Where Identity Meets Society

(This piece was written for my Sexuality & Society class and reflects my personal experiences and evolving understanding of identity. I’m sharing it here as part of my larger writing journey.)

Sexuality is often talked about as something deeply personal or private, shaped by inner feelings, hormones, and individual experiences. But sociologists argue that sexuality is also a product of social forces: religion, gender norms, family, community expectations, and the cultural scripts that tell us what desires are “normal” and which ones must be silenced. When I look back on my own sexual development, I can clearly see how these social forces shaped, restricted, and ultimately delayed my understanding of who I am. My sexuality did not form in a vacuum. It formed within a conservative Mormon family, in a rigidly gendered religious world, and inside a heterosexual marriage I felt obligated to enter. Only as an adult, after trauma, self‑reflection, and leaving religion, did I begin to understand that I am a nonbinary person who has always been attracted to women. My sexual biography is not simply a story about desire; it is a story about socialization, control, repression, and eventual liberation.

I was born and raised in the Netherlands, but even before I entered the United States, my gender experience was already atypical within the expectations around me. I grew up wanting to dress like my brothers, act like them, and spend my days climbing trees, getting dirty, and avoiding anything coded as “girly.” Sociology teaches that gender is not just biological but social, it is learned through reinforcement, expectations, and parenting (Sheff & Hammers, Privilege of Perversities). My early discomfort with gender norms wasn’t recognized as legitimate. Instead, it was treated as a phase or something that would go away. The Mormon faith my family practiced added another layer of gendered expectation. In Mormon culture, gender roles are extremely rigid: boys are taught to grow into priesthood‑holding leaders, while girls are taught to become nurturing wives and mothers. Even as a child, I already felt pressure to fit into this narrow definition of womanhood, even though my body and identity never aligned with it. I did not yet have language for feeling nonbinary, but I understood deeply that being myself was not allowed.

Around age 14, I realized I liked girls. This awareness came naturally, quietly, and without shame, until I told my mother. Her immediate shutdown of my feelings (“Mormons are not gay”) taught me two sociological lessons at once: my desires were unacceptable, and my survival in the family depended on suppressing them. After this moment, I buried my attraction to women so deeply that I genuinely forgot it for long periods of time. Instead, I tried to “fix” myself through prayer, self‑denial, and obedience to religious ideals. In class we learned about sexual scripts and how society defines what counts as “normal,” such as in Greta Christina’s “Are We Having Sex Now or What?” where she shows that society polices what counts as “real sex.” My confession to my mom made her realize I was looking outside of what my church counted as normal, and so my desires and thoughts needed to be shut down immediately.

The Mormon Church, like many institutions, exerts religious social control, influencing members’ sexuality through teachings about purity, modesty, marriage, and eternal roles. I internalized the message that any deviation from heterosexuality was sinful, broken, or a sign of spiritual failure. I dated one boy briefly due to peer pressure, but the attraction was never real. Looking back, my teenage years show how powerful social institutions are in shaping sexual identity. I did not reject my sexuality because it felt wrong, I rejected it because my community taught me that my salvation depended on denying it.

After moving to the U.S. at seventeen and attending college, I tried to blend in with my roommates and community. I tried to go on dates with boys, but every experience felt emotionally empty. Still, because Mormon teachings emphasized heterosexual marriage as a divine commandment, I believed I had no choice. The boy who lived across the street from my parents pursued me aggressively after I returned from my Mormon mission. Saying no felt impossible. Mormon culture strongly socializes women to prioritize marriage, to accept male pursuit, and to take on emotional and spiritual responsibility for men. Marrying him was not a free romantic choice, it was a sociologically conditioned response to my religious upbringing, cultural expectations, and lack of support for my real identity.

