This past July, the Waterloo Region Record reported massive layoffs at Conestoga College – over 1,800 faculty and administrators lost their jobs. One of the support units entirely wiped out? Writing Services. CBC confirmed that all writing consultants were eliminated, quoting the union president: “That role is gone.”

In one swift move, Writing Services at Conestoga has disappeared.

With no clear explanation for why Writing Services was targeted, those of us working in writing centres are left frustrated. The Framework for Success in Postsecondary Writing doesn’t mince words: “the ability to write well is basic to student success in college and beyond.” So, why do Canadian institutions, like Conestoga, continue to underestimate the essential role of writing units staffed by trained faculty, consultants, and tutors?

Someone might point to generative AI (Gen AI) as a reason for cutting writing support, but the logic doesn’t hold. Postsecondary institutions haven’t stopped teaching calculus just because software can solve calculus problems. It also doesn’t follow that just because Gen AI chatbots can string together sentences of natural language, we should stop teaching students the writing approaches and fundamentals they need to successfully communicate in a world saturated by text and technology.

In addition, students who lack confidence in their writing often struggle to assess AI-generated outputs critically. Bottom line: whether they’re writing with Gen AI or not, students still need training to think critically about how, and why, they write. That’s exactly what writing support units teach.

A look at history reveals that this decision by Conestoga to cut their Writing Services unit continues a long-standing refusal to recognize that teaching writing is a specialized skill and field, requiring the ongoing participation in and dissemination of research, writing, and praxis (see journals: Discourse and Writing/Rédactologie, College Composition & Communication, and Writing Center Journal.)

When postsecondary institutions first opened their doors to larger populations of students in the 1960’s, many students arrived without strong reading and writing skills. The response? Panic over a “literacy crisis.” But instead of addressing the issue, Canadian English literature departments refused to teach writing. “We teach literature,” they said. This was quite different from how things emerged in America, where English faculty agreed to teach writing (Graves & Graves, 2006). And for decades, students enrolled in Canadian institutions were left to learn academic writing on their own. Perhaps an individual instructor would take the time to teach the conventions of writing in the discipline or at the post-secondary level, but if an instructor didn’t feel equipped to do this, or could not find time in their content-packed courses, then students were simply expected to figure it out or fail.

Fortunately, in the 60’s, writing centres emerged to offer dedicated writing instruction. For many institutions, the writing centre was the main unit dedicated to helping students learn how to write, and these smaller units tried hard to meet the needs of the whole institution. These centres became vital resources, sometimes housed in libraries, student success divisions, learning commons, faculties, or free-standing. Regardless of their location, writing centres have been, and continue to be, staffed by qualified faculty and professionals dedicated to a shared mission: helping students navigate the hidden curriculum of postsecondary education, find belonging, build resilience, and learn to communicate effectively in their ever-changing worlds.

Writing centres are oases for both students, staff, and –in some writing centre configurations–faculty. While some writing centres have mandates that focus entirely on student support (in which case faculty are only supported indirectly via instructors providing feedback on student work), others have mandates that embrace the creation of rich resources directly for students, faculty, and even alumni. Whatever a centre’s  configuration, research shows that they positively impact academic performance, student success, and retention. Writing Consultants help reduce anxiety and build confidence, self-efficacy, and awareness of writing processes. Writing centres are especially effective in closing achievement gaps for struggling writers – especially when students visit regularly.

Given the mass layoff of Conestoga’s writing unit, we’re left asking: what’s the plan now? Who will help students learn to write and communicate – skills essential for academic success and life beyond school? Overburdened instructors? Under-resourced student support units? Gen AI tools, without guidance on how to use these tools ethically and effectively for writing? Or are students expected to hire private tutors, assuming they or their families can afford it?

We understand administrators face difficult decisions in this season of historic funding cuts, technological disruptions, and shifting student engagement, but as the professional body representing writing centres across Canada, we, the CWCA/ACCR, urge administrators to consider: if you cut writing instruction units, what’s the plan? Who will teach your students the writing and communication skills they need – not just to succeed in your programs, but to thrive in their ever-changing world?

If you don’t have us, who do you have?

Brian Hotson is a past-editor of CWCR/ACCR/RCCR.

