I cannot tell my Grandmother this. He is her son. She has an unconditional love for him that makes her want to help him no matter the circumstances. I cannot tell my Grandmother that I never want to see this man again. He did the unforgivable.  I cannot tell my Grandmother that she raised a monster and my greatest fear is to turn into that. So instead I tell her this:
" I am donating all of my inheritance to MADD. I gave my worst enemy a ride home when she was drunk.  I don't drink.  All I can do is try to stop this from happening to another family. No other mother, father, sister, brother, daughter, son or friend should ever lose a loved one because of drunk driving. I hold my father responsible for what he did. I do not want to see him."
***
On March 22 my world was altered in a way that no person can begin to understand. I was home from college over spring break, simply enjoying the blissful knowledge that I had a week off of school, roommates, drama, homework and in a little more than a month I would officially be done with my freshman year of college.

Both my mom and step dad work during the day and my two younger brothers were at school, so I enjoyed my days lounging around in my pajamas and sleeping in late.
I remember being in my room when the phone rang. I had to run up the stairs to my parents' bedroom to catch it before the last ring, up until this year I always had a phone in my room, but my parents decided to give my old phone to my brother. So I answer the phone and am greeted by a familiar but unwelcome voice,
"Katie, I need to talk to your Mom."
"Kathy... why are you calling here?" Kathy is my evil stepmother. She wasn't always evil but chose my father over my brother and I, and left us to rot on the side of the road while he wasted away shooting up, all the while defending him.
"I need Judy's phone number. Your dad was in an accident." I still resent her use of the d-word, but I give her the number and hang up as quickly as possible. Of course I am curious to know what happened, but I just assumed that it was another fuck up by another dead-beat-dad.
Two months earlier my mom had gotten a phone call from a journalist asking for a response to his recent arrest, he had received a DUI. A year before that she read an article in the newspaper informing us that he had shot his mistress' dog. These types of calls were random and saddening in the beginning, but at some point you have to ask when a person will figure it out and stop fucking up.
Less than ten minutes pass and the phone rings again.
"Hello?"
"Kate, Kathy just called me."  My mom sounds like someone is pulling her teeth as she is speaking to me. Her voice is cracking and I can hear her nose running with every breath.
"Ya I know, she said something about an accident."
"Kay, it's worse than that. He killed people."
I didn't believe it at first. Sure, in my life my father had been a total ass to my brother and me, but I would have never thought him the person to endanger strangers though his own recklessness. I had to know. I just had to know what happened. I wanted a frame-by-frame break down. There was no other way I could believe it.  I tricked my self into believing it was just a cruel joke, a horrible misunderstanding. I was frantic to know any information regarding the "accident."
My mom must have heard me pulling out my computer because she was directing me to the 9news website that covered the story. And there it was, in plain black ink, my father had actually killed two people. He had actually taken life. Life that was not only not his to take, but life that was so young and innocent.
9news informed me that in the middle of the night on March 21 two Mesa State students were driving home from a movie. Two students who were freshmen in college. Two students who were no older than me. Two students who were probably contemplating the past year of their lives and how so much had changed during their first year of college.
These two kids were on the wrong road at the wrong time. Just as they are driving home my father pulls onto I-70 going well over 100 mph completely shit-canned. He is running from the cops, there is another warrant out for his arrest and, with what ever brain cells still exist after all the drug and alcohol use, he decided to try to outrun them. Driving out of control down a major highway, he crossed the lanes and plowed into the two innocents. Both have died.
I am devastated.
I become suddenly aware of how alone I am in this big house. The brand new wood floor crack under the weight of my sleeping dog, the tree branch outside my window hits the side of the house and the mattress springs on my bed creak.
Involuntary tears are streaming down my face and my sobs are echoing off the walls, and still no one can hear me because I am all alone in this empty house.
I have reached a point where I am functioning on mere habit; I think that if I hadn't been breathing my whole life, I might have stopped out of grief.
The only person I can think to call lives across the country and is probably sleeping but I try anyway, and I am so grateful when she picks up
"Danielle:" As my best friend, she can tell before I even say another word that something terrible has happened and I start to bawl again before she can ever respond. I'm crying so hard that she can't understand a single word I say. My speech is a jumble of "drunk, fuck, ass hole, killed, fuck, fucker, jail, death, angry."
From this point on, I don't remember anything that happened that day. I didn't interact with anyone. It was as if I was standing too close to a framed picture where I could see my reflection, and everyone behind me moving but I couldn't turn around and look them in the eye. I was in a fog. Moving only if someone pushed me; speaking only when someone asked me a direct question; constantly looking at the floor, ashamed of where I came from.
The next two days at home was mush. The phone rang. My mom cried. My brother yelled. I stood. I slept. I never ate. The TV was always on the news channel.
The TV was the worst part. News crews were at vigils, showing footage of the wreck, telling stories of victims and murderer, and showing mug shots. Mug shots are the worst. They show a person in their absolute worst. Not that my father deserved to be shown as a hero, or even a respectable citizen, but the mug shot was haunting. He looked that the killer in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
I went back to school on Sunday, where I didn't tell anyone anything. I tried to keep to myself and slept most of the time (apparently a symptom of depression is extreme exhaustion.) I didn't want to be around anyone so I spent most of my time in a friend from high schools bed sleeping all day.
My mom called me every few hours to make sure I was functioning, because what else could she expect.
After about a week of the sleeping and not eating and not speaking I went to a trauma counselor at the UNC health clinic.  I cried and told the tail to the most compassionate woman I have ever met. She let me break down and share my deepest fears of finding someone who knew the people who he killed, of dealing with the media, of facing my friends and family, of becoming him and of never getting away from this tragedy he created.
Eventually my friends in the dorm learned of what had happened and most were understanding and supportive. "Fucking April" became a common term among my friends. Everyone had a reason to be pissed off and it was easier to be pissed off and sad as a group than as individuals.
In September of 2007, my name was legally changed. I went from being Kathrine Renee Strawmatt to Kathrine Renee Hatch. I knew I didn't want to be associated with my father for another second and part of that was to get rid of his namesake.
Since this accident I have tired to be the best person I can. Trying to prove to everyone, myself included, that I am not my father. I have my fathers' eyes and am widely stubborn like my father, but I would never knowingly endanger someone. I'm ashamed of where I came from. I'm ashamed that my father is going to be in prison for the rest of his life.
***