Inside the marriage, my sexual orientation became painfully clear through sexual dissociation. I never enjoyed sex and wanted it less and less. My husband blamed me, saying I wasn’t emotionally present. He cheated on me multiple times and insisted his infidelity was my fault. This reflects two sociological themes: victim‑blaming in patriarchal structures (Sheff & Hammers, The Privilege of Perversities), and the expectation that wives exist to meet men’s needs (Greta Christina, Are We Having Sex Now or What?). Because my marriage reflected the gendered power imbalance I had been taught to accept, I believed for years that I was the problem. Becoming a mother grounded my life in responsibility and caretaking. Within Mormon gender ideology, motherhood is the highest calling for women, and I internalized this role. I gave everything, emotionally, physically, and financially, to keep the household functioning while my husband’s emotional abuse intensified. During this period, I lost sight of who I was outside the roles of “wife” and “mother.” My sexual identity remained repressed. Instead of honoring my attraction to women, I blamed myself for not wanting my husband. I interpreted my lack of attraction as personal inadequacy, not as evidence of my lesbian orientation. This is a direct effect of compulsory heterosexuality and religious conditioning.

Leaving my marriage and the Mormon Church opened the door for self‑reflection. After the divorce, memories of my early crushes on girls resurfaced. I noticed again the instinctive pull I had always felt toward women, emotionally, aesthetically, romantically, and sexually. I finally admitted to myself, and later to my daughters, that I had always liked girls. They accepted me instantly, a stark contrast to the reactions I’d grown up with. This part of my biography reflects identity reconstruction, where individuals reshape the story of their life once oppressive structures are removed (Robbins, Low & Query, A Qualitative Exploration of the Coming Out Process for Asexual Individuals). Free from religious pressure and heterosexual marriage, I could finally understand myself clearly: I am a nonbinary person attracted to women. Looking back, I see how my nationality, gender assignment, religion, and sexuality are intersected to shape the constraints on my sexual identity. My discomfort with my body, especially my chest, and my lifelong preference for masculine or androgynous clothing were early signs of my nonbinary identity. For years, I suppressed my discomfort because Mormon teachings framed gender as eternal and unchanging. Once I left those teachings behind, I allowed myself to explore presentation: short hair, piercings, tattoos, and clothing that felt like me. Using they/them pronouns at work was a transformative moment. It allowed me to align my inner reality with my public self. I am not a woman. I am not a man. I am me.

My daughters fully accept me, and their support demonstrates how generational shifts in attitudes toward gender and sexuality can create more affirming environments. However, my extended family remains conservative and Mormon, and I expect little acceptance from them. Their likely reactions mirror the experiences of others in my family, like my nieces whose identities have been dismissed with phrases like “it’s just a phase.” According to Sheff & Hammers in “The Privilege of Perversities,” people in dominant social groups (white, straight, middle-class) experience privilege in sexual minority spaces. Marginalized people face stigma, exclusion, misrecognition, and misunderstanding. The fear of judgment, especially around choosing a more fitting name, shows how social pressure continues to shape even my adult choices. Even after escape, the old norms echo. Robbins, Low & Query in “A Qualitative Exploration of the Coming Out Process for Asexual Individuals,” found negative reactions such as disbelief and dismissal were prominent reactions asexual individuals received. My mother had dismissed me, and my extended family had dismissed some of my nieces who had tried to come out as well. I noticed the patterns and knew I would most likely never be fully accepted by my family.

My sexual identity, gender identity, and sense of self were profoundly shaped by religion, family, culture, and gender expectations. Mormonism taught me to deny my attraction to women and forced me into heterosexuality. Gender norms taught me to perform femininity even when it felt wrong. Marriage taught me to prioritize someone else’s needs over my own. But leaving those structures taught me something even more powerful: sexuality and gender are not fixed by others, they are discovered, reclaimed, and lived. From a sociological perspective, my life story shows how forces like religion, gender socialization, compulsory heterosexuality, and family expectations can shape sexual development. But it also shows that individuals can break free from those forces. Today, I live as myself: a nonbinary person who loves women, a survivor who rebuilt their life, and someone who finally understands that my sexuality was never broken, it was simply hidden under layers of social control.

 

Sources:

Christina, G. (2002). Are we having sex now or what? In M. Stombler et al. (Eds.), Sex matters: The sexuality and society reader (pp. 5-8). 

Robbins, N. K., Low, K. G., & Query, A. N. (2016). A qualitative exploration of the “coming out” process for asexual individuals. In M. Stombler et al. (Eds.), Sex matters: The sexuality and society reader (pp. 352-362).

