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BY TRADITION, the leading association of scholars in the field of foreign languages and literatures is the Modern Language Association, and under its umbrella, ADFL functions as an association for departments, focusing attention on “matters of language program administration” (Welles 1). In this way, the MLA has built into its structure a recognition that the administration of departments calls for special attention, that administrators of departments need their own seminars and publications in addition to the scholarly meetings and journals that otherwise provide MLA members with venues for discussion.
We do not often address in the MLA or in ADFL the question of who is actually leading our profession—the scholars or the administrators. It is an uncomfortable question. In theory, we are all working together for the greater good. Many of us are, or try to be, both scholars and administrators. We do not want in our own departments the antagonism and mistrust that often exist on an institutional level between professors and career administrators. In these days, however, when departments and programs are in many places facing crises of reorganization or threats of downsizing, even of extinction, I choose to put the uncomfortable question quite explicitly and perhaps crassly in my title: Who's minding the store?
I think it is time for us to acknowledge openly that we in the language and literature profession are in the perhaps perilous position of having two kinds of leaders. I am not referring here to leaders of the two branches of our profession whose separation has been much discussed, the branches of language and literature. Seeking appropriate terms for the more subtle division of leadership that I am interested in, I recall the MLA convention in Chicago in 1995 when Aldo Scaglione organized a forum and two related workshops on the question of university governance. The forum, “Who's in Charge, Why, and What For?,” was held in an enormous room; the room was packed, and the speakers included stars of the profession, such as Stanley Fish. They were urbane, witty, very good—anyone could see why they were stars, and the audience (including myself) responded with gales of laughter and lengthy applause. Then the next day came the associated workshops, in smaller rooms with far fewer in the audiences: one on “relations between faculty and chairs” and the other on “relations between faculty and central administration.” The speakers of the day before did not attend (with the honorable exception of Aldo Scaglione). Most of the speakers and chairs of the workshops were, predictably, drawn from that association of the MLA that “concentrates on matters of language program administration,” ADFL. The first speaker in the morning session, Thomas Beyer, of Middlebury, a longtime chair and ADFL member and no mean speaker himself, stood up at the microphone, perused the half-empty room, and commented ruefully that he had been most impressed and entertained by the speeches at the forum the day before but that he had to admit when he looked at what was going on in the profession as a whole, he really found very little to laugh about. Just as I had laughed with the speakers of the day before, so I agreed ruefully with Tom Beyer. What was witty in the forum did not seem to apply in the workshop, and it occurred to me then that the quintessential MLA configuration of the forum and workshops illustrated graphically the two branches of leadership that exist in our profession: on the one hand, the forum leaders on the public stage, the stars, the speakers who draw the big MLA crowds, the top publishing scholars; on the other hand, the workshop leaders, the people who chair departments, who deal with the day-to-day business of staffing courses, of working with faculty members and administrators. Of course, a forum leader may well be or have been a department chair, and a workshop leader may well be or have been a publishing literary scholar. Nonetheless there are two different spheres in which they play their roles as leaders.
I would like to reflect on what it means to have leaders in our profession operating in two different spheres. It was not ever thus, at least in my own experience. If I look back to my first years in the profession, more than thirty years ago in England, it seems to me that there was then one kind of leader in one kind of sphere. The best-known, most published scholar of the department was usually the chair. One expected the chair to set the scholarly tone of the department and also to run it day to day. Both these tasks seemed less onerous and less complicated than they are now in this country, and they were much closer together. British scholars were not so hell-bent on publishing in those days, and the main work of running the department centered in any case on academic and curricular organization. All this has changed, of course, in England. Universities, I am told, and departments within universities are now ranked according to “research standing,” and chairs are increasingly expected to be business managers as well as teachers and scholars.
I am not simply harking back nostalgically to the good old days, though it is always pleasant to do that. I am actually doing something that is considerably less pleasant: I am suggesting, as my title indicates, that there is a traditional leadership in our profession, that it is no longer synonymous with the working administrative leadership, and that neither is clearly subordinate to the other. This presents us with a major organizational problem. The traditional scholarly leaders, the forum leaders of whom I have spoken, still have large academic followings and a great deal of personal prestige, but these traditional leaders, admired and applauded as they may still be, are arguably, in the real world of today's universities, being bypassed in our field, as perhaps in no other. Those of us playing the role of workshop leader are firmly planted in that real world, and we find ourselves in many instances obliged to bypass them. We go our way, and we let them go theirs. This modus vivendi, I would like to suggest, has been detrimental to our whole enterprise, and it is what prompts me to ask the mundane question in my title: Who is minding the store?