Terrence (Terry) Murphy was a creator and ardent supporter of writing centres and academic writing in Atlantic Canada. As Dean of Arts at Memorial University in Newfoundland (1993-2001), he advocated for the founding of its writing centre in 1984 and later the centre at Saint Mary’s University, Halifax, in 2005. Terry retired from Saint Mary’s University as Vice-President, Academic and Research (2001-2010). However, he continued to devote many hours to students by mentoring, advising, and supervising graduate work, well after his retirement, and appointment as a Professor Emeritus, in 2013.

Terry’s academic field was religion and history, specifically the religious history of settler Canada. He served as past editor of Historical Studies, the journal of the Canadian Catholic Historical Association (CCHA), and author for the Dictionary of Canadian Biography. He also co-authored and co-published several publications, including Creed and Culture: the Place of English-speaking Catholics in Canadian Society, 1750-1930 (McGill-Queen’s UP, 1993) and A Concise History of Christianity in Canada (OUP, 1996). An advocate for immigration and immigrants, he chaired the Atlantic Metropolis Centre for Excellence in Immigration Research (2004-2013), as well as efforts to sponsor refugees.

Never Dr. Murphy, Terry’s equanimity, generosity, and curiosity will be remembered. As writing centre director, I was witness to the many, many students he impacted directly. As I was completing my Master’s degree in 2011, he provided me with guidance and mentorship that helped me get things done. He was also curious about writing. Terry once stopped me to ask about the usage of which and that in a sentence he was puzzling over. He was the only VP I ever discussed restrictive and non-restrictive clauses with.

Terry died in Halifax on October 23, 2025. He was 77.

Nia Pazoki (she/her) is a Ph.D. candidate in Educational Psychology at Simon Fraser University and one of the Writing Services Coordinators at the Student Learning Commons (SLC). Her work focuses on inclusive education, displaced and neurodivergent youth, and reflective pedagogies grounded in community care. At the SLC, she co-develops and facilitates writing programs for students and collaborates across campus to create thoughtful, equity-focused learning spaces. Nia believes in slow scholarship, story-sharing, and writing as a way of building belonging.

At Simon Fraser University (SFU), the Student Learning Commons (SLC) is a hub for academic support, peer learning, and community-based programming. As part of this work, the SLC has been exploring new ways to create inclusive, reflective learning spaces. One such initiative was the SLC Movie Night, a pilot event held at SFU’s Belzberg Library that brought together students, staff, faculty, and community members for an evening of storytelling, film, and relational reflection.

This event began as a feeling, an idea shaped slowly over time. I’d been inspired by Soup Circles, a program led by Dr. Julia Lane at the SLC. Watching her bring students together through story, warm food, and reflection reminded me that care doesn’t need a big budget, it just needs attention. I started thinking about what a version of that could look like through the lens of Universal Design for Learning (UDL), one that emphasized emotional accessibility, low-barrier participation, and a sense of shared presence. From there, SLC Movie Night took shape: a quiet invitation to slow down, gather, and reflect together.

Then came long, thoughtful conversations with Queckou Wambantem, a community scholar who helped me think more deeply about why and how we gather. He reminded me that offering space is not always enough. We need to offer tools, frameworks, ways of making sense of what we hold. “What if we help students build worldviews,” he asked, “not just inherit them?” He spoke about the importance of not projecting a single worldview, especially one steeped in Western academic norms, but instead, supporting students in composing what he calls “isotropic worlds”: inclusive, multidimensional understandings that affirm and stretch across difference.

His insights echoed broader teachings within Indigenous methodologies, which emphasize meaning as something co-constructed rather than delivered. In such frameworks, shaped in part by anthropological and community-based research traditions, knowledge is formed through consensus, situated storytelling, and collective reflection, where every participant’s contribution shapes the shared understanding (Kovach, 2009; Lavallée, 2009). These ways of knowing resist hierarchies of expertise and instead centre relational accountability and the value of presence.

Those conversations gave this event its frame. And film gave it its form.

Film, as a medium, offers a shared experience that is both artistic and intellectual. It invites reflection, provides emotional and narrative entry points, and allows viewers to make meaning in their own ways (Marks, 2000; hooks, 1996). A good film doesn’t dictate interpretation, but rather opens space for layered engagement and personal resonance. A good film doesn’t ask you to agree. It asks you to notice.

That’s how How People Got Fire entered this event. We chose this short, animated film because of its roots in Indigenous storytelling and its quiet depth. But really, it was the circle we built around the film that gave it life.

