Jeannie Vanasco has written two unconventional memoirs that explore her life experiences. In her second work, Things We Didn’t Talk About When I Was a Girl (2019), she interviews the individual who sexually assaulted her during their sophomore year in college.
This book delves into the concept of the “nice guy” myth, exploring the language related to sexual assault and the potential for forgiveness.
Her first book, The Glass Eye (2017), looks at her mourning for her late father, his sorrow for his deceased daughter from a previous marriage, and Jeannie’s rising obsession with her. Currently, Jeannie instructs college students on the art of writing about their lives.
Amy Berkowitz is the author of Tender Points, which was initially released in 2015 and reissued in 2019. This lyric essay focuses on chronic pain, patriarchy, and trauma stemming from sexual violence.
It reflects on Berkowitz’s own experience of being assaulted by a doctor and how difficult it is to portray such a violation. To counter the expectation that such stories must be told in a linear structure, she co-arranged Sick Fest in 2016, a free and open event in Oakland that included performances and readings by disabled and ailing performers.
Her writings concerning chronic ailment and medical sexism have been featured in Bitch and Wolfman Books’ New Life Quarterly. At present, she is occupied in writing a novel about the association between pals in the wake of sexual assault.
At a 2019 writing conference in Mendocino, California, Amy and Jeannie crossed paths during the last minutes of the event.
Amy had just acquired a copy of The Glass Eye, which Jeannie had signed, and was excited to hear about the upcoming release of Things We Didn’t Talk About When I Was a Girl.
While conversing, they recognized that both of them wanted to delve into the less-documented elements of sexual violence in their writing.
A few months following the writing conference, both Tender Points and Things We Didn’t Talk About When I Was a Girl were released – Tender Points from Nightboat Books and the latter from Tin House.
Jeannie and Amy read each other’s works and began to communicate through lengthy emails. In February of 2020, the two came together in Washington DC and shared a hummus platter at a bar before attending an event at East City Bookshop to talk about their writing.
What started as a conversation over email in September of 2019 had culminated in a Google Doc by March of 2020.
— Jeannie Vanasco and Amy Berkowitz are two writers
An image of a woman is presented, wearing a white outfit and a blue headscarf. She stands in a doorway, her hands in her pockets, her gaze directed off to the side.
I. Kind Gentlemen
The phrase “nice guys” is often used to refer to men who are considerate, generous, and well-mannered. Such men typically receive admiration and respect from others.
Recently, I had the chance to listen to How to Survive the End of the World and it provoked me to think of your book. In the podcast, Autumn Brown mentioned: “Typically, men in our society have acted in an offensive way towards someone.”
Her sister and host, adrienne maree brown, also supported the idea, adding that men are taught to behave this way from a young age. The two sisters concluded that this tendency towards violence is not personal, but only a result of the patriarchal system.
This interaction was really pertinent to what we were talking about, as it highlights one of the key aspects that makes your book so special and meaningful: shifting the emphasis onto an ordinary man.
Mark appears to be an everyday person; he could be anybody. Yet, it is people like him who are responsible for the majority of sexual assaults in our culture; guys who are generally pleasant and those you may even call your friends.
In addition, as Virginie Despentes noted, these men may not even consider what they did as rape: “Men condemn rape and despise rapists. What they do is always something else.”
We could take many paths from here, though what I think about right now is a conversation at the end of the book in which Mark brings up incels. He expresses his confusion about their animosity towards women.
A few pages later, he admits that he had been tense about his virginity, and “[translated] this tension into sexual assault.” He goes on to give a worn-out example of toxic masculinity–bikers on loud motorcycles–and suggests that the reader come up with a more relevant example: the house where he raped you, which was full of old Playboy magazines.
Mark recognizes what he did was rape, yet he is still in denial about his other behavior. How do you feel about this lack of recognition?
This leads me to consider the self-reflection of male readers of this book. Are they capable of recognizing themselves in Mark, or will they need to distance themselves from him due to his status as a rapist?
I observed that Mark and some of my male readers were trying to distance themselves from reflecting on rape culture, which frustrated me. A man inquired if I was asserting that nice guys don’t exist and I responded no.
Even if I had known the person for a long time, that does not necessarily mean I accept that he hasn’t committed rape.