These are still general terms, and I should define them more precisely. Let me begin with the image of the store. I am going to invoke the privilege of being close to the end of my own professional career to make an unashamedly personal statement about what I think the store is and what I see happening to it, after thirty years of working in it in this country. I came here, as many of us in the United States did, from another country, and if I look back forty years, I can see myself arriving at the University of London at the age of nineteen. The chair of the German department of Bedford College, an indomitable professor of the old school, Edna Purdie, called the new undergraduate students entering the department together and said, “For the next three years, you will be devoting your time to German language and literature, not to the passing of examinations. By the end of the three years, you will be able to read and understand anything written in the German language from the eighth century to the present day. That is your goal.” None of us were particularly surprised to hear this. We thought that was why we were there. We had come to college to study German language and literature. My only complaint about Professor Purdie was that her “present day” stopped at about 1914—all literature after that she considered too modern to view objectively, and thus not suitable for us. Other than that, I do not remember that any of us had any objection to the course of study laid down for us, which led from Old High German to Middle High German to Early New High German to the Baroque; through eighteenth-century Enlightenment and nineteenth-century Romanticism, and on to a crashing stop in 1914. That was forty years ago. Another place, another time. My revered professor, Edna Purdie, writer on the nineteenth-century dramatist Friedrich Hebbel, could run her particular small store quite effectively because she had ready-made customers who had learned German for five to seven years before they ever fell into her hands, who had already read a number of the classics at secondary school (albeit in Later New High German), and who had come to the university with the express intention of reading more. Many would go back to the kinds of secondary schools from which they had come and teach the German language and the German classics to the next generation of students. The system, in other words, worked at that time and in that place. The United States foreign literature major, long beloved of foreign language departments in this country, has, as we all know, been largely modeled on systems appropriate to that kind of time and that kind of place. Our time and our place are different.
In a 1990 article entitled “Reflections of an Emeritus (To-Be)” published in the MLA's Profession , Peter Demetz, of Yale, looks back on his thirty-year career in the United States and argues the case for the kind of teaching he has done in German literature classes over the years. He does not, be it said, argue the case for teaching literature rather than other things; he defends his having given priority to “textual, structural, and generic concerns” rather than to questions of “social background or relevance, psychological analysis, and ultimate significance” (4). He describes how, in teaching Lessing's eighteenth-century comedy Minna von Barnhelm , he tries to transmit his interest in the rhythm of dramatic events, the configurations of characters, the organizational features of the play; essentially he wants his students to see how the play works, how it is constructed by a particular playwright in a particular time, and he wants his students to derive pleasure from it. He is, given the climate of critical opinion in 1990, gracefully and ironically apologetic about this. I am not concerned here in the least with agreeing or disagreeing with his position, which of course would be shared by many of those who have polemicized much more violently against Demetz's “friends the deconstructionists” (5), but with drawing attention to the the nature of his concerns and to a telling aside in which he makes the obligatory apology for his position and explains that some of his priorities “are defined by the American classroom situation: many of [his] students have to read a German eighteenth-century text with the occasional use of a dictionary, and not all of them have seen a German play performed by professionals.” His concern in 1990, that the students should read, understand, and enjoy the text, is not so different from Professor Purdie's in 1954; his concessions to the American classroom seem, as a matter of fact, more meager than hers to the English one: she would certainly have expected us to make a good deal more than occasional use of the dictionary, and she would not have expected any of us to have seen professional German theater. The really dramatic difference, however, is that whereas Professor Purdie had a ready-made student audience, Demetz and I and all our contemporary professors of European literature in the 1980s and 1990s in the United States have not had such an audience. While a couple of generations of professors of literature, therefore, have been battling out, some with rapiers and some with bludgeons, the wars of literary theory and the partially related wars of political correctness, recognizing of course the need for “occasional use of the dictionary” in the American classroom, their undergraduate audience has dwindled away. Unless things change, many of these professors will retire leaving very few students in their undergraduate classrooms, altogether too many in their graduate classrooms, and consequently a brutal competition for the few positions still opening up for teachers in undergraduate foreign literature programs. Those of us who will soon retire have earned our salaries. We will receive our pensions. But our store is going bankrupt, and we leave our successors only with debts and with part-time jobs or unemployment. This is one of the ugly truths that makes it hard to be amusing or even charitable about our profession today.
