Ghenwa Antonios has a Master’s degree in English Literature from the American University of Beirut. She is currently pursuing her PhD in Comparative Literature at the Graduate Center. My research interests include modern Arabic literature, spatial theories with a particular focus on the coffeehouse as a site of intellectual discourse and political consciousness in Middle Eastern literary and cultural imagination.
Alexander Pau Soria is currently pursuing a PhD in Comparative Literature at the Graduate Center. His research interests include subjectivity under capitalism, socialist realism, and intellectual history.
Introduction: As part of our Spring 2025 issue of Pedagogy in Praxis, we present a series of conversations with Graduate Teaching Fellows and seasoned faculty, reflecting on the evolving landscape of pedagogy in higher education. These interviews explore diverse approaches to teaching, critical engagement, and the lived experience of navigating the classroom as both scholars and educators. Conducted over Zoom, the discussions have been transcribed and edited for clarity and focus, while preserving the texture and nuance of each speaker’s voice. This joint interview features Ghenwa Antonios and Alexander Pau Soria, two GTFs who joined Baruch in the same cohort and are closing out their final year of their teaching fellowship.
Maddie (Co-Editor 1): Hi! Thank you for agreeing to be interviewed for Pedagogy in Praxis.
Joe (Co-Editor 2): We’re going to have a release party in May called “Pizza and Praxis.” Can you introduce yourselves and tell us how long you’ve been teaching and what classes you’ve taught?
Ghenwa Antonios: I’m Ghenwa, and I’ve been teaching for three years at Baruch. I’m also teaching at BMCC this semester for the first time. At Baruch, I’ve taught both composition courses, 2100 and 2150, as well as Great Works of Literature.I’m also teaching Middle Eastern Literature at BMCC right now.
Alexander Pau Orejuela: Hi, my name’s Alexander. I’ve been teaching, in total, for four-and-a-half years. I started adjuncting at Hostos Community College right after I finished my MA, where I taught a composition course in Spanish and Spanish language to start. I also taught English when I was studying abroad in Russia. I now teach Great Works of Literature and have taught both 2100 and 2150 before. Currently I’m teaching 2800 with a focus on generational conflict and “daddy issues,” as I call it. I am very happy to be here. Ghenwa and I both started the PhD, and teaching at Baruch, together, so it’s really nice to springboard ideas off of each other here today.
Joe: Ghenwa, did you teach before teaching at Baruch?
Ghenwa: I taught before, but it was very different to the kind of teaching I do now—I tutored throughout college. That was how I supported myself. Then I taught biology in my old high school for a bit (I have a BS in Biology), but couldn’t manage it with my master’s program at the time. It was nothing like the classes I am teaching here.
Joe: Cool. Here’s a question for Alex—you’re teaching across two different disciplines, going from Spanish Composition to English—do you notice a major difference in the Hostos Community College crowd, versus the Baruch crowd?
Alex: Thank you for that. One of the major differences I see between the two institutions is a particular focus on prescriptive language. What does it mean, and what might fellow faculty members, both in composition and other disciplines, think? I think that linguistic hygiene is a topic we never directly address but is always in the background of all we do in every discipline—whether it be language or pedagogy—and in content as well. Between the transition from Hostos to Baruch, my goal has been to find a middle point between the two institutions and find a pedagogical approach that bridges those gaps.
Joe: So regarding Baruch specifically, Alex and Ghenwa, what has been your biggest surprise teaching here? What were you anticipating before you started out, and what surprised you?
Ghenwa: As someone who did not grow up in the United States, I was worried about students being too outspoken and more willful than me. I was afraid of confrontation in class, for no reason at all. But I was surprised that the students are very sweet and nice. I haven’t had any run-ins. It’s been pleasant. What really surprises me though is how little time and interest most students put into these classes. My biggest struggle is finding ways to make these classes that students often don’t want to take, interesting enough that they will try.
Alex: My biggest surprise, and this is neither negative nor positive, is that, as someone who completed their undergraduate studies at CUNY, I had an idea of what I thought CUNY was, and that has, to a large degree, shaped my approach to pedagogical instruction. I feel very familiar with the type of student body that CUNY not only cultivates but also admits. At the same time, I’m constantly surprised in the greatest possible way, by everything that the student community produces. As someone who’s taught at various community colleges, CUNY produces really brilliant thinkers and writers. We have to constantly try to bring this out of students. Teaching English at Baruch and composition at BMCC, I’m constantly amazed and delighted by how intelligent my students are when presented with a text that theoretically might seem super strange to them, but they’re familiar with it. I assign lots of readings to serve as critiques of institutions, hierarchies, and so forth, all the things I like to incorporate into my own research and teaching. You start to realize that the students understand these concepts intimately. They live in hierarchies. They’re constantly critiquing the institution, and you’re helping them develop a vocabulary that translates into their real-world experience. You’re taking their experience and translating it into something that is consumable by anybody.
Joe: This leads into another question that has been one of my very favorites to ask—how do you integrate your own research interests into your teaching, specifically regarding composition, and Great Works?
