“To See Around the Corner of Everyday Usage”: Bisexuality, the Writing Center, and Burke’s “Perspective by Incongruity”
August 01, 2014
(is it a path, or is the grass just a little bent?) – Sara Ahmed i
When people ask me what I do for a living, my typical answer is intentionally—and perhaps necessarily—a little ambiguous. I tell them I work in the English Department of my local two-year college. Usually, they let it drop and our conversation moves along to other topics, but some respond by asking, “Oh, so you're a professor?” And with that, I begin my little dance of explaining just exactly what I do at my college.
I’m what you might call an alternative academic. I don't teach classes; I tutor students one-with-one in the college's writing center. Although I am not a classroom teacher, my position is integrated into the developmental writing program, so I do conduct weekly workshops (called “Studio Sessions”) inside the classroom. I'm not a professor, but I have faculty status. My official title is “Writing Assistant,” according to the college's faculty directory, but when I look up my writing center co-workers, I see plenty of inconsistency: others are listed as “Tutoring Assistant,” “Writing Center Tutor,” or “Tutoring Center Assistant,” not to mention those whose writing center position is superseded by their position as “Adjunct Instructor.” My department is listed as “Writing Center,” while about half of my co-workers are listed under the English Department. After more than three years tutoring at this college, even my parents still get confused, having to ask whether or not I teach classes.
And within the social field of academia, the ambiguity and confusion surrounding my alternative academic path continues. “A professional identity in writing centers,” according to Anne Ellen Geller and Harry Denny, “is still not understood as a professional identity in English.”ii In their work, as well as in anecdotes documented in a plethora of writing center scholarship or shared less formally over dinner and drinks at conferences, the sense of “professional identity” for writing center workers is both confused and confusing. Not only do titles change from institution to institution, but so too does one's status as faculty or administrator. Positions range from tenure-track to at-will contract labor. Likewise, staffing for writing centers varies greatly. Typically, writing centers are conceived of as being staffed primarily by undergraduate peer tutors, but others also employ graduate students, faculty, or professional tutors. Many have blended staffs, comprising two or more of these categories. My own center employs professional tutors, but also uses student workers to staff our reception desk.
So yes, I work in my college's English Department. As an alternative academic, that's one way I can identify my place within the academy, one way that makes my work legible to people who are unaccustomed to reading the alternate and often idiosyncratic paths that exist within the current model of higher education. I am a tutor in the writing center of a two-year college. At the same time, I am also a partially out bisexualiii cis-gender man, and LGBTQ/Queer Studies scholar. These identities are simultaneous; they overlap. Usually they inform one another. Sometimes they disrupt. As alternatives to the norm, they grate upon the unspoken expectations of everyday usage. Their multiplicities rupture the consistency of a unified perspective.
In Philosophy of Literary Form, Kenneth Burke labels one of his critical methods “perspective by incongruity,” a method he describes as “a rational prodding or coaching of language so as to see around the corner of everyday usage.”iv I like this, because “incongruity” depends upon multiple perspectives stacking up, overlapping, and jostling together. It reminds me of my own alternative identities: I am one person whose perspective is shifting, and shifted, by the multitudes I contain. Juggling multiple, alternative identities—in addition to those points of view inherited from normative culture—provides me with a perspective that is indeed incongruous at times. As an alternative academic, my work often proceeds from a place “around the corner” from the everyday, the expected. As a result, my orientation is a little askew, a bit queer. And the path ahead is crooked, bent.
As an alternative academic space, writing centers occupy an unusual position within the university; neither classroom nor student union; belonging neither to the professor, nor entirely to the student. The writing center is, to use Nancy Grimm's terms, a “contested” space, an “awkward triangulation between student and teacher.”v Writing center scholars have, therefore, traditionally marked within their scholarship a rich history of marginalization and misidentification. For instance, the foundational work of writing center studies, Stephen North's 1984 essay “The Idea of a Writing Center,” states unequivocally that “[m]isunderstanding is something one expects” when working in a writing center. His essay “began out of frustration” with the “ignorance” of colleagues who “do not understand what does happen, what can happen, in a writing center.”vi North wrote to an audience inside the field of English, but outside of writing centers, noting that his colleagues' misidentification of writing centers significantly impacted – indeed, sometimes inhibited – the work of the writing center itself.