I hope it is clear that I feel no joy in witnessing the demise of the traditional foreign language and literature program, though I realize full well that many people do feel joy, not to say schadenfreude. At the Foreign Languages across the Curriculum (FLAC) conference last fall I heard David Maxwell of the Language Research Center in Washington proclaim with great glee the devolution of language-teaching programs out of their traditional homes in the universities and the establishment of what he called “freestanding language programs,” which needed, in his terms, to be “outside the traditional language and literature departments.” Of course, I understand as well as Maxwell does why this change is indeed happening in some places, but I feel anger rather than joy at this turn of events—anger not at some outside forces that have brought this upon us but at ourselves that we have allowed it to happen, perhaps even made it necessary.
I have worked for the last fifteen years or so, as have others, quite consciously against such devolution, not for the status quo but for a genuine coordination over a period of years of language and literature teaching within the humanistic framework of a liberal arts curriculum and rooted in a clear awareness of undergraduate students' needs, their needs to be seriously educated, to reach a high level of literacy, and ultimately to make their way in a tough real world—needs that are, in my book, not so very different from one another. This can work. In the City University of New York, where German has steadily dwindled in recent years across the eighteen campuses, Hunter College had in 1996 eighty-eight students registered in our upper-level courses in German, doing a variety of things, reading the classics, learning business German, taking advanced level composition and conversation. Only about five of them were native or “seminative” speakers. Most of the nonnatives who go through the whole upper-level program will come out of it at least at the middle of the Advanced level on the ACTFL scale without spending time in Germany. These results can be achieved within the framework of a traditional language and literature department. 1
After I pointed this out in the context of Maxwell's comments at the FLAC conference, one of the organizers wrote to me:
You and your colleagues at Hunter have been able to keep language and literature working together by coordinating the teaching of language and literature. But most institutions simply don't want to do that, and won't do it. More fool they, but it doesn't do the students any good in those cases where language learning and literary study are out of sync and out of sympathy with each other to keep the two together. If Mom and Dad want a divorce, they had better get one. Departments like yours can be a reproach to us all by remaining two-parent families. 2
(Schoenberg)
This proposed solution, of simply giving up on the language-literature connection, is apparently being embraced in various institutions, not only in the obvious way that Maxwell was thinking of, namely through separate language programs and centers, but also, less obviously, by expanding the content of programs beyond the literary into cultural studies or interdisciplinary studies of various kinds and increasingly doing the teaching in English, thus quietly eliminating any attempt at language teaching beyond the elementary and intermediate levels. One hears more and more talk about creating separate departments of literature or of literature and culture and departments and centers of language. I think that many of us who have been active in language teaching in recent years may well have arrived at my correspondent's position that a divorce is better than a bad marriage. But one might remember that divorce is usually easier for the rich than for the poor. Affluent institutions can perhaps afford to run high-powered, well-staffed language centers and to retain a small elite body of professors to write books and teach literature and literary criticism to a small number of students. But as I have argued elsewhere, in universities like my own, with ever-decreasing budgets, such an apparently benign solution is hardly an option. We cannot afford the luxury of two separate faculties and two separate operations, and in our milieu, if such separation were attempted, it would probably result in the rapid abandonment of the elite strand, the gradual loss of most senior faculty members, and the teaching primarily of the lower levels of languages by low-paid part-time and non-tenure-track faculty members (James 27).
The best hope of a genuinely high-level, multiple-option education in foreign languages surely ties for many of us in having one faculty that will work with language in a cultural-literary context and open the doors to the highest levels of literacy for our students. What such a model entails, however, is a big change in the way professors now teaching in advanced undergraduate literature programs and in graduate programs view and conduct their professional lives.
I have in the past decade visited several large universities considered to be research institutions, and I have described the kind of language work we do with our students at all levels of the curriculum; the professors of literature have been conspicuous by their absence from such meetings, and the few who have attended have said such things as “I think what you do is wonderful, but we couldn't do it here.It would cut into our research agenda.” Of course they are right. It would. And universities have traditionally rewarded people for carrying out their research agendas.