Sheff, E., & Hammers, C. (2011). The privilege of perversities: Race, class, and education among sexual minorities. In M. Stombler et al. (Eds.), Sex matters: The sexuality and society reader (pp. 402-415).

[Written for SOC 2750R class UVU Spring 2026]

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What The Husband Stitch Taught Me About Craft

Reading Carmen Maria Machado’s The Husband Stitch through the lens of a creative writer reveals just how intentionally built every part of the story truly is. When I stop reading purely for plot and begin noticing how the story is made, the entire experience shifts. Suddenly, I’m watching not only what the narrator feels, but how Machado creates those feelings inside me.

Where the Energy Comes From

The energy in this story doesn’t come from explosions or sudden twists. It comes from something quieter, more unsettling: repetition, implication, and boundary‑crossing. The green ribbon, introduced early and returned to again and again, becomes the heartbeat of the story. It hums beneath the surface, a small, simple object charged with enormous emotional weight. Every time the husband asks about it, the tension tightens. Every time the narrator protects it, a defiant spark flares.

That ribbon is the story’s engine. It’s what keeps me leaning forward, breath held, waiting.

Why I Keep Reading

Machado keeps the piece interesting by blending familiarity with strangeness. The story feels like a fairy tale, a love story, and a horror story all at once, soft and tender one moment, uncanny the next. That blend creates unpredictability. I keep reading because each scene raises a new question:

• What does the ribbon protect?
• Why can’t he leave it alone?
• How much can love take before it fractures?

The story’s momentum isn’t loud; it whispers. But the whisper is impossible to ignore.

When I Look Away, and When I’m Pulled Back In

There are moments I feel myself pull back. Not because the story is confusing, but because it’s emotionally precise. The narrator’s boundaries are pushed in small, persistent ways that feel painfully familiar. These aren’t dramatic acts of violence; they are the soft, socially accepted pressures placed on women again and again.

Spacing out becomes a kind of defense. Machado touches nerves that exist outside the story too.

But I’m drawn back in because the narration feels intimate and confessional, a voice speaking directly into my ear. It feels like the narrator has opened a door only wide enough for me to enter. That closeness is irresistible.

Patterns, Lessons, and New Ways of Seeing

Reading like a writer means noticing what works on me, and why. Through this story, I see how: 

• Love and entitlement can blur
• A boundary can be eroded by insistence, not force
• Silence becomes its own language
• Fairy tales hide darker truths we were never taught to question

I pay attention to how Machado builds dread without spectacle, how she uses pattern and rhythm to make the story throb with emotional tension, and how the simplest object, a green ribbon, becomes a symbol that transforms every scene it touches.

By the end, I see the stories I grew up with differently. What seemed whimsical now reveals what it always carried: expectations of obedience, sacrifice, and silence.

Machado makes me notice who is allowed to be whole, and who is asked to unravel.

A Poem from the Ribbon’s Perspective

As part of my reflection, I imagined the ribbon not as an object, but as a voice. Here is the poem that grew from that idea.

The Quietest No

I marked the boundary

she could not utter out loud.

Thin and green,

a line between her body

and the wanting that would not stop.

He thought I was something to claim,

something to loosen,

something small and insignificant.

He never saw how tightly I held

what remained of her.

I felt his fingers,

I felt his want,

the promise of unravelling.

I was the last thing

she ever asked the world to leave intact.

I was only a ribbon.

The quietest no she ever whispered.

Work Cited:

Machado, C. M. (2014). The husband stitch. Granta, 129. https://granta.com/the-husband-stitch/

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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The Odyssey: The Original Road-Trip-Gone-Wrong (and It's Modern Echo in O Brother Where Art Thou?)

I just finished listening to the audiobook of The Odyssey, and honestly, it’s wild how this ancient epic poem, written nearly 3,000 years ago by Homer, still reads like the ultimate “road trip gone wrong.” Odysseus’s journey home after the Trojan War lasts ten years, and along the way, he encounters gods with grudges, monsters with big appetites, shipwrecks, curses, temptations, and, let’s be honest, a whole lot of consequences for pride.