This made me think of a line from your book: “It is desirable for us to believe that our associates are not rapists, but this popular wish to believe that a rapist is always a stranger in a dim alleyway is causing us a lot of issues.”
My surprise shouldn’t have been so great, but many women have told me they know men similar to Mark and many men have expressed how awful he is. These men claim they don’t know any guys like him. Really? None?
They think of the bad men as always someone else, drugging and raping women, etc. The good guys express they don’t understand it and say it’s like the Ford-Kavanaugh hearings when Lindsey Graham asked Brett Kavanaugh if he was a rapist.
Kavanaugh said no, and Graham responded with the comment that if someone had been drugging and raping for two years in high school, they probably wouldn’t stop. After that hearing, I realized how oblivious Mark was.
We had already finished revising the memoir, but I wanted his opinion on the hearings. His response seemed like he was putting up a front, like he was trying to appear as a progressive man.
I asked him to ground his answer in the fact that he had been in the same situation as Kavanaugh and not been held accountable in any way.
He got defensive and said he had been honest, but he had only answered the questions privately and wanted his identity to be protected. I don’t think telling his family would provide closure, but I think it would make me feel better.
It appears fitting to move to the fixation our culture has with linear accounts and a sense of finality. I find it fascinating how Tender Points accepts empty spaces in the story.
This is of consequence, since many individuals anticipate a sexual assault survivor’s narrative to contain each and every element. You remark, I only have pieces of recollection. I recall it was chilly. I more or less recall what the physician said.
I have a vague memory of the waiting room having a television. But the entire story is lost on me.
Thus, the empty spots in my memory contribute to the narrative. I mean, they make up the narrative.
I’m curious to discuss your approach to conveying the tension between recollection and forgetfulness–as well as figuring out the conclusion to a memoir that still has an impact on you.
In AB: Tender Points, I decided to go against the grain and not offer a traditional form of closure. The book ends with a repetitive passage that emphasizes how my pain remains with me no matter what I do;
I wanted to make it understood that my experience with chronic illness is far from resolved. The common illness narrative follows a trajectory from becoming unwell to being better, however, this is not always the case for those living with a chronic condition.
Doctors look to diagnose and cure, and people tend to prefer happily-ever-after scenarios; yet for those living with a chronic illness, the story does not end with the protagonist overcoming their affliction.
When it comes to the fragmented structure of Tender Points, it was impossible to construct it any other way. If I had written it as a linear narrative, it would have been a completely different book.
My discovery of Maggie Nelson’s Bluets gave me the inspiration to use a fragmented form when writing my story. I wanted to write about the connection between my assault and my chronic pain, so I wrote down all the related events: my recollection of the sexual assault, my doctor visits, and my emotions as a woman with an invisible illness.
I collaged the pieces and the product was Tender Points.
Beginning my book with the moment of my assault at age ten or recollecting it at age twenty-three weren’t how it actually happened for me. In the book, I note that “trauma is nonlinear”–and this is so true.
Writing it in a linear fashion would have been a misrepresentation of my experience and felt like a falsehood.
The fragmented structure I’ve chosen for the book allows for what I call “black holes in my memory”. There are parts of my story that I can’t recall, no matter how hard I try.
I repeatedly ask myself the same question throughout the book: Why were we alone in the exam room? As a woman, a person with an invisible illness, and a rape survivor, it’s infuriating not to be able to remember my assault with absolute clarity.
In all these roles, I’m already viewed as an unreliable narrator. But that’s a true part of the experience of recalling a memory of abuse: your memory may not be precise; you may have doubts. I wanted to portray that honestly, regardless of the unreliability.
AB: One of the things I valued in the process of writing Tender Points was that it enabled me to be the one to tell my own story, which makes me ponder how crafting Things We Didn ‘t Talk About When I Was a Girl was a method for you to take the reins.
Your final dialogue with Mark concludes in this manner:
HIM: You have the power to pick what content will be in your book.
ME: That’s right.
What was the experience of having the power to choose what to include and how to narrate your story? Now that it’s over, are there any dissatisfactions or frustrations?
JV: Although it was gratifying to have control, this brought about a lot of worry: Was I being equitable to Mark? Not enough? By whose criteria?
My friends read the interview transcripts and noticed when I returned the control to him–like when I requested him to “inform me” if his remembrance of the rape was diverse from mine. Writing that part made me feel humiliated.