But in the meantime, while the research agenda, largely literary, of our departments of language and literature has certainly been maintained and while by maintaining it, those fortunate enough to be hired in different times are still making their way up the tenure and promotion ladder, many doors seem to be closing in the faces of those who would now like to become teachers, to pursue similar literary research agendas, and also to make their way into the security of the professorial ranks. Why is this happening now?
The traditional leaders of our profession are trying to answer this question, shocked as they undoubtedly are by the loud cries of distress coming from the area of the job market. As Sandra Gilbert, the 1996 president of the MLA, pointed out in her first column in the MLA Newsletter, while controversies over the literary canon and interpretive style, disputes over literary theory inside the academy, and defenses of it against outside attacks marked the columns of her presidential predecessors during the previous decade, there was a new focus of attention in 1994 and 1995, when Patricia Meyer Spacks and Sander Gilman “inevitably devoted considerable attention to the interlocking issues of the job market, the changing character of our profession, and the future of the humanities” (“Columnar Selves” 3). Here is a very definite sign that the forum leaders are directly addressing the major practical problems facing the workshop leaders. Sander Gilman, a bona fide MLA star, showed recently in his year as president real concern for the plight of graduate students. In his Winter 1995 President's Column, he discussed what we, the members of the MLA, can do about it:
The problem is not that there is no need for teachers of foreign languages and English—virtually everyone believes in internationalization (at least for reasons of market competition) and in cultural literacy, language enrollments are up …, and English courses are filled…. There is even a nascent languages-across-the-curriculum movement…. The major issues today are economic—and not just in higher education. Yet the number of students in higher education continues to exceed the capacity to teach them. Students want to study what we want to teach.
(“Jobs” 4)
Here we have someone who sees precisely what is going on, describes it accurately, but then, in drawing a positive conclusion in his last sentence, illustrates equally precisely the seemingly willful blindness that has brought our profession to the verge of bankruptcy. “Students want to study what we want to teach”? This statement, as Edward Knox suggests politely in a letter responding to the column, is “simply not an accurate statement on recent history in language education.” Knox points to the past failure of MLA members and leaders to understand and support the long-standing calls for “communicative competence and proficiency” as part of the picture that Gilman, in his positive conclusion, ignores. Gilman, who himself believes strongly in the teaching of languages in the liberal arts curricula of colleges and universities, as he has shown in his other columns, is surely deluding himself if he believes that his colleagues in the upper reaches of the profession really want to teach what the students who certainly enroll en masse for language courses seem to want to study. If his colleagues en masse really wanted to teach what the students want to study, we would not be suffering in our language and literature programs from the small enrollments in upper-level courses that are literally the death of us in bad economic times.
Gilman is right when he says the major issues are economic; this fact, however, does not absolve us of all responsibility for what has happened. We (the professoriat) have contributed to our own economic vulnerability. In largely confining language teaching to the lowest levels of the curriculum and in assigning it to a category of teachers different from those who teach literature Or other content, we have undermined the rationale for having a paid, tenured, full-time professoriat in foreign languages. We ourselves fostered this separation long before anyone ever thought of language centers. In large segments of our profession, we handed over language teaching at the lower levels wholesale to graduate students or to part-time teachers who did not have the research commitment that justifies professorial rank; we refused in many cases to give professorial rank to language program coordinators, who often have a research commitment in language acquisition or in pedagogy; and, to cap it all, we disdained the activity of language teaching at the higher levels and in graduate school, pretending that American students could learn European languages in two years. Can we really be surprised if our upper-level classes are small? Can we really be surprised if it dawns on administrators under severe budgetary constraints that they can save a lot of money by doing away with the small upper-level foreign literature programs altogether and sustain the lower-level language courses without the benefit (and expense) of properly paid senior faculty members?
All over the country, institutions are looking at their programs, their departments, and their budgets, and they are counting heads. They see the lower levels (large) taught by cheap labor and the upper levels (small) taught by expensive labor. In the best cases, they wait for retirements and do not rehire. In the worst cases, they declare fiscal emergency and retrench. Either way, the future closes down for our discipline, for our future undergraduates, and for our present graduate students.