Another indication of misidentification in/of the writing center can be seen in scholars' use of increasingly wild metaphors to label or understand or explain the work of the writing center. Peter Carino noted over twenty years ago that “the various attempts at definition in our literature can leave one dizzy.”vii Even a partial list can induce such dizziness. For example, writing center workers may cast themselves as outlaws,viii but they do not want to be seen as servile housewives.ix They might be hard laborers,xxi midwives,xiixiii mother confessors,xiv fieldworkers,xv exorcists,xvi hairstylists,xvii punks,xviii outlaws,xix prostitutes,xx or bull fighters.xxi The tutor’s language can be heard as “noise from the Writing Center,” or perceived as feedback (remembering what Jimi Hendrix was able to do with feedback).xxii The writing center as institutional space may be a “contact zone” or “safe house,”xxiii but not a “fix-it” shop or “first-aid station.”xxiv Writing centers may be prisons, madhouses, or hospitals,xxv clean, well-lighted places,xxvi hideaways,xxvii frontiers,xxviii borderlands,xxix carnivals,xxx storehouses, garrets, Burkean parlors,xxxi health clubs,xxxii churches,xxxiiixxxiv or brothels.xxxv Dizzying indeed!
Metaphors, as described by Lakoff and Johnson, help structure our “everyday functioning, down to the most mundane details,”xxxvi and writing center scholars have used metaphor to better identify and pin down the “mundane details” of our alternative work in academia. As writing center workers use metaphor to grasp the slippery surface of identity, they enact at least partially Burke's method of “perspective by incongruity”: “By simply passing over the barriers of the word […] you may coach it to migrate beyond its customary barriers, often with valuable interpretative results.”xxxvii In order to “migrate” or “see around the corner”xxxviii of the everyday writing center, we define this in terms of that. This process of interpretation both corrects for, and reifies, fundamental misidentifications of the writing center.
Although misidentification can have serious impact upon the status and material realities of writing center professionals,xxxix its “interpretive results” can also provide a theoretically complex and ideologically sound place from which to ground one's work.xlxli For instance, while writing center scholars have written about their alternative place in the academy, many have also written about the alternative identities that move through the university. Writing center scholars have recently begun serious scholarship into the politics of identification and anti-oppression,xliixliii including my own work on sexuality and writing centers.xlivxlv Likewise, writing center scholars are at the forefront of an increasingly multi-modal vision of composition within a trans-disciplinary context,xlvi promoting ELL work and multiple Englishes,xlviixlviii digital literacies,xlixlli and the role of composition in social justice.liiliiiliv As an alternative academic space, the writing center's ability to “migrate beyond […] customary barriers” leaves its workers poised to offer critical re-interpretations of the university.
Just as I experience misidentification when trying to locate for others my alternative place in the university, so too do I experience certain everyday misidentifications regarding my alternative sexual identity as a bisexual man. First, bisexuality is often misunderstood and dismissed as either an identity that doesn't really exist, or as an identity that is merely temporary. Summarizing certain negative views of bisexuality as expressed on internet forums frequented by lesbians and gay men, Anna Borgos notes that bisexuality is often (and unfortunately) considered a “pre-identity state,” a “sexual practice without any other personal or political commitment.”lv Her descriptions align with my own experience, as does the report “Bisexual Invisibility,” from the LGBT Advisory Committee of the San Francisco Human Rights Commission. There, they note that bisexuality is often misconstrued as a “phase” through which people go “en route to a stable gay or lesbian orientation.”lvi A second misconception surrounding bisexuality, noted by Borgos, is the belief that bisexuals are unable to remain monogamous, and that bisexuals must maintain relationships with both men and women. Bisexuality is tied to “sex-centrism, poligamy or promiscuity, emotional and sexual infidelity and irresponsibility.”lvii Lastly, the LGBT Advisory Committee's report highlights the tendency for bisexuality to be “eclipsed” by or “conflated” with more visible identities.lviii
If, for example, I show up to a campus event with a same-sex partner, I am likely to be read as a gay man. If, however, I show up with a partner of a different sex, I am likely read as straight. The report describes this as an “erasure” that leads to an “invisible place in history.”lix The body is read, then, not as a literalization or embodiment of my own desires, but as text—a text to be handled by others, a text at risk of being misread, misconstrued, or misinterpreted by its readers. Reading a person's identity, therefore, can be understood as a literacy practice; sexuality and the embodied narratives that surround it can be understood as part of our “bodily text.”