I did not want to share it with anyone–and for that reason, I knew it was imperative to the story. As a rape survivor, I clearly wanted to take control, but as a writer, I wanted to let the story figure out its form, to go where it had to go.
That may be a trite writer thing to say, but if I had regulated the narrative too much, I may not have included the more disgraceful moments.
I certainly don’t approve of the fact that I double-checked my memory of the rape with my rapist, but that demonstrated character–and I think it added to the emotional arc.
In regards to my grievances, I strongly feel Mark gained some benefit from this project. At one point, he shared that it was aiding him and that irritated me. I am not implying that I want him to hate himself forever, but in my opinion, to complete the responsibility process, he should tell his family about the rape.
If he does this difficult task and feels better, that would be fine. Furthermore, I think it would do good for society. The reason I hesitate to tell his family is because it would take a lot of emotion.
Additionally, I am hoping he will do the right thing. This week, I had a dream where I told his sister about the rape, yet I woke up before she could respond.
At the gathering we attended in DC, someone queried us as to why we had not identified our attackers. In my scenario, citing Mark’s authentic name would have been excessively shocking, given that he is not renowned or influential.
You provided your response, while also noting that publicly shaming can sometimes be beneficial. I am not contending that, however when do you think that is applicable?
AB: It is my belief that the choice of whether or not to identify one’s rapist is deeply personal. I don’t wish to imply that discussing it is inappropriate, but I believe that nobody should ever feel obligated to explain their choice.
In my case, I chose not to reveal my assailant’s name since doing so would have likely resulted in a legal battle that I wouldn’t have been able to win. Additionally, I felt that the process of remembering the attack and facing the perpetrator’s family would be unbearably draining.
I am currently writing a book about the strength of friendship in the wake of rape, and part of the research I have done includes visiting zine archives and reading a lot of zines made by survivors.
In these zines, some creators name their rapists out of a sense of empowerment, a sense of responsibility to alert others, a desire for responsibility, or for other reasons, some without providing an explanation (and obviously, some opt not to).
I’m inclined not to use the phrase public shaming due to its limitations – it is only capable of describing one possible rationale for naming a rapist without taking into account any of the other motivations for doing so.
Overall, I believe it is useful to name a perpetrator of rape if it meets the wishes of the victim. Jenn Woodall made an artwork that I find useful, which states “Reject the thought that there is an appropriate manner of being a survivor.”
This artwork is something I value and keep in the back of my mind, both for myself and for the work I do on my book.
As I was reading your book, I continually found myself wanting to say, Hey, it ‘s OK. I think it is normal to show kindness and sympathy towards Mark, which could be explained by what one of your friends in the book, a sociologist, calls “performance of gender.”
If you had expressed anger instead, the conversation would have been very different and you may not have gotten him to be so open. I am here to say that there is no wrong way to be a survivor, a feminist, or to feel.
Still, I understand your frustration in responding to someone who caused you immense harm with kindness and comfort.
What has been the reaction from other feminists to your actions? Has anyone questioned your approach? Are you now pleased with how you conversed with Mark?
JV: I’m glad I didn’t take out the bits from the book where I was being very submissive to Mark, saying things like “I don’t hate you” and “I think you’re a good guy”.
Although I felt remorseful while writing it, I don’t anymore. I’m not setting myself up as the ideal reaction to rape, I’m just giving my own response as an instance. When readers tell me that they would’ve reacted similarly, I feel really good.
It’s also nice when they compliment my writing style and the structure of the book. Even if people don’t agree with my ideas, I’m still pleased when they recognize that I can write.
There was this one harsh customer review that criticized my beliefs, but in the end they said “But Vanasco can write”, and I was like: “Great, I’ll take it, thank you”.
Some people have characterized me as brave for standing up to Mark after all these years, yet it didn’t feel that way to me. What was brave was allowing my ideas, emotions, and activities to be judged by publishing the book.
I fully expected not all feminists would agree with my choice to grant him a platform, but that’s alright; real change is achieved through impassioned debates within a movement.
Occasionally, I receive hurtful emails, such as the one from a woman who had not even read the book but felt the summary was sufficient to judge it as bad and me as a person for writing it.
She also charged that I was attempting to financially benefit from my rape. It was upsetting, yet I couldn’t help but chuckle, as I did compose an intricate, meta-narrative book and sold it to an independent press based in Portland, Oregon, with the aim of making money.