Both my mom and step dad work during the day and my two younger brothers were at school, so I enjoyed my days lounging around in my pajamas and sleeping in late.

I remember being in my room when the phone rang. I had to run up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom to catch it before the last ring, up until this year I always had a phone in my room, but my parents decided to give my old phone to my brother. So I answer the phone and am greeted by a familiar but unwelcome voice,

“Katie, I need to talk to your Mom.”

“Kathy... why are you calling here?” Kathy is my evil stepmother. She wasn’t always evil but chose my father over my brother and I, and left us to rot on the side of the road while he wasted away shooting up, all the while defending him.

“I need Judy’s phone number. Your dad was in an accident.” I still resent her use of the d-word, but I give her the number and hang up as quickly as possible. Of course I am curious to know what happened, but I just assumed that it was another fuck up by another dead-beat-dad.

Two months earlier my mom had gotten a phone call from a journalist asking for a response to his recent arrest, he had received a DUI. A year before that she read an article in the newspaper informing us that he had shot his mistress’ dog. These types of calls were random and saddening in the beginning, but at some point you have to ask when a person will figure it out and stop fucking up.

Less than ten minutes pass and the phone rings again.

“Hello?”

“Kate, Kathy just called me.”  My mom sounds like someone is pulling her teeth as she is speaking to me. Her voice is cracking and I can hear her nose running with every breath.

“Ya I know, she said something about an accident.”

“Kay, it’s worse than that. He killed people.”

I didn’t believe it at first. Sure, in my life my father had been a total ass to my brother and me, but I would have never thought him the person to endanger strangers though his own recklessness. I had to know. I just had to know what happened. I wanted a frame-by-frame break down. There was no other way I could believe it.  I tricked my self into believing it was just a cruel joke, a horrible misunderstanding. I was frantic to know any information regarding the “accident.”

My mom must have heard me pulling out my computer because she was directing me to the 9news website that covered the story. And there it was, in plain black ink, my father had actually killed two people. He had actually taken life. Life that was not only not his to take, but life that was so young and innocent.
9news informed me that in the middle of the night on March 21 two Mesa State students were driving home from a movie. Two students who were freshmen in college. Two students who were no older than me. Two students who were probably contemplating the past year of their lives and how so much had changed during their first year of college.