Ruth Holliday, in her article “The Comfort of Identity,” develops the idea of identity as literacy, describing the “bodily text” as a “story created not only by writers, but also by readers.”lx Holliday focuses on the likelihood of the queer bodily text to be “misread,” noting the “disjuncture” between one's internal explanation of, or for, oneself and the external expression of that self.lxi The legibility of our bodily texts is affected not only by our ability to “write” such texts, but also by the ability of our readers to access, perceive, and make sense of such texts. Writing about the “textual histories” of books and documents, scholar Yuri Cowan notes that “it is rare that any one person can be said to control the final form of a text.”lxii External factors exert pressure upon texts, each with its own attendant politics of control. “Every text has a material history—in many cases a long and rich one—dictated by the cultural, aesthetic, and economic choices of authors, publishers, printers, editors, and illustrators.”lxiii
Like the printed texts discussed by Cowan, our bodily texts are also subject to such lack of control, able to be misread, misinterpreted, or misidentified. For example, I recall feeling the sense of “disjuncture” described by Holliday most acutely during my relationship with a former partner. She was a bisexual cis-gender woman, so despite our own political and sexual commitments, we recognized that when our bodies occupied public space together, we signified as a heterosexual couple. We attempted to mitigate this; I recall purposefully wearing a rainbow beaded necklace, while she consciously wore pro-LGBTQ t-shirts when going out. Still, we worried even these moves would be read as signs that we were straight allies, rather than members of LGBTQ communities ourselves. Because of this disjuncture between the presentation and reception of our bisexual identities, going out together never felt like coming out. Passing for straight, however unintentionally, we felt distinctly uncomfortable attending our local “gay bar” together, despite having both attended on and off for several years.
The legibility, then, of our alternative identities, whether in writing centers or in our sexuality, is certainly effected (and perhaps affected) by our institutional contexts. These identities belong to larger institutions. As they are read, they are also institutionalized: understood along or belonging to larger, normalizing social structures. For the writing center, that structure is the university, with its lecture-based classrooms and professor/student binary. For bisexuality, that social structure is an institutionalized heteronormative patriarchy, with rigidly defined binaries of man/woman and gay/straight. As noted above, it is difficult to present a bisexual identity when presenting myself as part of a couple; my identity is misread (“erased”) and re-conceived along the institutional line of the gay/straight binary.
The “final form” of the bodily text is neither solely the work of the author, nor of the reader, and as Holliday notes, “there are infinite possibilities for the queer body to be misread.”lxiv As author of my own bodily text, I attempt to present my own internal expectations of bisexuality. Likewise, writing center scholars attempt to externalize their own understanding of “what does happen, what can happen, in a writing center.”lxv When these internal expectations match their external expressions, identities can be read as intended, and the process of co-creating our bodily or institutional texts with others is relatively smooth. However, through clarifying or highlighting the extent of our difference, we pass over the “customary barriers” of our bodily texts to a space exceeding these binaries, “around the corner” from everyday institutional usage, and our ability to co-create meaning is disrupted.
Even if we possess the power to choose or define our idiosyncratic or alternative paths, we do not necessarily choose the contexts through which those paths wind. I wouldn't, for instance, have chosen hetero-patriarchy as the context for my bisexuality, nor would I have chosen a corporatized system of neoliberal higher education that routinely devalues and discredits the work of the Humanities as the context for my academic career.
The work I do as an alternative academic (both as a writing center worker and as a bisexual), tends to resist or disrupt normalized, everyday binary distinctions. As bisexuality is neither gay nor straight, the writing center is neither classroom nor student union. Therefore, when my bodily text is read, it is re-written. I am revised into a more standard, recognizable form of text; my excess desire is not merely illegible, it is excised, edited away through others' re-construction of meaning. The work I do often remains undocumented, unaccounted for at my college, a ghost in the academic machine. Although we may attempt ways of signifying differently, as with the metaphors used by writing center scholars, or by wearing pro-LGBTQ jewelry and clothing, our identities remain obscured or out of sight—around the corner—at least for readers whose line of sight remains straight.
