Language is magical. In the open space of the classroom my students and I scrutinize this platitude to discover how language works upon the world, how its potency inheres in persuasive phrases, in its ability to solicit action, arouse passion, or voice grief. We are moved by words.

I share with my students what things words can do -- words as poetic form, shared and contested paths to the divine or the dead, political agents in the service of war propaganda. This is the most fundamental aspect of my pedagogical practice.

My students refuse to let language sit still. In the J. R. R. Tolkien: History, Ethics, and War class, they asked forcefully, why is the noble theater of war in Chaucer's Knight's Tale, a locus of spectacular violence, described in lush details that emphasize its surface appeal? How does war undo literary, linguistic and psychological borders to ravage the integrity of its participants?

As an instructor of medieval literature, I invite students to appreciate the astonishing range and vitality of these texts by designing courses that tie the medieval past to its revivals in Victorian England and Tolkien's Middle-earth. We explore the ways in which the Middle Ages remain a vital force in our own cultural making, alive in the tales we tell ourselves about spiritual conversion, the allure of the imaginative realm, love, and war.

Through teaching, I have had the tremendous pleasure of watching students grow as patient readers and sensitive writers. Last summer I arranged a public reading at The Regulator bookshop for the students in the Introduction to Creative Writing course. Each student, despite nervousness, walked up to a podium, adjusted the microphone, and read their composition with conviction. I was humbled and encouraged by the example they set. Best of all, my students have enabled me to believe in my own voice and to trust in the dialogue we cultivate in the classroom, to let our words ring out.