if one is waiting for an event to start, it is almost an expectation to have small talk with his or her competitors. This is typically comparing how unprepared they are for the event, or just about how awful running is in general, but it initiates a fraternization that comforts both parties. According to Chris Ware, an avid runner in both sports, “[runners] are always communicating over the course of a race to make moves to pass people.” It is evident that not only is verbal communication necessary for the social part of running, but for the competitive side, too. Like any DC, the running community has a process (practice) and end goals (becoming faster); however, contrasting with other groups, this one is fragmented in order to be conducive to these goals. Depending on area, race times and physical conditioning fluctuate as a result of terrain and culture differences. Despite being so geographically and physically different, teams will most always embrace one another as pieces to a bigger whole and extend communications across the board primarily with social media. Arguably one of the running community’s most pleasant qualities is the care and comprehension that goes into coaching; obviously the treatment of runners is based on who is coaching, but the community generally welcomes inexperienced or struggling members and treats them with the patience and support needed to improve. Runners are united not only by what they do, but also by what they say. It is apparent how long someone has been running by their use of certain words, or lack thereof; these include, but are certainly not limited to: “heat,” “waterfall,” “PR,” “fast course,” and “fartlek.” This also applies to the equipment used in the sport, according to Mr. Ware. Many runners compare shoe brands and running short styles, and to non-runners, these brands ring a bell as much as the Walmart generic brand— like other lexis within, the brand names are common to the running community, but very specialized for the sport.

While many discourse communities are similar in how they communicate, their organizational structures, or the lexis they share, the Corps of Cadets at VMI is unlike any other. It is a pyramidic hierarchy, with a high number of freshmen at the lowest level and few seniors at the top; the order is inverted for power, as first year students are treated as subhuman—otherwise known as “rats”—while fourth years are seemingly immune to the Institute’s complex system of regulations. The term “rat” is a prime example of VMI’s original lexis, as even though other military schools have terms for basic cadet, this is arguably the most demeaning one, reinforcing this hierarchy. An aspect of the lexis within VMI is its highly contagious nature; new cadets, or rats, are susceptible to terms such as “sick,” “gym dyke” (though it could be class, parade, or guard dyke depending on the occasion), or “strain” within a week of induction. This is a double-edged sword, as it in allows simple, familial communication between cadets, but can strike an outside listener as strange and cultish. While other DC’s, such as the running community, typically communicate conversationally in-person or on social media, information is distributed at the Institute over a turnout speaker or through email. Additionally, it is the expectation to refer to upperclassmen by rank and/or last name, maintaining a strictly formal environment. This removes much personality from communication and ensures the integrity of the anti-fraternization rules at VMI. The choice to spend one’s college years at VMI is the choice to face unparalleled difficulty for the sake of character and leadership building; to do so requires one’s full-fledged physical and mental perseverance, as the tasks are challenging, and emotional support is limited to others in the same position. Unlike being a member of a cross country team, cadetship at VMI means facing harsh criticisms and negative reinforcement on a day-to-day basis. In Ware’s words, “VMI enforces a lot of rules, whereas the team is more laid back.” Ware speaks on this as a runner, but also a cadet; though simply put, his view on the atmospheres of the two communities suggests that they both serve to develop the individual through interaction and teamwork, but the basis upon which they operate differ greatly. It is a popular saying at the Institute that everything has a purpose, for which one might not yet know; with this phrase those above oneself, staff or student, work to make life as difficult as possible so that a rat can develop into a proper cadet through problem-solving and discipline.

To label a population as a discourse community, like much else in the literary world, is subjective to how one defines it. If one is to base the definition on the common criteria laid out by John Swales (Swales pp. 553-555), both groups explored above are exemplary. It is remarkable how the VMI and running communities be two sides of the same coin, both falling under discourse communities, yet sharing few defining qualities. To reiterate the differences previously mentioned: runners work for quantitative accomplishments (i.e., race times), have a base of friendly competition, and communicate directly and personally; members (especially new ones) of the Corps at the Institute face constant scrutinization from the community, focus on developing more intangible skills and qualities, and have less personal communication between members. A difference removed from Swales’ criteria is that runners perform and interact differently depending on who they train under, creating a less fixed identity within the community; this is negated in some ways, though, when cadets enter VMI via the track or cross country teams, forming them under one unit, and therefore with less thought diversity. Perhaps this is why, despite being polar opposites, the communities can mesh well; with members of both, such as Ware, focused on individual and team success, there is a common grit and spirit required to fulfill the communities’ expectations.