To further unpack Burke’s spatial metaphor of seeing “around the corner,” we might need to consider the queer angles implied by a “perspective by incongruity.” Dovetailing the work of Sara Ahmed, we might ask:
Why angle? It is a word with a queer history. The word ‘angle’ derives from Old French angle ‘angle, corner,’ and directly from Latin angulus ‘an angle, corner,’ a diminutive form from PIE root *ang-/*ank- “to bend” (cf. Greek ankylos ‘bent, crooked,’ Latin ang(u)ere “to compress in a bend, fold, strangle). An angle is a bend in a line.lxvi
To engage identifications and practices beyond the everyday usage, then, is to move around a corner, to bend an angle into the otherwise straight line. We know that to get an “angle” on something is to gain perspective. “What's your angle?” we ask, suspicion in our words. Angles are incongruous with straightness—a perspective by incongruity is a queer perspective. The varying degrees of angles forms our perspective, our incongruity, our queer way of viewing the world.
Our line of sight, then, is bent. But what about the line of sight that is trained on us? When we consider how we are viewed—how we are within view—we must consider the straightness of the line of sight. Our incongruous angles exceed such straightness. Our bodily texts are only partially displayed, unable to be read wholly (if such wholeness is indeed possible, which may not be the case). We are out of sight to some degree, a presence hidden “around the corner,” beyond the line of sight. Alternative academics are at work around the corner of the everyday usage; alternative academics are sometimes out of line.
Anne Ruggles Gere notes that “A shift in angle of vision can lead to small gestures that carry larger significance.”lxvii The intimate space of the one-with-one tutoring session is laden with such small gestures: a tutor's casual words of encouragement that might inspire complex, interesting student papers or re-evaluated stances toward education and society. Sexuality is similarly laden: the brush of a hand, the lingering warmth of an embrace, the quality of a sidelong glance. Sometimes that “larger significance” is readily apparent; other times, it remains obscured “around the corner.” The relative legibility of such gestures often depends heavily upon the reader's ability to recognize and access their intended meaning.
Attending to alternative paths in career and sexuality compels me to see around corners, urges me to be seen from around them. I become more immediately, if unconsciously, aware of coded languages, of hidden texts. I develop a feel for the obscured; I read the bodies trapped in palimpsest. I can begin to recognize, just by touch, where there exists a path and where the grass is merely bent.
i Sara Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006), 170.
ii Anne Ellen Geller and Harry Denny, “Of Ladybugs, Low Status, and Loving the Job: Writing Center Professionals Navigating Their Careers.” The Writing Center Journal 33.1 (2013): 96-129.
iiiAlthough I use the term “bisexual” both in day-to-day life and throughout this article, I recognize the problematic limits of the term. First, it either reifies the false dichotomy of the gender binary by implying only two, separate gender options exist, or it implies that I am attracted ONLY to people whose gender identities fit neatly within those rigid boxes (i.e., that I am not attracted to trans*, genderqueer, or other non-gender conforming people). Neither of these implications are true. My sexuality might better be described as pansexual or omnisexual, yet I persist in using “bisexual” as an inclusive umbrella term.
iv Kenneth Burke, Philosophy of Literary Form (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 1941), 400.
v Nancy Grimm, “Rearticulating the Work of the Writing Center,” College Composition and Communication 47.4 (1996): 523-548.
vi Stephen M. North, “The Idea of a Writing Center,” College English. 46.5 (1984): 433-446.
vii Peter Carino, “What Do We Talk About When We Talk About Our Metaphors,” The Writing Center Journal 13.1 (1992): 31-41.
viii Peter Carino, “Reading Our Own Words: Rhetorical Analysis and the Institutional Discourse of Writing Centers,” in Writing Center Research: Extending the Conversation, eds. Paula Gillespie, Alice Gillam, Lady Falls Brown, and Byron Stay (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2002), 91-110.
ix Nancy Grimm, Good Intentions (New Hampshire: Boyton/Cook Publishers, Inc, 1999).
x Elizabeth H. Boquet, Noise from the Writing Center (Logan, Utah: Utah State UP, 2002).
xi Donna Marmostein, “The Tutor as Hard Laborer,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 17.7 (1993): 8.
xii Michelle Delappe, “Midwifery in the Writing Center,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 22.9 (1998): 1-4.
xiii Donna Fontanarose Rabuck, “Giving Birth to Voice: The Professional Writing Tutor as Midwife,” Writing Center Perspectives Eds. Byron L. Stay, Christina Murphy and Eric H. Hobson. (Emmitsburg, Maryland: NWCA Press, 1995), 112-19.
