This dissertation was developed in response to a long-standing imperative for teachers and scholars of writing: the need to meet students where they are (technologically) and keep up with emerging writing technologies. Said differently, when an emerging writing technology comes on the scene, teachers of writing tend to develop theoretical and pedagogical approaches for students' use of that technology in the writing classroom. While the imperative to keep up is well-meaning, the attempt can feel futile or, at the very least, pedagogically frustrating. This frustration is often fueled by permanent innovation, or when a culture’s technological innovation outpaces its ability to adapt to and for those technologies. To address the ever-evolving difficulties inherent within the relationship between writing, developing technologies, and teaching writing, this dissertation offers the field of Composition a path through the futility and frustration represented by keeping up. I call this intervention Composition’s “Technological Boneyard,” or more simply, “the boneyard.” The boneyard is first and foremost a metaphor, an imagined dumping ground that contains the obsolete, trashed, and forgotten technologies of writing that Composition has used and discarded in its move toward its raison d'être: the study and teaching of writing. Brimming with obsolete and discarded technologies of writing—like the first personal computers, floppy and hard disks, keyboards, and early mobile devices—the boneyard allows Composition to (re)investigate its technological and techno-pedagogical history, as well as its current relationships with developing technologies and writing. Through two qualitative case studies, this dissertation investigates the technologies in the boneyard and considers how abandoned, obsolete, and forgotten writing tools have shaped (and continue to shape) the teaching of writing in higher education, as well as Composition’s own history.

In Writing the Goodlife Ybarra details the reasons why Mexican American Literature emphasizes domestic life while seeming not to address human relationship to the environment. Ybarra reveals how environmental relationships take shape within the domestic lives of characters in Mexican American Literature, rather than in ‘wilderness’ settings as is often the case with Anglo American literature. In my own reading of Mexican American novels, I have been interested in how affect, or the emotional, also illuminates the human-nonhuman relationships within and outside of domesticity. To explore this area of interest and analysis, I call upon Teresa Brennan’s Transmission of Affect, which provides a technical language for understanding emotion. Brennan writes that the transmission of affect occurs “via an interaction with other people” [and] that the emotions of “one person, and the enhancing and depressing energies these affects entail, can enter into another” (Brennan 3). Describing the limits of her work, Brennan states that the environment in which human affective interactions occur are always a factor but, in her book, she is not “investigating environmental factors” if the word “environment” means human-nature relationships. That area of analysis falls “outside the scope of [her] book” (Brennan 8). Stepping into that opening, I bring Ybarra’s insights on ‘the good life’ together with Brennan’s technical language of affect to lay out the argument of my thesis. I build and expand understandings of domesticity, perceptions of environment, and transmission of affect with an analysis of three representative works of Mexican American Literature: Like Water For Chocolate 1989 by Laura Esquivel, So Far From God 1993 by Ana Castillo, and Bless Me, Ultima 1972 by Rudolfo Anaya. Linking analysis of affect to analysis of Mexican American domestic literary representations (that are replete with concepts of human-nonhuman relationships) highlights the intersectionality and multisubjectivity of these three important novels. I also trace Ybarra’s discussion of the “good life” to its South America roots in the concept of “buen vivir” as I explore how understanding traditional indigenous scientific literacies helps fortify Ybarra’s notion that the environmental is always at work within representation of the domestic in Mexican American literature.

The need to draw a more explicit connection between literature and the daily lives of students has become an increasingly pressing issue. Preeminent literary scholars have long argued that the design of many undergraduate classrooms only engages the student with literature to a degree that, long term, does not produce habits of criticism that engage students with wider contexts of conflict. The yield instead primarily takes place in a classroom. Leading scholars tend to draw connections of value between the work they are teaching and the lives of students by focusing on how they negotiate specific power discourses. However, placing an emphasis on having habits of criticism function regarding specific biases in contexts restricts the kinds of conflict students are prepared to negotiate. To encourage a habit of critical thinking in undergraduate students that can be applied to any context of conflict and bias, a vocabulary on language failure should be taught and analyzed through its implications in origin myths that explain and justify division. Language failure, or the failure of symbols to represent subjects in their full capacity, is a concept and theory introduced by Kenneth Burke to examine conflict at a conceivable root. Burke suggests that language failure is the core of misrepresentation and conflict and is inevitably the result of any ‘identification’, or selection of meaning that is assigned to symbols. Identifications are selections of meaning and conceptions of value that organize bodies towards a social purpose, under a limited perspective. The danger of language failure is present when it goes unacknowledged. In identifications, the repercussions of language failure continually complicate, divide and propagate in discourse; assumptions about the validity of identifications encourage more complex ‘blind-spots’ and misrepresentations that exclude populations and have violent potentials. The more complex the layering of association between identifications becomes, the more obscured their foundational failure, their nature of non-innateness, is, faced as truth, affective as justice. The ‘affective’ foundation behind these powerful associations and assumptions is myth. Origin myth, or a narrative that explains the beginning of some worldly phenomena, founds, and adapts to the needs of culture and society. Teaching students to regard risks of language use as being foundational in their cultural thought, their criticism, and their communication, enriches their capability to negotiate and participate ambivalently in conflicts faced during their daily lives.