From the outset, it was clear this gathering couldn’t be shaped in isolation. To centre Indigenous stories with respect and care, guidance from within the community was essential. That’s why the presence of Courtney Copoc (Coco), an Indigenous educator and entrepreneur, became the most integral part of the process, offering cultural grounding, insight, and a way of holding space that gave the gathering its shape and spirit.

When I arrived to set up the room, I arranged it like I would any typical workshop: tables in a circle, handouts at each seat. It looked fine. But when Coco arrived, she paused. “These tables are barriers,” she said gently. Not just physically, but energetically. They blocked the flow, she explained, even the spirits, a perspective grounded in Indigenous understandings of space as relational and energetically alive (Lavallée, 2009). That moment shifted nuances. So, we moved the tables aside, softened the space into a circle, and placed one extra chair at Coco’s suggestion, for the spirit. The reflection prompts were gathered onto a single sheet and placed at the centre. Nothing more was needed.

Our circle that night included students, community members, staff and faculty members. Everyone introduced themselves. No one passed. We moved clockwise, another gentle cue from Coco. In many Indigenous traditions, this direction follows the path of the sun and honors time and balance (Lavallée, 2009). Even movement, I realized, carries intention.

We watched How People Got Fire in silence. Letting it move through us.

Afterward, Coco opened the circle with a story of her own, shared with such openness and strength that it shifted the energy of the room. People responded in kind. One participant spoke about being a white man who had never been taught these histories. Another shared how community anchors him. Someone spoke of rhythm, language, and breath. I offered thoughts on lived experience and storytelling as healing. We stayed in that shared space, letting each voice shape the room.

Windchief and Ryan (2018) write about reflection as something relational, something shaped by land, story, and community. Shapiro (2020) reminds us that when we reflect in inclusive ways, we begin to question assumptions and locate ourselves within broader systems. Fleming (2014) describes insight as a metacognitive process, emerging when we allow ourselves space to connect internal awareness with what we encounter. Obleser (2025) refers to this as “cognitive quiet”, a state where silence, rhythm, and presence allow for deeper learning (p. 107). That’s exactly what it felt like. Not a room of ideas, but a collective pause. A quiet togetherness.

To close, I passed around a card. It read:

Something stirred tonight.
Maybe it was a memory.
A silence.
A sentence that won’t quite leave you alone.
You don’t need to explain it.
But if you feel like speaking to it, even just to yourself, here’s a place to begin…

The rest of the card offered reflection prompts. People were welcomed to write, draw, or just carry it with them. One person emailed me afterward to say they were still thinking. Still moved. They called it, “learning by ripple effect.”

Behind the scenes, this event was made possible by many hands. I reached out to folks across SFU, Student Services, Graduate Studies, CERi, the Institute for the Humanities, Public Square and community partners like 312 Main and the Bill Reid Gallery. I connected with Indigenous-focused groups like the Indigenous Student Centre and FNMISA. We put up posters at the Vancouver campus and even sent a few to Burnaby. The Belzberg Library team helped us get the event on campus screens and the SLC website.

In the process, I met so many people working behind the scenes. People who care deeply and do their best, even without a full communications team. That care showed up, in quiet ways, but it mattered.

The circle was small, but it was real. I hope it continues. With rhythm and intention, I’d love for this to grow into a monthly gathering: films, stories, reflection, and care.

Thank you to the Belzberg Library, the Student Learning Commons, and the wider SFU community for supporting this event. To Courtney Copoc, thank you for reminding us that space is not just physical, but deeply relational. And to Queckou Wambantem, thank you for offering ways of thinking that invite the world to slow down, expand, and move with greater care.

References

Fleming, S. M. (2014). The power of reflection: Insight as a meta-cognitive process. Current Biology, 24(14), R658–R660.

hooks, b. (1996). Reel to real: Race, sex, and class at the movies. Routledge.

Lavallée, L. F. (2009). Practical application of an Indigenous research framework and two qualitative Indigenous research methods: Sharing circles and Anishnaabe symbol-based reflection. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 8(1), 21–40.

Marks, L. U. (2000). The skin of the film: Intercultural cinema, embodiment, and the senses. Duke University Press.

Obleser, J. (2025). Cognitive quiet: On the neuroscience of reflection and silence. Mind & Brain Review, 38(1), 102–115.

Shapiro, S. (2020). Cultivating critical reflection in teaching: A framework for inclusive pedagogy. Teachers College Press.

Windchief, S., & Ryan, M. (2018). Indigenizing academic spaces: The relational process of storytelling and reflection. Critical Studies in Education, 59(1), 74–86.