xiv Mary Trelka, “The Tutor as Mother Confessor,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 11.1 (1986): 9-10.
xv Nancy Grimm, Good Intentions (New Hampshire: Boyton/Cook Publishers, Inc, 1999).
xvi Alice Gillam, Susan Callaway, and Katherine Hennessey Wikoff, “The Role of Authority and the Authority of Roles in Peer Writing Tutorials,” Journal of Teaching Writing 12. 2 (1994): 161-198.
xvii Shannon Carter, “Tutoring Writing is Performing Social Work is Coloring Hair: Writing Center Work as Activity System,” Praxis: A Writing Center Journal 3.2 (2006): http://praxis.uwc.utexas.edu/praxisarchive/?q=node/82.
xviii Joe Essid, “Working for the Clampdown? Being Crafty at Managed Universities,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 30.2 (2005): 1-5.
xix Rebecca Day Babcock, “Outlaw Tutoring: Editing and Proofreading Revisited,” Journal of College Reading and Learning 38.2 (2008): 63-70.
xx Scott Russell, “Clients Who Frequent Madam Barnett's Emporium,” The Writing Center Journal 20.1 (1999): 61-72.
xxi Cynthia Aleo, “Does a Comma Splice Have Horns,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 17.9 (1993): 9.
xxii Elizabeth H. Boquet, Noise from the Writing Center (Logan, Utah: Utah State UP, 2002).
xxiii Janice M. Wolff, “Teaching in the Contact Zone: The Myth of Safe Houses,” Critical Theory and the Teaching of Literature: Politics, Curriculum, Pedagogy. Eds. James F. Slevin and Art Young. (Urbana, IL: NCTE. 1996): 316-327.
xxiv Stephen M. North, “The Idea of a Writing Center,” College English. 46.5 (1984): 433-446.
xxv Michael A. Pemberton, "The Prison, the Hospital, and the Madhouse: Redefining Metaphors for the Writing Center," The Writing Lab Newsletter 17.1 (1992): 11-16.
xxvi Wendy Bishop, “Reflections on the Sites We Call Centers,” Focuses 8.2 (1995): 89-99.
xxvii Derek Owens, "Hideaways and Hangouts, Public Squares and Performance Spaces: New Metaphors for Writing Center Design," Creative Approaches to Writing Center Work. Eds. Kevin Dvorak and Shanti Bruce. Hampton Press, 2008.
xxviii Nancy Grimm, Good Intentions (New Hampshire: Boyton/Cook Publishers, Inc, 1999).
xxix Beatrice Mendez Newman, “Centering in the Borderlands: Lessons from Hispanic Student Writers,” The Writing Center Journal 23.2 (2003): 43-62.
xxx Angela Petit, “Removable Feasts: The Writing Center as Carnival,” Composition Forum 12.1 (2001): 41-58.
xxxi Andrea Lunsford, "Collaboration, Control, and the Idea of a Writing Center," The Writing Center Journal 12.1 (1991): 3-10.
xxxii Libby Falk Jones, “New Metaphors for the Writing Center,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 20.5 (1998): 6-8.
xxxiii Dave Healy, “In the Temple of the Familiar: The Writing Center as Church,” Writing Center Perspectives. Eds. Byron L. Stay, Christina Murphy, and Eric H. Hobson. Emmitsburg, MD: NWCA Press, 1995. 12-25.
xxxiv Libby Falk Jones, “New Metaphors for the Writing Center,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 20.5 (1998): 6-8.
xxxv Scott Russell, “Clients Who Frequent Madam Barnett's Emporium,” The Writing Center Journal 20.1 (1999): 61-72.
xxxvi George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1980), 3.
xxxvii Kenneth Burke, Philosophy of Literary Form (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State UP, 1941), 401.
xxxviii Ibid., 400.
xxxix Anne Ellen Geller and Harry Denny, “Of Ladybugs, Low Status, and Loving the Job: Writing Center Professionals Navigating Their Careers,” The Writing Center Journal 33.1 (2013): 96-129.
xl Lil Brannon and Stephen M. North, “The Uses of the Margins,” The Writing Center Journal 20.2 (2000): 7-12.
xli Joe Essid, “Working for the Clampdown? Being Crafty at Managed Universities,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 30.2 (2005): 1-5.