Small wonder that shouts of dismay from graduate students are beginning to sound loudly in the ears of the normally insulated traditional leadership. These shouts are finally bringing the potential bankruptcy of the profession to the forefront of MLA concerns. Until now, most senior scholars have seen only the convenience of having graduate students teach elementary language courses while swelling the ranks of graduate seminars. We have in many cases continued to take in graduate students without regard for their professional future; we have even recruited students from the countries whose languages we were teaching when the supply of American students seemed to be drying up. Students come here from other countries not always, I regret to say, as Sander Gilman optimistically suggests, because “we provide a … better perspective on the study of literature and culture” than their home countries do (“Jobs” 4) but because they think that their prospects of academic employment may be better here than there.We have continued for the most part to train graduate students for a career in the university teaching of literature, yet as the number of major programs in the traditionally taught literatures other than Spanish diminishes, the discrepancy between supply and demand seems to be on the increase.
A graduate student in English quoted by Sandra Gilbert in a recent President's Column sees the problem more clearly than many professional leaders do. “Discussion about limiting the number of grad students,” the student writes, “is a good start, but I don't think it gets at the root of the problems…. If, for example, there were no students for us to teach, no real need for literacy training or literary instruction beyond high school, I would feel strongly that the number of PhDs needed to be limited” (“Business Week” 4–5). Her point of view thus far coincides with Gilman's. Both Gilman and she recognize the need for teachers of English and foreign languages, but the graduate student is herself doing the sort of teaching that is sorely needed—teaching composition and sometimes an introduction to literature while getting a PhD—and her conclusion is very different from Gilman's. She sees that the future for her and for many of her contemporaries lies in going on doing such needed teaching part-time, with low pay and no benefits or job security. “There is a great need for people trained in language and literature,” she concludes succinctly, “and we must continue to train people to fill this need…. So the question is not really how to limit PhDs but how to compensate them for the work they are doing” (5). Quite so.
I recently talked myself with a roomful of graduate students in the many foreign language programs at Columbia University, languages from A to Z—well, A to Y, anyway: Arabic to Yiddish. It was a meeting organized on a Friday afternoon by the language program coordinators at Columbia, and my topic was “Teaching Language and Literature: A joint Enterprise or a Lost Cause?” I talked about teaching literature in the undergraduate curriculum, ways of teaching language in the literature curriculum. It was, of course, a workshop—hands on and with lots of discussion—but in the context, inevitably, of what is going on in the profession as a whole. I pointed out to them that while Columbia sits up there on its heights with graduate students specializing in many foreign literatures, the colleges of the eighteen-campus, 200,000-student City University of New York are losing languages wholesale from their undergraduate offerings: the last round of retrenchments and retirements left only one faculty member in the entire 200,000-student university who teaches Arabic. There is no one left in Yiddish, Polish, Swahili, Hindi, or Yoruba; there are only two in Japanese. There are three who can teach Portuguese, but they rarely do. There are only a handful of relatively strong programs left in German, French, and Italian; many of the faculty members in these remaining programs are approaching retirement age, and very little hiring is in the cards for the foreseeable future. The weaker full programs will therefore be altogether gone in five years unless some dramatic moves are made. Spanish is strong across the university and has all the problems of a field too big for its own resources. The resources cut from the other languages are not being put into Spanish: huge elementary classes of more than forty students are being taught more often than not by part-time teachers. I told the graduate students all this, because the rumblings at CUNY do not usually make it through the ivy-covered walls of Columbia. Many of the faculty members at CUNY, however, have PhDs from Columbia. It became painfully clear to these young people that Columbia PhDs in most foreign languages will not be finding jobs at CUNY in the future, except possibly part-time positions in Spanish, unless we can turn things around, not just at CUNY, but in the profession as a whole. At one point in the discussion, a young woman stood up, looked around the room, and said, “We're talking about literature teaching, but they are not here.” And they weren't.The people present were practically all teaching lower-level language courses part-time, and hardly anyone with an established professorial position was there. (Most language program coordinators at Columbia do not have professorial rank.) The absence of the literature professors suddenly hit these graduate students like a ton of bricks, perhaps along with the thought that they might never themselves become literature professors, able on Friday afternoons to work in their libraries with a clear conscience while someone else attended workshops on language teaching.