In a sense, running and the VMI experience are one in the same: both are long-winded struggles for the purpose of personal improvement. The discrepancies between the two have been discussed thoroughly above; their respective communities fall under an accepted definition of discourse community, but the ways in which they meet the criteria designed by Swales differ. The presented analysis of VMI and the running community is indicative of how, regardless of their individual qualities, all DCs share a sort of compatibility because of how malleable peoples’ personalities and interests are, and the lines between them are often blurred. Every discourse community serves as a home for unique features and interests, and every unique feature and interest has a home in a discourse community—therein is the answer to one’s question of belonging.

 

 

 

Works Cited

Swales, John M. “Reflections on the Concept of Discourse Community.” Writing about Writing,

edited by Elizabeth Wardle and Doug Downs. Bedford/st.martin’s, 2011, pp. 544-557.

Originally published in Composition Forum, vol. 37, Fall 2017.

In the eyes of what seems like every grade school English teacher, one ought to start to open a paper with a hook, such as a quote, statistic, or anecdote; the following is a hook combining the three of these things: “Creativity involves breaking out of expected patterns in order to look at things in a different way,” in the words of the inventor of “Lateral Thinking,” Dr. Edward de Bono. This is de Bono’s own definition of creativity, but due to the nature of the term, its definition is very subjective; regardless of how one defines it, though, creativity is the groundwork of any art, literature included. The encouragement of creativity is crucial to palatable literature and the development of one’s literacy, despite the restrictive nature education standards have created around writing. This has suddenly become evident to any student advancing to higher levels of writing, as one is not limited to the same rigidity, and the absence of creativity in earlier years of learning creates a vacuum of originality.

Naturally, I do not have every memory of my childhood stored like files in a computer, forever downloaded and available virtually for more than a lifetime — very few people do. Being only a man might be the root of this issue, having plenty of flaws for sure (particularly memory, in my case). Thus, I can only rely on those who were coherent before me, such as my beautiful mother, who always pushed me to read another one of her original release Harry Potter books, or watch another episode of Avatar on Nickelodeon; after all, these were things I was interested in, and they stirred up the creative chaos of my childhood. It did not matter if I was “cool” or if it was what the other moms did, she only cared that I wanted for myself, and followed it to fruition. According to Mom, I spent much time with my older cousin Darby, who was on the brainier side of our moshpit of children; one day, around the age of four, without any prompting or context, I began reading to Mom one of my many colorful little pre-K books, likely “There’s a Crocodile in the Garage,” or Karen Schmidt’s “The Gingerbread Man.” This was the beginning of my literacy, at least in the form of reading, and soon after writing. It was not long before my kiddie bedtime stories grew to be marathons of The 39 Clues in second grade and The Hunger Games in fourth; though long gone were The Berenstain Bears, that early time of life still allowed for imagination and freedom of thought.