At its heart, The Odyssey is the story of a man trying to get back home to his wife, Penelope, and his son Telemachus. But every time he gets close, something gets in the way. Sometimes the obstacles come from petty gods. Sometimes from Odysseus himself. And sometimes from his crew, who seem constitutionally incapable of making good choices.

Here is a quick run-through of Odysseus's very bad travel itinerary.

The Cicones
Right after leaving Troy, his crew raids a city, overstays their welcome, and gets attacked. This is our first sign that Odysseus cannot control his men, and that their bad decisions will be a recurring theme.

The Lotus-Eaters
They land in a place where eating the lotus flower makes you forget everything you care about. Odysseus has to drag his zoned‑out sailors back onto the ship.

The Cyclops (Polyphemus)
A giant one‑eyed monster eats several of Odysseus’s men. They escape by blinding him, but Odysseus, being Odysseus, can’t resist bragging as he sails away. Unfortunately, Polyphemus’s dad is Poseidon, who hears the boast and curses him.
This is why the trip takes ten years. Pride: 1, Odysseus: 0.

Circe
A witch-goddess turns the men into pigs. Odysseus outsmarts her, and she ends up being a helpful host… and his lover… for an entire year.

The Underworld
Odysseus consults the prophet Tiresias, who basically tells him that things will get worse before they get better and that trouble awaits him at home, too.

The Sirens
Their haunting singing drives sailors mad, so the crew plugs their ears with wax and ties Odysseus to the mast so he can safely listen without leaping to his doom.

Scylla & Charybdis
A six‑headed monster on one side, a deadly whirlpool on the other. Odysseus navigates between them and loses more men in the process.

The Cattle of the Sun God
Odysseus warns his crew not to touch the sacred cattle. They do it anyway. Zeus punishes them by destroying the ship and killing everyone except Odysseus.

Calypso
A nymph falls in love with him and keeps him captive for seven years. He eventually gets released, but only because the gods intervene.

The Phaeacians
They find Odysseus washed up on the shore, listen to his whole story, and finally bring him home to Ithaca.

Meanwhile, back in Ithica...

Odysseus’s home is falling apart: Over 100 suitors have moved into the palace. They’re eating all the food and demanding Penelope pick a new husband. Telemachus, now grown, is trying to hold things together but is outnumbered.

When Odysseus returns, he disguises himself as a beggar. He reunites with Telemachus and a few loyal servants, then, in true epic fashion, slaughters every suitor in an unforgettable dramatic showdown. Peace is restored. The family is reunited. The kingdom is his again.

Hollywood loves The Odyssey, and one of the smartest, funniest adaptations is the Coen Brothers’ O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It’s not set in ancient Greece at all; it takes place in 1930s Mississippi during the Great Depression, but it mirrors the epic so closely that once you see the parallels, you can’t unsee them.

The core setup is the same. A man wants to return home to his wife. He travels with companions who cause trouble. He encounters strange, magical-feeling characters. Monsters become folk figures. Gods become mysterious forces, fate, and coincidence.

Everett = Odysseus
Smooth talker, clever but flawed, way too proud, obsessed with his hair (a modern stand‑in for heroic vanity).

Penny = Penelope
She has suitors courting her, and as Everett tries to get home, he must prove himself to win her back.

Delmar & Pete = Odysseus’s crew
Loyal, impulsive, and constantly causing detours.

Here are some of their adventures as they try to get Everett home.

The Sirens: Three women washing clothes in the river hypnotize the men with singing.
The Cyclops: A one‑eyed, violent Bible salesman (John Goodman) robs them and beats them.
The Lotus-Eaters: Everett’s companions get baptized, lose sight of the mission, and forget their purpose, just like Odysseus’s men.

It’s not a literal adaptation, but it brilliantly transforms the mythic structure into American folklore, blues, and rural Southern storytelling. Gods and monsters become con men, sirens, corrupt politicians, and religious movements.

At its heart, The Odyssey is about longing for home, facing trials, battling your own flaws, and fighting to reclaim your place in the world. That’s why it still resonates with filmmakers, with writers, and with any of us who’ve ever felt lost, off‑course, or determined to rebuild our lives.