xlii Harry Denny, Facing the Center: Toward an Identity Politics of One-to-One Mentoring (Logan, Utah: Utah State UP, 2010).
xliii Laura Greenfield and Karen Rowan, eds. Writing Centers and the New Racism: A Call for Sustainable Dialogue and Change (Logan, UT: Utah State UP, 2011).
xliv Andrew Rihn, “Writing Centers and the Intellectual Labor of Sexual Difference,” Forum (CCCC) 17.2 (2014): A11-A14.
xlv Andrew Rihn and Jay D. Sloan, “Rainbows in the Past were Gay: LGBTQIA in the WC,” Praxis: A Writing Center Journal 10.2 (2013): 1-13.
xlvi Arlene Archer, “Dealing with Multimodal Assignments in Writing Centers,” The Writing Lab Newsletter 35.9-10 (2011): 10-13.
xlvii Rebecca Day Babcock, Tell Me How It Reads: Tutoring Deaf and Hearing Students in the Writing Center (Washington, D.C.: Galludet University Press, 2012.)
xlviii Nancy Effinger Wilson, “Stocking the Bodega: Towards a New Writing Center Paradigm,” Praxis: A Writing Center Journal 10.1 (2012): 1-9.
xlix Jackie Grutsch McKinney. “New Media Matters: Tutoring in the Late Age of Print.” The Writing Center Journal 29.2 (2009): 28-51.
li David Sheridan and James A. Inman, eds. Multiliteracy Centers: Writing Center Work, New Media, and Multimodal Rhetoric (New York: Hampton Press, 2010.)
lii Timothy Ballingall, “A Hybrid Discussion of Multiliteracy and Identity Politics,” Praxis: A Writing Center Journal 11.1 (2013): 1-6.
liii Allison Hitt, “Access for All: The Role of Dis/Ability in Multiliteracy Centers,” Praxis: A Writing Center Journal 9.2 (2012): 1-7.
liv Liliana M. Naydan, “Just Writing Center Work in the Digital Age: De Facto Multiliteracy Centers in Dialogue with Questions of Social Justice,” Praxis: A Writing Center Journal 11.1 (2013): 1-7.
lv Anna Borgos, “The Boundaries of Identity Bisexuality in Everyday and Theoretical Contexts,” in Beyond the Pink Curtain: Everyday Life of LGBT People in Eastern Europe, eds. Roman Kuhar and Judit Takács (Ljubljana: Peace Institute, 2007), 170.
lvi LGBT Advisory Committee, Bisexual Invisibility: Impacts and Recommendations, (San Francisco, CA: San Francisco Human Rights Commission. 2011), 3.
lvii Anna Borgos, “The Boundaries of Identity: Bisexuality in Everyday and Theoretical Contexts,” in Beyond the Pink Curtain: Everyday Life of LGBT People in Eastern Europe, eds. Roman Kuhar and Judit Takács (Ljubljana: Peace Institute, 2007), 170-1.
lviii LGBT Advisory Committee, Bisexual Invisibility: Impacts and Recommendations, (San Francisco, CA: San Francisco Human Rights Commission. 2011), 3.
lix Ibid., 5.
lx Ruth Holliday, “The Comfort of Identity,” Sexualities 2.4 (1999): 486.
lxi Ibid., 487-8.
lxii Yuri Cowan, “Introduction: Textual Histories,” Mémoires du livre / Studies in Book Culture 4.2 (2013): http://www.erudit.org/revue/memoires/2013/v4/n2/1016735ar.html
lxiv Ruth Holliday, “The Comfort of Identity,” Sexualities 2.4 (1999): 487.
lxv Stephen M. North, “The Idea of a Writing Center,” College English. 46.5 (1984): 433.
lxvi Sara Ahmed, March 12, 2014, “Queer Angles,” feministkilljoys (blog), Accessed April 14, 2014, http://feministkilljoys.com/2014/03/12/queer-angles/.
lxvii Anne Ruggles Gere, “Angles of Vision,” Digital Rhetoric Collaborative (blog), Gayle Morris Sweetland Digital Rhetoric Collaborative Accessed 10 April 2014, http://www.digitalrhetoriccollaborative.org/2014/04/10/angles-of-vision/.
Image: “Ok Type With Arrow” by Evan Moss