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When I started my doctoral program at Stanford, I was assigned a peer mentor who was, like me, a first-generation student from a working-class background. At our first meeting, he kicked off the conversation by asking, “So what’s your background?” I was about to describe growing up amidst the cornfields of suburban Chicago, when he continued his question: “Do you consider yourself post-structuralist, postmodernist, postcolonial . . .?” Knowing only the vague outlines of these intellectual movements, I had no clue how to respond.
That was my introduction to what would prove to be one of my biggest challenges as a grad student: learning to swim in the sea of critical theory that dominated literary and cultural studies in the 1990s. The assigned readings were dense and loaded with jargon; it often took the better part of an hour to untangle the meaning of a single paragraph. The experience sorely tested my love of reading and made me second-guess the decision to pursue a PhD. I persisted, but it took many years to unlearn the idea that being an academic meant communicating in intentionally obscure ways, always sprinkling Fancy Words into your sentences as though you are seasoning a pot of beans.
I found myself reflecting on this point last week, as I listened to a presentation by Dr. Patricia Lopez, a friend and former SJSU colleague. Describing her approach to grant writing, she described the effort she takes to ensure that her work is accessible to the communities she represents. “When I write something,” she explained, “I want my family to be able to read it. They don’t have PhDs, and they don’t read peer-reviewed journals.” Her words served as a reminder that disciplinary terminology can serve as a form of gatekeeping, narrowing the reach of our work because it limits the wider audience.
When I write or prepare a talk, I frequently imagine that I am writing to our students—people who may be new to the field but who are eager to pick up new conceptual tools and apply them to real-world issues. The most satisfying affirmation of my teaching would be when students returned from a holiday break to proudly announce, “I told my parents what we’re learning about in this class!” It meant that they were embracing and using our course content—and, for many, translating it into Spanish, Zapotec, Vietnamese, or Tagalog to discuss it with their family members.
If you engage in research or creative activity, do you have a particular audience in mind? If you currently only write to others who share your level of education and area of expertise, what would your work look like if you were instead writing for your family, local communities, or general readers who could get really excited about your work if they had a welcome entry point? I encourage you to consider how you might broaden the circle of people you aim to reach, opening the possibility for a more diverse audience to engage with your ideas. By stepping away from jargon, we don’t lose complexity, but instead gain valuable connections and learn something new ourselves along the way.
Sincerely,
Magdalena L. Barrera
Vice Provost for Faculty Success
