Month: March 2021

The Opaque Lens of Nostalgia

katiefoss Media Literacy Activities, On Teaching

We tend to think fondly of the content we enjoyed as a child. I remember when my dad introduced the movie Cat Ballou to my sister and me. He touted it as the funniest movie ever, falsely predicting that we would laugh and laugh. Instead, in full teen fashion, we rolled our eyes at the corny jokes and struggled to stay awake. Yet a generation later, I’ve had similar experiences with my own kids. Sometimes they like the older films and shows that I’m excited to show them. Back to the Future, Freaky Friday, and Sister Sister were all hits. However, we also have the “groan” moments. Case in point, my children found Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boring, thought Karate Kid had too much romance, and snoozed during the dialogue of Sound of Music.

The recent criticism over reducing hurtful messages of older cultural products brings up questions of this nostalgic drape that clouds our perceptions of the things we loved as children. Of course, I am not advocating that we keep playing Dumbo and Song of the South for new generations. Rather, I am wondering if the opposition to changing products of the past stems from an emotional attachment to products that brought us joy in our younger years.

If this is the case, how can we inject a critical lens into the protected space of nostalgia?

Assuming that those attached to these distorted views want to change, how could this be accomplished? First, we need nostalgic people to take a step back, aiming to more objectively looking at the pop culture products that they treasure from their childhood. If they were initially introduced to these products now, what would they think of [insert specific scene, character, song, or storyline]? What could be problematic if that message were repeated and repeated, with few contrasting messages? How would people feel if they were part of that group? If nostalgic person was a part of that group? These kinds of questions help get at the roots of stereotyping and perspective.

Next, we address why we can’t keep introducing these products to new generations. Children have little awareness of a product’s original cultural moment, its contextualization. All they see and experience is the toy/book/show/film as if it were just created for them. As such, these products shape the world views of children, including the reinforcement of stereotypes, conveying broad, skewed negative generalizations. As parents/teachers/adults/consumers/humans, it is our job to present a diverse array of content that encourages unlimited ways of understanding roles, relationships, family dynamics, and intersectionality. Pigeon-holing any group for children narrows perspectives on what they can be and can’t be. Not to mention the most obviously glaring issue: The insensitivity of perpetuating stereotypes of marginalized groups for children, who are either part of those groups or future friends, family members, coworkers, and fellow humans.

Lastly, I’ll state what is already apparent to everyone who openly agrees that Song of the South should be kept in the vault or that no one should rewatch the “Censored 11” racist cartoons, full of black face and anti-Japanese imagery. Toys and media content that is racist, xenophobic, sexist, homophobic, or transphobic have no place in society. They never have. It’s not “cancel culture” to eliminate toxic cultural products any more than it is to tear down buildings with asbestos. Neither have a place in society and it takes a lot of work to clean up what is left behind. In other words, if you are currently mourning the erasure of Speedy Gonzales, buck up and reevaluate your own attachment. Shift your nostalgic lens to your own personal sentimental objects and be thankful that contemporary audiences won’t have to explain the chromosomes of Mr. Potato Head. (Or just watch Amber Ruffin’s satire on vegetable gender identity, 48 seconds in).

Rejection or New Direction? How to Handle a Manuscript’s Non-acceptance

katiefoss On Writing ,
A sample non-acceptance letter.
Remember that we have all been there.

Rejections sting. At a virtual panel on reviewing, I shared with others just how sensitive I was as an undergrad when I received what I perceived as a harsh comment on a paper or less than stellar feedback. And yet, even after participating in cycles of submission for years, I still need a moment and a sweet treat to cope when I see the “thanks, but no thanks.” But then I take a deep breath and make a new plan.

An interesting idea came up: What if we stop using the word “rejection” for conference papers and journal submissions? It might be the end of that manuscript’s road for that particular outlet, but it shouldn’t be the finale of the paper itself. A “rejection” then really means “not ready for presentation” (as one participant put it), or a “a non-acceptance.” It changes the trajectory of the paper, obviously, as one regroups and figures out a different conference or another journal outlet.

How do you figure out your takeaways from conference or journal reviews?

  1. Close the non-acceptance email and be angry for a little bit.
  2. When you are ready, skim the reviews.
  3. Make a new plan.
  4. Read the reviews carefully as you begin to revise your paper.
  5. Identify themes of strengths and weaknesses across the reviews.
  6. Make easy changes.
  7. Decide which big changes are needed and which ones aren’t.
  8. Revise big changes and readthrough.
  9. Submit to a new outlet.

