The Academic I
When I was in school, I was taught never to use the personal pronoun when writing an academic paper. Maybe you were as well. I was told avoiding mention of the self was what professional writers did, that never using “I” made me sound like more of an authority. One of my teachers said it should be as though the work had been handed down by God. Lofty goals indeed for a child writing a glorified book report. Write as though you’re the prophet of Frog and Toad Are Friends.
This was one of a whole set of rules I internalized as absolute, and it became second nature to follow them. I liked my rules. They made writing easier, and they got me pretty good grades when I bothered to do my homework. I even won awards for my writing, which made me smug. I’d learned the rules and I’d learned them well, and there was little more for me to learn. If academic writing was stilted and often unpleasant to read, well, that was just the genre and its requirements.
When I got to college, I noticed something that at first irked me. Academic writers broke all of the rules I’d learned. They didn’t always state the thesis in the first paragraph! They made jokes! Their paragraphs didn’t always hit three sentences! They didn’t state a mini thesis at the beginning of each paragraph! They used personal pronouns and sometimes even personal anecdotes! My first thought was that these papers were in some inherent way wrong. But they were in peer-reviewed journals, and apparently no one at those journals had objected to all the rule breaking. Moreover, they were often more interesting to read than what I’d come to expect of academic writing. What were the actual rules? Why hadn’t I been taught those?
The frustrating answer for rule followers like me is that there are few hard and fast rules. Someone less rigid could have told me that ages ago, but my pleasure in the rules would have made it hard for me to hear. I wanted rules because they kept me safe.
Writing isn’t safe. That doesn’t mean there aren’t genre conventions or that there aren’t reasons behind those conventions. But almost any individual “rule” can be broken in the right circumstances. And avoiding the personal pronoun is not only a fake rule, it often isn’t even a desirable rule. No writer is handing down the word from on high. We’re all people, prone to error and bias and a limited point of view from our position in the world. The personal pronoun helps to make the writer visible in their argument.
With that said, using “I” when you’ve been taught not to is difficult. It’s important to consider your genre, its expectations, the reasons behind those expectations, and what you, as a writer, value and want to convey to your specific audience. In most American academic writing, the performance of confidence is highly valued. If you choose to break with this convention, you need to know that you’re doing it and you need to know why.
My suggestions largely presume that you will be performing[1] confidence, and you can use the personal pronoun to bolster that performance. This means using “I” carefully and selectively.
In making the transition from not being allowed to use “I” to using it, it’s natural begin with a familiar form often found in the personal essay, “I” as narrator. This often serves as a narrative of discovery, like so:
When I watched Spirited Away, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was hard for me to understand why Chihiro’s parents were portrayed both as completely unresponsive to her wants and as the main objects of her quest. However, after finishing the movie, I thought that the parents, as characters, were almost beside the point. It seems like Chihiro’s perception is what matters.
These are “starter observations,” a term I got from Tobias Wilson-Bates. While the above paragraph doesn’t look like a polished final draft, its observations are valuable to the writer. Figuring out how you came to hold a particular view is important in making claims and argument.
Verbs or adverbs that indicate uncertainty (“believe,” “feel,” “seems,” “maybe”) suggest that we’re still in starter mode. Starter observations, though incomplete, can serve as a guide during revision. Your reader doesn’t need to know all the steps you took in arriving at the conclusion, but they will want your reasoning for that conclusion. The goal of an argumentative essay is not to convince every reader that you are right—an impossible task—but to convince them that your conclusions are reasonable and evidence-based. By starting with the conclusion of this line of thought, you can pare the narration down to its bones and add in the evidence that convinced you.
Ideally, before revising, the writer of the Spirited Away essay has thought about what specific evidence changed their own perception as to how Chihiro’s parents function in the film. The previous version narrated the writer’s uncertainty as they tried to figure out what to think. A revised version, with evidence, might read:
I argue that because Chihiro’s perception is the lens through which the story is filtered, the film’s view of her parents is never neutral. When she’s angry with them, we see them as she does: neglectful, greedy adults who don’t hear her when she speaks. Chihiro, as a child, has little power over her parents, even when she’s right, but it doesn’t mean that their entire relationship is what we see in the opening minutes of the film. That Chihiro can recognize her parents as individuals, even when they are transformed into hogs, suggests that the relationship is closer than we initially realize. Chihiro’s parents are not important as characters but as a reflection of Chihiro’s growth and maturity.
In reframing their claims, our imaginary writer has gone from uncertainty and a lack of specificity to a tone much better suited to an argumentative essay. Their “I” asserts ownership over their ideas.
Verbs like “claim,” “argue,” “assert,” and “demonstrate” help to assure the reader that, at the very least, the writer thinks they’re right. While it’s not enough in itself and the writer needs evidence to support those claims, most readers will be more convinced by confidence than uncertainty. If you don’t think your conclusions are correct or supportable, it will be hard to convince your reader that they are.
Early written drafts are for the writer. They’re where we figure out our ideas, wrestle with doubt, and try out different arguments and word choices. It’s not just okay to be unsure in early drafts, it’s part of the process. A person who comes in absolutely certain each time they begin to write is someone who hasn’t considered all the angles. It’s a good thing to question your own conclusions, and answering those questions to your own satisfaction will only make your argument (and your confidence) stronger.
The final draft is for the reader. The personal pronoun should be used in service of their understanding. You are the progenitor of your argument, so making yourself visible shows that you’re proud of the work you put into your writing.
[1] A note on performance: in casual conversation, we often use “performing” to mean “faking.” I am using performance in the sense of performing a task, one that takes place within a sociohistorical context. All self-presentation is performance, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t genuine. I dress differently when I am going to be teaching a class than when I’m staying home on a Saturday or when I’m going to the grocery store. I’m not being inauthentic in any of these scenarios, but I’m presenting different outward appearances based on context and my desire to be seen in a particular way. I could still teach a class in my pajamas and my body would be covered in socially appropriate ways, perhaps more covered than usual, even, but the pajamas themselves would signify something to my audience and to me, which is why I don’t teach in pajamas, even though I would be cozier. The clothes I wear when teaching are clothes I also wear on my own time, but when I am teaching I put them on as part of my role as “teacher,” a conscious costume. I am performing “teacher” and I am a teacher.