These two kids were on the wrong road at the wrong time. Just as they are driving home my father pulls onto I-70 going well over 100 mph completely shit-canned. He is running from the cops, there is another warrant out for his arrest and, with what ever brain cells still exist after all the drug and alcohol use, he decided to try to outrun them. Driving out of control down a major highway, he crossed the lanes and plowed into the two innocents. Both have died.

I am devastated.

I become suddenly aware of how alone I am in this big house. The brand new wood floor crack under the weight of my sleeping dog, the tree branch outside my window hits the side of the house and the mattress springs on my bed creak.

Involuntary tears are streaming down my face and my sobs are echoing off the walls, and still no one can hear me because I am all alone in this empty house.

I have reached a point where I am functioning on mere habit; I think that if I hadn’t been breathing my whole life, I might have stopped out of grief.

The only person I can think to call lives across the country and is probably sleeping but I try anyway, and I am so grateful when she picks up

“Danielle:” As my best friend, she can tell before I even say another word that something terrible has happened and I start to bawl again before she can ever respond. I’m crying so hard that she can’t understand a single word I say. My speech is a jumble of “drunk, fuck, ass hole, killed, fuck, fucker, jail, death, angry.”

From this point on, I don’t remember anything that happened that day. I didn’t interact with anyone. It was as if I was standing too close to a framed picture where I could see my reflection, and everyone behind me moving but I couldn’t turn around and look them in the eye. I was in a fog. Moving only if someone pushed me; speaking only when someone asked me a direct question; constantly looking at the floor, ashamed of where I came from.

The next two days at home was mush. The phone rang. My mom cried. My brother yelled. I stood. I slept. I never ate. The TV was always on the news channel.

The TV was the worst part. News crews were at vigils, showing footage of the wreck, telling stories of victims and murderer, and showing mug shots. Mug shots are the worst. They show a person in their absolute worst. Not that my father deserved to be shown as a hero, or even a respectable citizen, but the mug shot was haunting. He looked that the killer in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

I went back to school on Sunday, where I didn’t tell anyone anything. I tried to keep to myself and slept most of the time (apparently a symptom of depression is extreme exhaustion.) I didn’t want to be around anyone so I spent most of my time in a friend from high schools bed sleeping all day.

My mom called me every few hours to make sure I was functioning, because what else could she expect.
After about a week of the sleeping and not eating and not speaking I went to a trauma counselor at the UNC health clinic.  I cried and told the tail to the most compassionate woman I have ever met. She let me break down and share my deepest fears of finding someone who knew the people who he killed, of dealing with the media, of facing my friends and family, of becoming him and of never getting away from this tragedy he created.

Eventually my friends in the dorm learned of what had happened and most were understanding and supportive. “Fucking April” became a common term among my friends. Everyone had a reason to be pissed off and it was easier to be pissed off and sad as a group than as individuals.

In September of 2007, my name was legally changed. I went from being Kathrine Renee Strawmatt to Kathrine Renee Hatch. I knew I didn’t want to be associated with my father for another second and part of that was to get rid of his namesake.

Since this accident I have tired to be the best person I can. Trying to prove to everyone, myself included, that I am not my father. I have my fathers’ eyes and am widely stubborn like my father, but I would never knowingly endanger someone. I’m ashamed of where I came from. I’m ashamed that my father is going to be in prison for the rest of his life.
***

I cannot tell my Grandmother this. He is her son. She has an unconditional love for him that makes her want to help him no matter the circumstances. I cannot tell my Grandmother that I never want to see this man again. He did the unforgivable.  I cannot tell my Grandmother that she raised a monster and my greatest fear is to turn into that. So instead I tell her this:
“ I am donating all of my inheritance to MADD. I gave my worst enemy a ride home when she was drunk.  I don’t drink.  All I can do is try to stop this from happening to another family. No other mother, father, sister, brother, daughter, son or friend should ever lose a loved one because of drunk driving. I hold my father responsible for what he did. I do not want to see him.”

So at this particular lunch, my grandmother's desired subject to talk about happens to be my father. I say "father" not "dad" for two reasons 1) I'm pissed off at him 2) a dad is a person who raises you (and he did not raise me.) My grandmother, in her typical need to take care of everyone, has asked me to see my father.
The last time I spoke to this man was over a text message in which he informed me that he thinks I am a "selfish bitch." So no, I am not going to see him, but I have no intention to tell my grandmother this piece of information. What I do tell her is this:
***
On March 22, 2007 my world was altered in a way that no person can begin to understand. I was home from college over spring break, simply enjoying the blissful knowledge that I had a week off of school, roommates, drama, homework and in a little more than a month I would officially be done with my freshman year of college.