I think it is a good sign, though one born of desperation, that graduate students are finally doing what many of us workshop leaders have failed to do for years, namely, really gaining the ear of the traditional leaders, the scholarly leaders, those whom I have called the forum leaders. Graduate students are an important link between the two working parts of the profession, language teaching and literature teaching, and their present plight shows the terrible folly of having allowed these two parts to be separated. To unite these parts, however, we need to eliminate that other dichotomy in our profession, between the two branches of leadership that have tried politely for decades to coexist without stepping on each other's toes. The time has come for more than polite coexistence.We need together to go back to the curricular drawing board and create coordinated language, literature, and culture programs, enmeshed with vocational training where it exists, programs that will attract and retain the many students who want to learn languages, programs that connect with high school programs where possible and where not, connect with graduate schools, so that language teaming and teaching can take place on a continuum across a five-to-eight-year period. We need to re-create continuous language sequences taught at all levels (if not in all sections) by full-time professors, sequences that can stand scrutiny from year one as serious contributions to the content of the liberal arts curriculum and that also teach language skills up to and through the graduate level. Is all this so difficult? Will it cut into our research agenda? Certainly, or in any event it will change that agenda somewhat, but it will at the lowest level of rationale save our own jobs, and, at a slightly higher level, preserve the profession for future generations of teachers and scholars.
And there is a higher level of rationale still. Sander Gilman provides words for it when he writes, “In thinking about our role as language teachers in university and college settings, we should and must stress the centrality of out undertaking not just to the internationalization of the university but also to one of the central goals of the humanities and social sciences, the study of culture at the end of the millennium” (“Language” 4). It is, however, not enough for the forum leaders of our profession to assert the centrality of language learning and teaching in the humanities and social science curriculum. They have to roll up their sleeves alongside the workshop leaders and do something about it, throw their individual and collective weight, for example, behind a serious integrated undergraduate Curriculum in all the kinds of colleges that exist in this country and simply refuse to accept a curriculum and a faculty split, separated, weakened, divided, and ultimately conquered.
To return in conclusion to my original image, we in the foreign language and literature programs of this country have a very important store to mind. Whatever some of us may think of what the recent generations of literary scholars have made of this task, it is not good enough simply to allow them to be bypassed, to allow their territory to dissolve bit by bit like a melting iceberg, to allow them to retire and not be replaced. The territory occupied by the literary scholar is precious to us, and we have to save it for our students, to open it to the many, not to protect it only for the few. The workshop leaders of this profession have to find a way of holding on to a territory that is rapidly being lost by the people to whom they have traditionally entrusted it. We, as well as the graduate students, must courageously gain the ear of those we have always tacitly allowed to go their own way, the scholarly establishment of this profession. How often have I heard chairs say, “Well, I can't ask Professor So-and-So to do such-and-such.” You can't? Well, perhaps the time has come when you must.Perhaps the time has come for your individual voice to be stronger and less deferential in your own setting and for the collective voice of ADFL to be stronger and less deferential in the wide setting of the MLA. Perhaps the time has come when the workshop leaders must say loudly and clearly to the forum leaders, “ Work with us before it is too late.” Perhaps together we can after all save the store from bankruptcy and pass on to future generations of American students and teachers a thriving foreign language and literature curriculum at the humanistic core of the American university.
The author is Professor of German at Hunter College and the Graduate School, City University of New York, and Chair of the Department of German at Hunter College. This article is based on her keynote presentation at ADFL Summer Seminar West, 6–8 June 1996, in San Diego, California.
1 I cite the Hunter example only because I know from personal experience that it works. Of course, there are others at very different kinds of institutions, such as the integrated approach to teaching and learning language and culture running through the four years of undergraduate curriculum in French at Saint Olaf College. Wendy Allen described this program at the ADFL Summer Seminar West in 1996.
2 Quoted with permission.
Demetz, Peter: “Reflections of an Emeritus (To-Be).” Profession 90. New York: MLA, 1990. 3–7.
Gilbert, Sandra. “Business Week.” MLA Newsletter 28.2 (1996): 3–5.
———.“Columnar Selves.” MLA Newsletter 28.1 (1996): 3–4.
Gilman, Sander.“Jobs: What We (Not They) Can Do.” MLA Newsletter 27.4 (1995): 4–5.
———. “Thinking about Language—Thinking in Language.” MLA Newsletter 27.1 (1995): 3–4.
James, Dorothy. “Teaching Language and Literature: Equal Opportunity in the Inner-City University.” ADFL Bulletin 28.1 (1996): 24–28. [Show Article]
Knox, Edward C. Letter.MLA Newsletter 28.2 (1996): 18.
Schoenberg, Robert R. Letter to the author. 13 Dec. 1995.
Welles, Elizabeth B. “From the Editor.” ADFL Bulletin 28.1 (1996): 1–4.
© 1997 by the Association of Departments of Foreign Languages. All Rights Reserved.
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