And maybe that’s why modern retellings like O Brother, Where Art Thou? feel so timeless. They remind us that every journey, whether across the sea or across the American South, is about finding your way back to yourself.

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Pageboy by Elliot Page

I recently listened to the audiobook Pageboy, written and narrated by Elliot Page, and it’s one of those memoirs that stays with you long after the final chapter. I’ve admired Elliot Page as an actor for years. Whip It remains one of my all‑time favorite films, and his role in The Umbrella Academy is beautifully done, yet I realized when his book came out that I knew almost nothing about his personal journey. Hearing Pageboy in his own voice made the experience feel intimate, raw, and deeply human.

Growing up, my relationship with queerness felt fractured. I was raised in a strict Christian home, taught that being gay was a sin, but I also grew up in Europe, where the world outside my front door was far more open and accepting. It created this strange dual reality: I saw freedom all around me, yet I was told at home that who I might be was forbidden. I remember once hinting to my mother that I might like girls; the conversation ended immediately. I didn’t bring it up again. The feelings never disappeared; I learned to hide them. It wasn’t until 2022 that I could finally say the words out loud to myself: I’m gay, and it’s okay. Saying it to others took longer. Fear has a way of lingering, even when the truth feels like relief.

Listening to Elliot tell his story felt like someone turning on a light I didn’t know I needed. He speaks with incredible honesty about growing up, performing roles, both onscreen and in life, and struggling to live in a body that didn’t reflect who he was. So many of his descriptions echoed my own quiet, private discomfort. At one point, he reflects on how he saw himself before transitioning: how wearing feminine clothes felt unbearable, how summer made layering impossible, how he constantly tried to hide his chest or avoid his own reflection. When he said, “I couldn’t look at pictures because I was never there,” it stopped me. I knew exactly what he meant. I’ve lived that sensation, the disconnect between the person others see and the person you know yourself to be.

Pageboy is more than a memoir; it’s a liberation story. Elliot doesn’t shy away from the painful parts: dysphoria, shame, repression, survival. But woven through the heaviness is something bright, permission. Permission to exist, to take up space, to be whole. Listening to him articulate his truth gave me a quiet, steady reassurance that mine matters too.

For anyone who has ever questioned their gender, sexuality, or the rules they grew up with, Pageboy is a gift. For those who’ve hidden parts of themselves to stay safe, or stayed silent to keep the peace, or felt out of step with who the world told them to be, this book offers connection, understanding, and courage. Elliot doesn’t just tell you it’s okay to be yourself; he helps you believe it.

If you’re part of the LGBTQ+ community, or if you love someone who is, or if you’re simply trying to understand queer experience with more compassion, Pageboy is absolutely worth reading. Don’t hide who you are. Don’t shrink yourself. You deserve to live fully, honestly, and without apology. And as Elliot Page reminds us, that journey, difficult as it may be, is worth everything.

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"Trampled Calmly": A Close Reading of Hyde's First Appearance in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

When readers first meet Mr. Hyde in The Story of the Door, the introduction lasts only a few lines, but those lines are unforgettable. On page 4, Stevenson gives us a single moment that tells us almost everything we need to know about Hyde. The sentence that caught my attention was:

“…the man trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the ground… It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut.”

Even taken on its own, this line feels shocking. A close reading shows how carefully Stevenson uses word choice, tone, and comparison to create a character who feels not just cruel, but disturbingly inhuman.

The phrase “trampled calmly” is one of the most striking contradictions in the passage. “Trampled” is a violent, frantic word. It suggests chaos and harm. “Calmly” is the exact opposite; it suggests emotional control, even relaxation. Putting these words together creates something deeply unsettling.

Hyde isn’t violent because he loses control. He is violent without emotion, without hesitation, and without any sign that what he is doing matters to him. The calmness is what makes it terrifying. It presents Hyde as someone who doesn’t just do harm; he does harm effortlessly, without conscience. Stevenson signals immediately that Hyde’s cruelty is not ordinary human cruelty. It is something colder.

“It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see.”

Enfield’s comment that the event is “hellish to see” but “sounds nothing to hear” adds another layer. It suggests that Hyde’s evil is not fully captured by language alone. Even describing the event doesn’t convey the horror of witnessing it.