Both my mom and step dad work during the day and my two younger brothers were at school, so I enjoyed my days lounging around in my pajamas and sleeping in late.
I remember being in my room when the phone rang. I had to run up the stairs to my parents' bedroom to catch it before the last ring, up until this year I always had a phone in my room, but my parents decided to give my old phone to my brother.

So I answer the phone and am greeted by a familiar but unwelcome voice,
"Katie, I need to talk to your Mom."

"Kathy... why are you calling here?" Kathy is my evil stepmother. She wasn't always evil but chose my father over my brother and I, and left us to rot on the side of the road while he wasted away shooting up, all the while defending him.

"I need Judy's phone number. Your dad was in an accident." I still resent her use of the d-word, but I give her the number and hang up as quickly as possible. Of course I am curious to know what happened, but I just assumed that it was another fuck up by another dead-beat-dad.

Two months earlier my mom had gotten a phone call from a journalist asking for a response to his recent arrest, he had received a DUI. A year before that she read an article in the newspaper informing us that he had shot his mistress' dog. These types of calls were random and saddening in the beginning, but at some point you have to ask when a person will figure it out and stop fucking up.

Less than ten minutes pass and the phone rings again.
"Hello?"

"Kate, Kathy just called me." My mom sounds like someone is pulling her teeth as she is speaking to me. Her voice is cracking and I can hear her nose running with every breath.

"Ya I know, she said something about an accident."

"Kay, it's worse than that. He killed people."
I didn't believe it at first. Sure, in my life my father had been a total ass to my brother and me, but I would have never thought him the person to endanger strangers though his own recklessness. I had to know. I just had to know what happened. I wanted a frame-by-frame break down. There was no other way I could believe it. I tricked my self into believing it was just a cruel joke, a horrible misunderstanding. I was frantic to know any information regarding the "accident."

My mom must have heard me pulling out my computer because she was directing me to the 9news website that covered the story. And there it was, in plain black ink, my father had actually killed two people. He had actually taken life. Life that was not only not his to take, but life that was so young and innocent.
9news informed me that in the middle of the night on March 21 two Mesa State students were driving home from a movie. Two students who were freshmen in college. Two students who were no older than me. Two students who were probably contemplating the past year of their lives and how so much had changed during their first year of college.

These two kids were on the wrong road at the wrong time. Just as they are driving home my father pulls onto I-70 going well over 100 mph completely shit canned. He is running from the cops, there is another warrant out for his arrest and, with what ever brain cells still exist after all the drug and alcohol use, he decided to try to outrun them. Driving out of control down a major highway, he crossed the lanes and plowed into the two innocents. Both have died.

I am devastated.

I become suddenly aware of how alone I am in this big house. The brand new wood floor crack under the weight of my sleeping dog, the tree branch outside my window hits the side of the house and the mattress springs on my bed creak.

Involuntary tears are streaming down my face and my sobs are echoing off the walls, and still no one can hear me because I am all alone in this empty house.

I have reached a point where I am functioning on mere habit; I think that if I hadn't been breathing my whole life, I might have stopped out of grief.

The only person I can think to call lives across the country and is probably sleeping but I try anyway, and I am so grateful when she picks up

"Danielle:" As my best friend, she can tell before I even say another word that something terrible has happened and I start to bawl again before she can ever respond. I'm crying so hard that she can't understand a single word I say. My speech is a jumble of "drunk, fuck, ass hole, killed, fuck, fucker, jail, death, angry."

From this point on, I don't remember anything that happened that day. I didn't interact with anyone. It was as if I was standing too close to a framed picture where I could see my reflection, and everyone behind me moving but I couldn't turn around and look them in the eye. I was in a fog. Moving only if someone pushed me; speaking only when someone asked me a direct question; constantly looking at the floor, ashamed of where I came from.

The next two days at home was mush. The phone rang. My mom cried. My brother yelled. I stood. I slept. I never ate. The TV was always on the news channel.