In growing older, the content of English classes became less fantastical and more so analyzing bitter nonfiction, or digging through ancient, complex poems with little to no interest to all. Middle school began and so did the teaching of the one-to-two sentence thesis with three to four reasons, at least three body paragraphs (each with evidence and accompanying commentary), and a conclusion that in sum is a pirated introductory paragraph to tie the knot on the essay; this is what is also referred to as the “standard essay format,” but was expected for really any brand of paper. This was the strict code that my classmates and I had to abide by through high school, and it played a key part in the death of creative and stylistic writing, restricting the flow and malleability of every paper. Despite the impersonal form of writing that was pushed, it was during this time that I met some of the most significant sources of my literacy to date. At the beginning of ninth grade, I joined my high school’s Air Force JROTC, introducing me to semi-militaristic terminologies and concepts, such as standard operating procedure (SOP) and physical training (PT). One of my instructors was a Chief Master Sergeant, the highest enlisted rank in the Air Force, and a great mentor to our unit; he taught us to understand and practice the basics of leadership skills, a valuable literacy to have in the pathway to officership. Chief, as we call him, really just shows his cadets what it means to think for themselves, be a good neighbor, a decent citizen — after all, the primary mission of the Corps is to develop citizenship. Not only do Chief’s heavily-anecdotal lessons equip one with these tools, but they also allow for one to see an alternate form of teaching and a unique relationship with one of the most creative-minded teachers possible. In the field of language, I had the pleasure of studying German under a teacher whom we call Frau, directly translated to, but not connoted as, “woman.” She built the foundations of my comprehension of the German language, exploring various creative teaching techniques, and even chaperoning my exchange trip to Germany during the summer of sophomore year. These figures in my life, or “literacy sponsors” in Brandt’s words, reintroduced much needed creativity to my academic life. There is that word again: creativity. All notable learning experiences are rooted in creativity; in truth, I cannot fully remember one that fell into the ranks of standardized, inanimate education. The only exception to this rule is that in eleventh grade I took AP Language and Composition under the one and only Mrs. Jennifer Wenska, infamous for her harsh criticisms and stark sarcasm; Mrs. Wenska, also known as “The Father of Mankind,” also known as “The Vulture (from The Jungle Book),” or just simply as “Father,” taught the curriculum by the order of fascistic monopoly College Board, which did include the “standard essay format.” In conjunction, however, Wenska also allowed for engaging, comedic class antics, such as the nicknames listed above — this was the difference between her sponsorship (Brandt) and the usual grueling English course. This gave students a chance to express themselves, one seldom provided by standardized English education. Even in a class strictly regulated by AP officials, Wenska incorporated creative thought to build an environment that one would enjoy and retain worthwhile writing skills.

Acknowledging the “other side” in a paper, as taught by College Board’s AP, is admittedly an aspect of the regime that does not insult creative writing flow; thus, I will say the process of learning how to “properly write” under my various grade school teachers has benefited me, as each contributed to my development. In the early stages of my literacy, I wrote in a journalistic style, essentially blotting points and thoughts onto a page in the key of a subject. When presented with a structure, albeit prohibiting true style, it lent a hand in organizing my writing into a legible, logical work. Another example is this: I was raised by my strong, educated mother who has led a career in marketing and e-business analytics, and in turn, has a matching vocabulary. The key to marketing, essentially salesmanship, is selling with words; this principle decorated my papers through high school, earning myself the title of “Master of Bull****ing.” Entering twelfth grade, I believed that after acing my prior AP English class, I was a proficient, college-level author– and then came the first 3/5. It was under Mrs. Traner, my then-English instructor, that I removed the “flowery” language that plagued my papers, and thus I grew furthermore as a writer.

To restate, it is practically an unwritten law that worthwhile writing comes from creative process. This is overlooked by lower education levels, and is resultantly an issue for college-level writers, such as myself. Freedom of thought is to literacy as amino acids are to protein — the basic building block; I look to my own history in reading and writing, and there do not exist any true outliers. The development of my literacy, not only in English but in other languages as well, has been directly correlated with the use of out-of-box learning. “Literacy sponsors” (Brandt) and the experiences associated with them are instrumental in one’s story and the ability to understand his or her narrative. It is necessary for students growing as readers, writers, and citizens to be enabled in thinking for themselves and take on attributes of preference when doing so — also known as being creative. For an interest not only of my own, but also on a societal level, a proper education should entail the prompting of creative exercise, rather than the current system which dampens it, and ultimately sets students up for failure.

 

Work Cited

Brandt, Deborah. “Sponsors of Literacy.” Writing about Writing, edited by Elizabeth

Wardle and Doug Downs. Bedford/st.martin’s, 2011, pp. 244-265. Originally

published in College Composition and Communication, 2 May 1998, pp. 165-85.

Zalani, Rochi. “47 Creativity Quotes to Inspire the Creator in You.” ECM, 30 Jan. 2021,

https://elitecontentmarketer.com/creativity-quotes/.