This detail shows two things:

• Hyde’s wrongness is felt more than understood. People react to him instinctively, emotionally.
• Stevenson intentionally creates mystery. Even the narrator cannot quite explain what makes Hyde so horrifying.

The effect is that Hyde becomes a presence the reader cannot fully grasp, only fear.

The comparison to a “damned Juggernaut” is powerful. A Juggernaut is not just a large object; it is a massive, unstoppable force that crushes anything in front of it. This metaphor makes Hyde seem larger than life, even though he is described elsewhere as small and oddly shaped.

Stevenson is telling us that Hyde is not frightening because of his physical form. He is frightening because of the overwhelming, destructive energy he gives off — a force beyond the limits of normal human behavior. He is less a man and more a concept: raw, unchecked brutality.

This brief encounter raises the central mysteries that carry the story forward:

• Who is Hyde, really?
• Why does he act with such emotionless cruelty?
• How can someone seem more force-of-nature than human?
• And how is he connected to the respectable Dr. Jekyll?

Stevenson uses this passage not only to introduce Hyde’s personality, but to hint at the novel’s larger theme: duality. The idea that within every person, there may be another self, one that does not follow rules, feel guilt, or recognize morality at all.

In just a few lines, the reader learns almost everything essential about Hyde:

• He is violent.
• He is emotionless.
• He is unnatural.
• His evil is something felt more than explained.

This single moment foreshadows the entire conflict of the novel. Hyde is not simply Jekyll’s “bad habit” or a hidden weakness. He is Jekyll’s darkest self, freed from restraint and expanding into something monstrous.

For such a short scene, the trampling incident is remarkably dense. It sets the tone, introduces the mystery, and gives the reader a powerful emotional reaction that will shape the rest of the story. Stevenson doesn’t just show us Hyde; he makes us feel the wrongness of Hyde.

Work Cited: 

Stevenson, R. L. (2003). The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Penguin Classics.

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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Who Creates Meaning: The Situation or the Speaker?

This short essay explores the long‑standing debate between Lloyd Bitzer and Richard Vatz about where rhetorical meaning truly comes from—whether situations naturally carry significance or whether rhetors create that significance through their choices and framing. By comparing both theorists’ views and offering a real‑world example, the essay argues that rhetoric plays the more active role in shaping how events are understood.

    The debate between Lloyd Bitzer and Richard Vatz focuses on one main question: Does rhetoric come from situations, or do situations come from rhetoric? Bitzer believes that situations already contain meaning and urgency, and these qualities “invite” a rhetorical response. Vatz, on the other hand, argues that rhetors create meaning by choosing what details to talk about and how to present them. While both make good points, I believe that rhetoric creates the situation because rhetors are the ones who give events their meaning, emotional impact, and importance.

    Bitzer sees rhetoric as something that happens after a situation appears. In his view, an exigence, meaning a problem that needs to be addressed, exists first, and rhetoric comes second as a reaction to it. That means the situation controls what kind of response is appropriate. Bitzer writes, “rhetoric is a mode of altering reality, not by the direct application of energy to objects, but by the creation of discourse which changes reality through mediation of thought and action.” (Bitzer, p. 4) In other words, rhetoric matters, but only because the situation calls it into being and shapes what it must do.

    Vatz argues the opposite. He believes exigence does not exist on its own; rhetors create it through their choices about what to highlight and what to ignore. For Vatz, events don’t come with built‑in meaning. Meaning appears only when someone decides how to frame the event. As he puts it, “meaning is not discovered in situations, but created by rhetors.” (Vatz, p. 157) This means the rhetor plays an active role in shaping how people understand what is happening.

    My own example shows why Vatz’s view is more convincing. Imagine a university has a short Wi‑Fi outage that lasts fifteen minutes. One student leader sends a calm message saying it’s a minor issue. Another student posts dramatically online, claiming the outage proves the administration is incompetent and that students should “demand accountability.” Even though the event is the same, these two responses create completely different situations, one calm and one intense. The difference comes not from the outage but from the rhetoric used to describe it. The student who exaggerates the problem creates a crisis that didn’t exist before. This supports Vatz’s point that rhetors decide what becomes important.

