As a language student, one of the greatest lessons that I ever received came from my German instructor in my third year of my undergraduate degree. She asked if I considered myself fluent in German. A relatively simple question, but I couldn't respond. I remember going through this complex process in my mind.  I should have been able to say yes, but I couldn't. I had been studying the language for six years, yet I still wasn't confident enough to define myself as ‘fluent’. I remember thinking that if I committed myself to owning that title, then the expectations – both my own and those of my instructor – would increase exponentially. Doesn't ‘fluent’ mean perfect? 

My silence didn't phase my instructor. She laughed, and told me not to worry. Then she asked if I considered myself fluent in English, fully knowing that English is my native language. I laughed and quickly replied yes. My instructor then asked, very seriously, if that meant that I knew every word in the English language. Her point was immediately made. 

Although I moved forward from the meeting with my instructor considering myself fluent in German,  the conversation stuck with me. It resurfaced with a vengeance every time I failed to make myself understood because I couldn't find the right German word for the situation. It mocked me as I struggled to set-up a bank account while living in Munich. But when I delivered a flawless presentation in my German literature class, that conversation was a much-appreciated reassurance. 

Over the many experiences that I had during the final years of my degree, and even now as I continue to take opportunities to speak German, I continue to consider myself fluent. However, my understanding of what it means to ‘be fluent’ has evolved since that first conversation with my instructor. I think that there is a sliding scale of fluency. There are times when I am more fluent, and other times when I am less. There are a million things that impact where I am on the sliding scale at any given time, but I remain on the scale. 

I've been reflecting on this idea, particularly after reading the article, “Helping students meet the challenges of academic writing”. I'd like to suggest that this theory of a sliding scale can apply to the concept of ‘being a writer’. While I struggle with the idea of committing wholly to the title of ‘writer’, I acknowledge that it is, by Fernsten and Reda's definition, true. These authors write that "writers are people who are trying to communicate in a particular form; writers are people who write - a practice not bound by profession or discipline" (176). I write, and frequently. But once again, I find that I am not confident that I deserve the title. I am comfortable, however, to agree that I am a writer, to some degree, at all times. 

I am not convinced that "forcing" a student to identify themselves as a writer, as is suggested by Fernsten and Reda (176), is the best approach to creating confidence. I believe that there are methods and processes that can support the development of this identity. Moreover, I believe that engaging with an idea and developing an identity unique to each person creates a much stronger foundation than simply having one forced on him or her.

As I have drawn these parallels between the titles of 'fluent' and 'writer' for myself, I have come to better appreciate the complexities of each of these pieces of my own identity. I believe that an identity is complex and multifaceted, and should be treated as such. I appreciate that Fernsten and Reda have created a strategy that is intended to initiate a process and build a "space to explore" (177), however I would argue that there is a need for self-reflection prior to simply being forced to own a title.

References

Fernsten, Linda A. and Mary Reda. "Helping students meet the challenges of academic writing." Teaching in Higher Education 16.2 (2011): 171-82.