Iii. Sources (And Pals) Consulted
JV: Had I come across your book before writing my own, it would have made me more confident in the process. In the conclusion of Tender Points, you cite King Kong Theory by Virginie Despentes with the statement, “
So, how shall we explain the fact that you hardly ever hear the other side of the story: ‘I raped so and so, on this day, in these circumstances?'” After reading Tender Points, I immediately picked up King Kong Theory, and both books have been meaningful to me.
Could you tell me about some of the books that assisted you in creating Tender Points? I was pleased to see the “Works Consulted” page included.
I had read Sarah Manguso’s The Two Kinds of Decay some years ago before I wrote Tender Points, and although it wasn’t an intentional influence, I can see now that it had a similar structure of fragments.
The fragments in Manguso’s book, however, were longer than those in Maggie Nelson’s Bluets which provided me with the necessary framework for my own book.
For instance, Manguso’s story featured a nurse who inserted a suppository into her and stayed to watch Dirty Dancing with her, which was two or three pages in length.
The quote from King Kong Theory was essential in helping me to identify an issue I was aware of but couldn’t quite put into words. Peter Levine’s books made me realize that I wasn’t the only one to have gone through pain due to a traumatic event.
Claudia Rankine’s Don’t Let Me Be Lonely: An American Lyric provided me with a different example of the lyric essay form and confirmed my observation that a majority of women have experienced some form of assault or harassment (“I think surely some percentage of women hasn’t been raped,” Rankine writes).
Dr. Ginevra Liptan’s Figuring Out Fibromyalgia: Current Science and the Most Effective Treatments (an uncommon book about fibro written by a physician with fibro) helped me comprehend that PTSD and fibromyalgia pain are linked.
David Wojnarowicz’s Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration gave me an insight into how illness can be political. Lastly, David B. Morris’s The Culture of Pain taught me about the history of hysteria.
Additionally, I want to bring up Sini Anderson’s The Punk Singer, a movie and not a book, but it has been an essential source of knowledge for me.
This is a documentary about punk singer Kathleen Hanna and her dealings with Lyme disease in its later stages, an illness that is often disregarded by many medical professionals since it mostly affects women.
Over the last few years, I have become friends with Sini and been greatly motivated by her art and her activism. She is now creating a documentary concerning late-stage Lyme called So Sick and I am thrilled to witness her progress.
It is of the utmost importance and I am sure the finished product is going to be brilliant.
When it comes to friendship, one of the qualities I admire about your book is that it is not just about the rape, but also about the friendships between women.
Just like The Glass Eye, Things We Didn’t Talk About When I Was a Girl is a book that chronicles its own creation and I think that type of approach really works here by showing your readers the transcripts of your conversations with Mark, as well as your worries about them, to the various women who have been encouraging and wise, including your editor, other authors, and friends.
The voices of help and insight from women like Sarah, Rebekah, and your writing group play a major role in the book. I remember reading something that mentioned how older couples will sometimes develop an interpersonal cognitive system, where each relies on the other to remember certain things.
Similarly, the reliance that is shown in your relationships with these women is beautiful, such as when another woman is needed to interpret an email from Mark, or to point out when he is being manipulative, or just to provide assurance.
You could have decided not to include this part of your process in the book, but I’m thankful that you did. As women, we often do this type of work for each other (understanding assault and harassment and the aftermath), which is unfortunately very invisible.
I’d be interested in hearing you talk about this part of your procedure and why you chose to include it in the book.
The members of my writing group are incredibly beneficial for me to have and recently we had an extensive discussion about getting the proper fitting for a bra. Shawn was adamant that everyone should go to Nordstrom for this.
This conveys to me how supportive they are and I feel as though I can make a joke about it.
JV: Haha, that’s a good point about bra fittings! It’s like a comparison to my talks with my friends.
For a long time, I was unaware that I was wearing the wrong size, but then my friends stepped in, gauged the situation, and informed me of the truth without judging me for my mistakes.
My friends highlighted instances of Mark attempting to shift responsibility away from himself and his deceptive attempts at making false equivalences. Even so, I still desired to give him the opportunity to redeem himself.
My reluctance to accept some of their feedback speaks to how difficult it can be for victims to hold certain men accountable — especially those they once cared for, or still do.