The TV was the worst part. News crews were at vigils, showing footage of the wreck, telling stories of victims and murderer, and showing mug shots. Mug shots are the worst. They show a person in their absolute worst. Not that my father deserved to be shown as a hero, or even a respectable citizen, but the mug shot was haunting. He looked that the killer in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

I went back to school on Sunday, where I didn't tell anyone anything. I tried to keep to myself and slept most of the time (apparently a symptom of depression is extreme exhaustion.) I didn't want to be around anyone so I spent most of my time in a friend from high schools bed sleeping all day.

My mom called me every few hours to make sure I was functioning, because what else could she expect.

After about a week of the sleeping and not eating and not speaking I went to a trauma counselor at the UNC health clinic. I cried and told the tail to the most compassionate woman I have ever met. She let me break down and share my deepest fears of finding someone who knew the people who he killed, of dealing with the media, of facing my friends and family, of becoming him and of never getting away from this tragedy he created.

Eventually my friends in the dorm learned of what had happened and most were understanding and supportive. "Fucking April" became a common term among my friends. Everyone had a reason to be pissed off and it was easier to be pissed off and sad as a group than as individuals.

In September of 2007, my name was legally changed. I went from being Kathrine Renee Strawmatt to Kathrine Renee Hatch. I knew I didn't want to be associated with my father for another second and part of that was to get rid of his namesake.

Since this accident I have tired to be the best person I can. Trying to prove to everyone, myself included, that I am not my father. I have my fathers' eyes and am widely stubborn like my father, but I would never knowingly endanger someone. I'm ashamed of where I came from. I'm ashamed that my father is going to be in prison for the rest of his life.
***
I cannot tell my Grandmother this. He is her son. She has an unconditional love for him that makes her want to help him no matter the circumstances. I cannot tell my Grandmother that I never want to see this man again. He did the unforgivable. I cannot tell my Grandmother that she raised a monster and my greatest fear is to turn into that. So instead I tell her this:

" I am donating all of my inheritance to MADD. I gave my worst enemy a ride home when she was drunk. I don't drink. All I can do is try to stop this from happening to another family. No other mother, father, sister, brother, daughter, son or friend should ever lose a loved one because of drunk driving. I hold my father responsible for what he did. I do not want to see him."

Gates was talking back when he spoke of the black community and gave away the secrets of the black community in his memoir. Gates shared his experience as a black man with a white audince, talking back by dismissing the wishes of his black family and friends to not share this information

-They sat at the bar patiently, passing time knowing that soon they woud have fun.

"If one must worship a bully, it is better that he should be a policeman than a gangster."

-If a person has to be addicted to something, it is better that it is chocolate than drugs.

"The real art dealt with life directly was that of the first men who told their stories round the savage camp fires."

-Absoulte truth can be found in the plays acted by Shakespearian thespians.