I know this is tough. I have totally been there and will be again (and again). So how does one cope with rejection? First, have a lot of irons in the fire. The more projects you have going on at various stages, the lower the stakes are with each one. One of my wise advisers once told me that you should aim to have a project at each stage of the publishing trajectory:

New idea/conducting/writing up the research –> conference submission/presentation –> under review at a journal –> revise and resubmit –> forthcoming, in-press –> back to the drawing board

Having multiple projects reduces the burden of each rejection because you can still celebrate the successes. And, of course, revise a non-accepted paper for a different conference or a journal.

What if you receive multiple non-acceptances for the same manuscript? Don’t despair and definitely don’t give up on the project. It’s okay to be upset. It is not okay to be either too rigid to revise or so down on yourself that you want to let the project die. I know it’s hard. Rejection (I mean, non-acceptance) is hard, especially when it happens over and over. All writers have had their work rejected. Some of my best publications went through rough periods of non-acceptances and revision. You can make it through.

View this moment as the time to examine your manuscript more closely for bigger issues. Look across the feedback you’ve received from the various outlets. What patterns do you see? For example, if all of the reviewers have taken issue with the sample, maybe you need to add a second sample or expand the study. I also recommend consulting a friend or professor to get another educated opinion. Note: If you do significantly expand a study or change a research project, you may email the editor of one of the non-accepted journals and lay out the case for resubmission.

On a related note, overwhelming positive conference feedback does not necessarily mean that it will be easy to get the piece published. In fact, I struggled to publish a manuscript that had received a top student paper. Conversely, a conference non-acceptance is not the end of your project (as demonstrated by my “Crock-Pot” study, which I never did present, but published in the Journal of Communication Inquiry). Don’t take it personally. This is a fickle business and you never know who you might get as your reviewers.

Rejections are not the end. Rather, the non-acceptance is simply a signal for rethinking the outlet for the manuscript. Take a breath and move on to your next possibility.

Embracing Compassion: The Challenges of Teaching and Learning During Crisis

katiefoss On Teaching
The view from the hospital room. It’s hard to think about regular stuff in a moment of crisis.

The past few days have been tough for the Foss house. Last night, my 11 year-old’s seemingly-mild sickness turned briefly scary when she became too weak to stand and too disoriented for easy conversation. We made the the tough decision to take her to the local emergency room, knowing that it would be a long night. I figured that even if the hospital admitted her, I’d still be able to run home for a toothbrush or a change of clothes. Wrong. Once we made it through the waiting room gates two hours later, the health professional team quickly determined that my daughter would likely need to be transferred for pediatric care. More than six hours after we entered, we left in an ambulance transport to the children’s hospital 40 minutes away. There, we sat in a temporary exam room through tests and waves of doctors for another seven hours until my tween was moved to a more permanent room a few floors up — the space in which we could finally take a breath (or a nap). With my daughter under the careful watch of the nursing staff (who reassured me that it was fine and normal to leave for a few hours), I got picked up by my husband. We drove back to the first hospital’s parking lot. He dropped me off at my car with my youngest daughter and got back on the freeway to the children’s hospital. She and I drove home, where I couldn’t just crash. We both missed each other and I couldn’t just ignore her to nap or get stuff done.

This weekend has been a reminder of the compassion we must serve our students when they experience such a crisis. We can’t assume that a visit to a clinic or hospital only took an hour or two. Nor can we expect that waiting time in stressful situations can or should be used for completing homework assignments. Like us, our students also face stressful situations, like health emergencies, but also job loss, family crises, and other issues that draw time from school and take an emotional toll on attempting to adequately produce work. Unpredictable issues disrupt the flow of everyday life — a night in the emergency room meant exhaustion plus the burden of completing tasks that would have been easily achieved in late evening or early morning in a regular day.

I am not advocating for accepting any excuse or regularly opening up Dropbox restrictions and taking late work. Rather, my reflection has prompted me to examine my expectations for students when they experience crisis. I would honestly write a terrible manuscript review right now, record a comically-bad lecture, or likely fall asleep on a stack of papers if I tried to grade them in this moment. In fact, the only reason I started this essay was to pour out the story of the last day and a half and because I didn’t want to lose $20 for my monthly writing challenge.

If/when we grant make-ups, are we building in enough of a window for our students to climb out of the crisis first before diving into another stressful situation? Are we communicating what needs to be done, acknowledging that in stressful situations, it can be more difficult to navigate through online platforms and instructions?

I started this post on February 13th. It has taken me more than two weeks to come back to it, just to finish up a blog post. More than two weeks. Would we have granted students that same grace period?

My child’s issues have shifted from crisis to our (hopefully temporary) new “normal,” in which the mundane is punctuated with “drop everything and HELP” moments. I am beginning to understand more and more how a person can do some of the regular stuff (tween is doing the distance learning classes), but may still need patience and flexibility in finishing the work. For now, I’m just trying to do my best, as a parent, spouse, and teacher — attempting to bring newfound perspectives to my students.