    In the end, Bitzer helps us see how rhetorical responses are shaped by context, but Vatz shows how meaning is actually made. Rhetors don’t just respond to situations; they help create them. Events don’t tell us what they mean; people do. And because people’s interpretations come before significance, rhetoric creates the situation rather than simply responding to it.

Work Cited:  

Bitzer, L. F. (1968). The rhetorical situation. Philosophy & Rhetoric, 1(1), 1–14.

Vatz, R. E. (1973). The myth of the rhetorical situation. Philosophy & Rhetoric, 6(3), 154–161.

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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Teaching Philosophy

In my English class this semester, I am learning about the different careers I could follow with a degree in English. The first few weeks were spent learning more about being an English teacher in a Junior High or High School setting. I wrote an essay describing my teaching philosophy if I were to become an English teacher:

    I see my role as a teacher as a designer of growth, someone who builds sturdy scaffolds for students and then intentionally removes them so learners can stand on their own. Teaching, to me, is not about control or permanence but about preparation: creating structures that support students while they develop confidence, independence, and critical thinking skills. This view is shaped by scholars such as Jim Burke, Paulo Freire, and bell hooks, all of whom emphasize that effective teaching balances structure with freedom, authority with collaboration, and knowledge with humanity.

    One of the clearest examples of instructional scaffolding is Jim Burke’s discussion of school-friendly forms such as the five-paragraph essay. Burke argues that this structure can be a valuable tool for beginning writers because it helps them practice essential skills such as forming claims, supporting ideas with evidence, and organizing their thinking (Burke, 2013). I agree with Burke that these forms function like training wheels: they provide stability at the start, but they must not become cages that restrict authentic thinking or meaningful genre choice. As a teacher, I would use these structures intentionally and temporarily, always with the goal of helping students move beyond them. The structure is not the destination; it is a support that allows students to eventually write with flexibility, purpose, and confidence.

    My instructional planning would begin by assessing where each learner is and identifying their next doable step. In practice, this philosophy would shape both what and how I teach. I would begin by modeling the five-paragraph essay and explicitly teaching argumentative structures such as thesis statements, reasons, evidence, and counterclaims. As students become more comfortable, I would expand the curriculum to include public narratives, multimodal essays, peer review workshops, and other genres that invite creativity and real-world engagement. This gradual expansion honors the need for structure while making room for student choice and authentic expression. As students gain competence, I would gradually remove these supports so that responsibility shifts from teacher to student. This process acknowledges that learning is developmental and that independence is built through practice, feedback, and trust. Scaffolding, in my classroom, would always be temporary, designed to empower students rather than create dependency.

    At the same time, I believe education is never neutral. Influenced by Paulo Freire, I reject the “banking model” of education in which teachers deposit information into passive students (Freire, 1970). Instead, I aim for a problem-posing approach where students and teachers investigate real questions together, connect learning to lived experience, and engage in meaningful dialogue. In this model, the teacher is not the sole authority but a co-learner who guides inquiry while remaining open to students’ insights. bell hooks extends this idea through her concept of engaged pedagogy, which challenges teachers to build classrooms rooted in community, care, and shared purpose (hooks, 1994). I do not want my classroom to be a place where work is merely assigned and completed; I want it to be a space where students feel valued, heard, and responsible for one another’s learning. Modeling vulnerability, encouraging reflection, and fostering mutual accountability are essential parts of this process.

    Ultimately, I want students to leave my classroom more capable and more conscious. I want them to read complex texts and contexts, write with purpose for real audiences, listen carefully, revise thoughtfully, and offer feedback in good faith. I want them to recognize where they can improve and feel empowered to take the steps necessary to do so. To achieve this, I must know my content deeply and teach with intention, while also cultivating a classroom grounded in dignity, curiosity, and courage. The teacher I strive to be does not see school as a place where knowledge is deposited, but as a place where knowledge is created, questioned, and used for the common good.



Work Cited:

Burke, J. (2013). The English teacher’s companion: A completely new guide to classroom, curriculum, and the profession (4th ed.). Heinemann.

Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Continuum.

Hooks, b. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. Routledge.

[Written for ENGL 2800 class UVU Spring 2026]
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