Readers have informed me that even when they disagreed with my responses to Mark, they could observe people like Jung, Molly, Leigh-Anne, Sarah, Nina, and Rebekah speaking up about their thoughts as well.
I am grateful to have such intelligent and supportive women in my life. If I had not included my friends as characters, I would have been deceiving my audience.
Female individuals are incredibly great at providing assistance to each other–especially when it comes to countering male aggression.
Iv. Verse Composition in Old English
AB: I can completely understand the part in your book where you mention it can be awkward to tell people what your writing is about.
I remember when I was at a friend’s wedding a few years ago and a man asked me what I was writing and as I began to explain, he literally started to move away from me.
I’m not sure if he realized what he was doing. But I’m more worried about how it could make women feel. So I usually provide a brief warning before I go into it. How do you feel when you talk about your book?
At a book festival in Kentucky last fall, I was presented with an experience that I cannot forget. A man approached me and asked me to explain my book, and when I gave him my summary of my memoir, he stepped back from me.
My fellow writer Jessica Chiccehitto Hindman, whose Sounds Like Titanic is brilliant, could not help but laugh at the situation. It was almost as if it were a scene from a cartoon.
It’s tiring to converse with men about rape when they turn away from the topic or try to offer insight without having read the book. One man, who hadn’t read the book, said, “This is a start, but you should have thought about…” and at that point, I didn’t listen anymore.
Why should I take advice from someone who hasn’t even read the book? I can’t take it if another guy asks me, “What should men do?” as if there aren’t any materials out there that discuss this. Read a book or watch a documentary on sexual assault–anything.
I recall when a man asked me this question and I asked him back: what do you think men should do? His response was, “But you’re the expert.” If someone had mugged you, would you be an expert on how to prevent it?
Or if someone pointed a gun at you, would you be an expert on gun violence? This man had pre-scheduled an interview with me, yet showed up and said, “I haven’t read your book.” I understand that we’re all busy, but I can’t stand men who don’t take the time to be prepared.
It can be difficult to bring up the book in casual conversations, like when someone wants to make small talk. It would be easy to avoid the topic and say something like I wrote a book about Old English versification, but I believe it is necessary to talk about sexual assault.
Now I just tell people it is a book about sexual assault and if they ask for more information, I provide it. Surprisingly, many people want to discuss this topic and it has been an incredible experience.
Having the opportunity to talk with feminist writers that I find inspiring is something I have greatly valued. I think the #MeToo movement has enabled us to have more meaningful conversations.
AB: I’m really curious to learn more about your views on the #MeToo movement and how it relates to your book.
You have previously stated that it had an influence on your book and that it is different in a way that Rebekah highlighted; it has more intricacies than the black-and-white approach of #MeToo.
I had an odd dream not too long ago that my book was bought by an editor who wanted to change it to fit the #MeToo narrative, and it made me mad.
I’m infuriated when some people think that #MeToo is the first time that something like this has ever happened, because it erases the work that women have accomplished to be heard and hold people accountable since the dawn of time.
Despite that, I still believe that #MeToo is a positive and important movement.
JV: The #MeToo movement was about shedding light on the systemic issues that have normalized sexual harassment and assault, not necessarily about punishing powerful men. When the media reports on it, the focus is usually on the most repugnant cases, those involving men with money and fame, which trigger a sense of outrage.
And this is good, but the conversation is often simplified to center on those men who are easy to detest, like Weinstein. Questions like “Is the movement going too far? Not far enough?” are then highlighted, which overlooks the complexity of the cause.
Despite the fact that the #MeToo movement is often discussed as if it was one single entity, it is vast and strong enough to contain varying points of view about matters concerning it. I am in full agreement.
The history of feminism comprises a long timeline of initiating social movements to modify laws and customs. It is fantastic that #MeToo is here, however, I would like to see teenagers taught the intellectual history of feminism, giving them the background of what is going on.
How did you first become aware of feminism? Can you recall when you initially began to contemplate its role in your life?
AB: Growing up, I was surrounded by my mother’s strong second-wave feminist values. I have humorous memories of the pink hand towels with “ms.” on them which a not-so-feminist friend gave her.
Now, as an adult, I am thankful for the impact of the work she did in order to challenge the sexist and negative body image messages she had been exposed to.