How to Teach Writing
The best teacher I have ever had taught me that writing well is a skill that can be learned by anyone. She believed that having voice incorporated in a paper only made it stronger and encouraged all students to explore their writing styles to better themselves as writers. According to her, a good writer was someone who knew all the grammatical tools, could quote just about any work, but still had the ability to turn an old idea into a new, personalized one. In essence, her philosophy was, “ learn the rules first, then you can break them.” The experience I had with this teacher lead me to the realization that not all teachers are as committed to improving their students’ writing as she was, and that good teachers are needed for students to learn the basics of writing before they can become great writers.  It was her general goal to make all of her students better writers, even if that meant changing her style.
In the classroom, a natural role of authority and submission is always present. This is in part because of traditions that people who have knowledge, and it is assumed that teachers do, are usually in power over the masses that have less knowledge. Ideally, when this natural power distribution takes place, it allows for one person to lead all those under them to a place where they can use information effectively. In the classroom it is a teachers’ job to take hold of this responsibly to effectively guide his or her students, to become great writers.
This guidance begins in a strictly Bartholomae-based classroom. In this class students can learn to analyze great works, which is important because it shows students the art of writing, and it gives an example of what a person should be writing about and how they should be writing. When students learn mechanics and correct usage as well as organization they are able to create compelling arguments. However, under this particular teaching style only a specific type of writing is valued. The problem with this is that a student only begins to appreciate what their teachers appreciate, in turn causing the student to lose his or her voice.
For me, this exact scenario happened in my college research class. My professor believed that as students we were incapable of producing any original works. Every paper I turned in would be ripped apart because it was not what my teacher wanted to hear. Not only did this discourage my creativity, but it also inhibited my teachers growth because she was unwilling to see anything different from her own ideas.
Many fundamentalists believe that this losing of voice is necessary in the beginning of education because it allows for total control over the students by the teachers. However, complete control only allows lack of growth in the students case and eliminates potential for growth in the academic field itself. It is important for students to regain control once they have learned all the basics. In order to regain this power students have to find their own voice, rather than just repeating that of their teachers, fellow students and mentors.
In personal experience, gaining voice once it was lost is not nearly as complicated as many people had set it up to be. Once a teacher has given their students all the basics on how to write well, it is the students’ job to use these tools to write in their own way. The best way to allow students to improve their voice is simply have them write. Like in Elbows method, students need the opportunity to write without judgment in order for them to decide what is important to them and how to convey that to their readers.
One way to learn to write with personal voice is to simply write. This is a struggle for many writers once they have completed the Bartholomae training because they feel that the only opinions that matter are those of academics. To overcome this, teachers should start by offering some prompt and then slowly branching out to giving students complete freedom to write about whatever they feel is important. Prompts can begin as simple as “Describe Your Day” to important political issues. The point is not to have the most compelling argument, but rather to just get a student writing freely. Over time students will learn to use the tools they acquired in their traditional training to better their personal writing. The main argument behind not allowing students to rein free in the writing is that students are not academics and therefore do not have authority to write as if they were.
The question that should be asked is not whether or not students are capable of writing as academics, regardless of their training, but rather do students have something worthy to say that academics should be listening to? This is more than a question of voice, but a question of importance in the academic world. Shouldn’t the teacher student relationship always be a learning one? Does it really matter who is doing the learning as long as the collective is improving?  Good writing teachers are able to guide their students through the foundations of writing as well as allow their students to explore their creative sides.
To assume that only one way of teaching is correct would be naive because people learn in different ways. With this in mind, teachers should offer up many different types of teaching to insure that all of their students have the ability to become good writers.

In the classroom, a natural role of authority and submission is always present. This is in part because of traditions that people who have knowledge, and it is assumed that teachers do, are usually in power over the masses that have less knowledge. When this natural power distribution takes place it allows for one person to lead all those under them to a place where they can use information effectively. In the classroom it is a teachers' job to guide his or her students so that they can also obtain the information they need to become great writers.

This guidance begins in a strictly Bartholomae based classroom. In this class students can learn to analyze great works, which is important because it shows students the art of writing, and it gives an example of what a person should be writing about and how they should be writing about said subject. When students learn mechanics and correct usage as well as organization they are able to create compelling arguments. However, under this particular teaching style only a specific type of writing is valued. The problem with this is that a student only begins to appreciate what their teachers appreciate, in turn causing the student to lose his or her voice.

Many fundamentalists believe that this losing of voice is necessary in the beginning of education because it allows for total control over the students by the teachers. However, complete control only allows lack of growth in the students case and eliminates potential for growth in the academic field itself. It is important for students to regain control once they have learned all the basics. In order to regain this power students have to find their own voice, rather than just repeating that of their teachers, fellow students and mentors.

In personal experience, gaining voice once it was lost is not nearly as complicated as many people had set it up to be. Once a teacher has given their students all the basics on how to write well it is the students job to use these tools to write in their own way. The best way to allow students to improve their voice is simply have them write. Like in Elbows method, students need the opportunity to write without judgment in order for them to decide what is important to them and how to convey that to their readers.

One way to learn to write with ones own voice is to simply write. This is a struggle for many writers once they have completed the Bartholomae training because they feel that the only opinions that matter are those of academics. To overcome this, teachers should start by offering some prompt and then slowly branching out to giving students complete freedom to write about whatever they feel is important. Over time students will learn to use the tools they acquired in their traditional training to better their personal writing. The main argument behind not allowing students to rein free in the writing is that students are not academics and therefore do not have authority to write as if they were.

The question that should be asked is not whether or not students are capable of writing as academics, regardless of their training, but rather do students have something worthy to say that academics should be listening to? This is more than a question of voice, but a question of importance in the academic world. Shouldn't the teacher student relationship always be a learning one? Does it really matter who is doing the learning as long as the collective is improving?  Good writing teachers are able to guide their students through the foundations of writing as well as allow their students to explore their creative sides.

To assume that only one way of teaching is correct would be naive because people learn in different ways. With this in mind, teachers should offer up many different types of teaching to insure that all of their students have the ability to become good writers.