Although I recognize the boundaries of second-wave feminism, it was the basis of my understanding. From there, I learnt about intersectional feminism from books, essays and conversations with friends.
My mother holds the opinion that feminism has achieved a great deal, making the world a much less sexist place than it was during her youth. Despite this, there is still a lot to be done; sexism and misogyny are deeply embedded in our culture.
I have been reading Chavisa Woods’s 100 Times: A Memoir of Sexism, a compilation of her hundred memories of assault, harassment and discrimination, from the lighting tech at her theater attacking her as a teen to being pursued by an ex and enduring harassment in public places.
I read a review online contesting the plausibility that all these events could have happened to one person, which reminds me of the disapproval you got in graduate school when two bad teachers were mentioned (which, by the way, I am still angry about).
I am glad you did not let this stop you from including other episodes in Things We Didn’t Talk About. Along with Mark, there is the abusive ex, the two teachers, the physics teacher, the magazine editor, the stranger on the street, the Italian restaurant man, the motel man.
Adrienne Maree Brown said it best: it is no surprise that such conduct is so common; men are taught this from an early age.
However, we rarely talk about it, so I appreciate that you placed Mark’s assault in the context of these other instances rather than as an isolated occurrence; I am also glad that you did not worry that this would make you a dubious narrator.
Could you tell me more about your worries about being an unreliable narrator? Were you concerned that writing about bipolar disorder would make you an unreliable narrator? Or were there other aspects that caused this apprehension? At one point you said, “This all seems too distracting to include,” yet what made you decide to include it anyway?
JV: I had already released The Glass Eye, which made my experience with mental illness public knowledge. Additionally, I wrote an article for The New York Times‘s Modern Love section that discussed my struggle with bipolar disorder.
I couldn’t avoid being identified as someone with the disorder. It was a major factor that caused me to feel obligated to include Mark’s perspective in the story. It was also because I had been drinking on the night of the rape.
I was convinced that if I could get Mark to tell his side of the story, none of the readers would doubt my memory of that night. Furthermore, I wanted to move the reader’s attention to his actions.
I wanted him to admit that he knew what he was doing was wrong, even though he still went through with it.
It is disheartening to admit, but Mark’s voice as a narrator gave me more credibility when I included my negative experiences with other men. I did not want to focus solely on him when it came to the book’s subject matter, because he was not the only man who hurt me.
People have asked me why I did not interview the person who raped me in my twenties or my high school boyfriend, and I usually answer that my medication works, but not necessarily that well.
The core of the issue with Mark’s actions was language; I was so focused on his body that I was not thinking of my own. The FBI’s definition of rape between 1927 and 2012 was “the carnal knowledge of a female, forcibly and against her will.”
However, in 2013 they revised it to “penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim.”
This would now classify Mark’s actions as rape. It is unfortunate that some readers do not understand this and judge women who have been assaulted more than once, as opposed to looking at the larger cultural messages we are sending to boys and men.
Although I do not always appreciate the rude questions, I would rather have a conversation than nothing at all. I am still hopeful that things are getting better, despite the negativity. What do you think? What makes you hopeful?
AB: I recently finished reading Jenny Offill’s Weather and the character in the novel spoke of their difficulty in conveying a note of hope in their articles concerning climate change. That sense of difficulty is something I am familiar with as well.
Despite this, I still have hope. People will always have their doubts and make judgments, however, more and more of us are putting our truths out there.
Your book, Chanel Miller’s Know My Name, Alexandra Naughton’s a place a feeling something he said to you, Catalina Ouyang’s Conclusion and Findings, and Heather Clark’s Scorched Cunt give me hope.
They are all examples of new ways to talk about rape and other aspects of the subject that haven’t been explored enough. It is through reading texts like these that I find reassurance and hope.
Could Be of Interest
It can be concluded that the use of technology in the classroom provides numerous advantages. From increased engagement to enhanced collaboration among students, the benefits of using technology in the learning environment are clear.
Moreover, it can be argued that tech use offers an opportunity for students to develop digital literacy skills that are essential in today’s world.
In addition, technology can provide teachers with valuable feedback and data to help them adjust their instruction to better meet the needs of their students.
All in all, the utilization of technology in the classroom can be considered a powerful tool for increasing student engagement and achievement.