Ghenwa: I mostly work on 20th century and contemporary Arabic literature, so I can integrate my interests in part of the class, but I can’t do it for the entire class. For Great Works, I usually choose one novel for us to read, and then several shorter readings, like short stories and poetry. Recently, I’ve been teaching an Egyptian novel, The Yacoubian Building by Alaa Al-Aswany. We usually spend a couple of weeks with this novel, which falls in my area; it’s what I know best. It’s interesting to try to translate what I study and research into the classroom. Students respond well to this book, and that’s always refreshing. A lot of students have never read anything by an Egyptian writer, and they’re surprised by some of the things we talk about. They might not know much about the text, but they manage to find interesting connections that reflect their own circumstances and the institutions in which they work and live. Composition class, at times, felt more about survival—we get through what we need to get through, and there’s less space to bring in what I do.
Joe: Composition is tough because you have to quickly teach skills-based things, and the content feels somewhat secondary.
Alex: In my case, I tried to incorporate my research interests into my syllabus every step of the way. There have been factors that contribute to this. I think when I started my PhD, I became much more politically active—I became an activist of sorts. I’ve tried to make my students aware of different causes that I’m involved in, whether they pertain to adjuncts, full-time faculty, marginalized groups, or to the students in general. I draw connections to the Palestinian cause, and labor struggles. I bring it up because these movements influence my intellectual trajectory just as much as my research has. My activism is just as important. Just like Ghenwa was alluding to, my research is a major part of my identity. I don’t pursue it just to further my career. My research comes out in almost every facet of my instruction because I can’t think of myself any other way of working within the world and the academy.
Joe: It’s really hard to think about teaching without your own interests and intellectual curiosities at the fore, right? I have two more questions that are connected. What have you been most excited to teach, and what do your students seem most excited to learn?
Ghenwa: In my Middle Eastern literature class, we spent two to three weeks on this same novel. Everyone was a bit tired of reading longer pieces. They needed something new. We looked at two short stories by Ghassan Kanafani, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. We had just started the module on Palestine, and it turned out to be one of the best classes I’ve ever taught. I was surprised by how much everyone had to say—how much they took the time to read the stories and think about them. They all had thoughtful and smart things to say. I was listening as they built off of what other classmates had said before them. I’m not sure if that’s because the text itself was shorter—they actually had time to do the reading—or whether they connected to the stories, even if they expressed ideas and experiences somewhat foreign to them. There are links there if you think about how many students are children of immigrants who came to the U.S. It was very inspiring to see them enjoy discussing this, even without an activity. I usually try to have an activity, like rewriting the ending for one of the characters—something a bit more creative. But we didn’t have to do anything like that—we didn’t have time.
Joe: It just flowed. I bet you’ll teach that again.
Ghenwa: Yeah, exactly.
Joe: So, same question, Alex—what are you most excited to teach, and what are your students most excited to learn about?
Alex: I developed this course very much on the fly. I work on modern literature predominantly, and a section was closed due to low enrollment. I wanted to do something fun, something people joke about, but also take very seriously. Obviously, people constantly wrestle with “daddy” and “mommy” issues. It’s been a great class from the get-go. The students have been engaged in not only trying to understand their own personal family dynamics, but also in reconsidering the limits of the family. This is something I pose to students from the first day—is the family just the domestic sphere, or also the civil sphere? I constantly asked students to reconsider how the state conceives, or re-conceives, of ideas of the family. In recent semesters, I’ve become more interested in exploring this idea of the disciplinary figure in regards to daddy issues. A lot of students, whether or not they care about the modern political landscape, are interested in the question of the political figure as a disciplinary figure. I’ve been trying to analyze that through various lenses. I approach the disciplinary figure with the father for various reasons. There are two approaches: one is a psychoanalytic tradition, and the other is through literature. The most common way I do this is through analyzing Greek tragedy, but I’ve also explored this through Shakespearean tragedies. My students aren’t enthused about Shakespeare initially, but they become enthusiastic as we break it down. My students are absolutely obsessed with Oedipus because there’s so much to draw from. I don’t just deal with the question of daddy issues—I deal with the question of the migrant in our day and age. I bring up the question of hospitality, something I think we need to constantly re-examine, living in New York City. I have students reconsider what it means to defy the state. Are there laws beyond the state? From there, we can incorporate the psychoanalytic, and political science-like examinations. We think about why these tragedies come into play. It’s the incommensurability between two opposing forces historically… My students are living through this moment and starting to see correlations—what is incommensurable from what was, and what is now? A questioning is a doing, right? It is perhaps the most simplistic, dramatic, and forceful of all modes of questioning and interrogation. You can grope in the dark for something, right? There’s form, but you have to bring it to light, and that begins with questioning.
Joe: Students love to discuss the question of what it means to be human.
Alex: They do indeed. Students are absolutely obsessed with this question! My hope is that, through the various texts we read together, they can recuperate the meaning of what it not only means to be human, but how to interact with the world in general. What’s been a pleasant surprise is how much my students are able to strain themes out of ancient texts to explore their historical experience. Their interest is based in the same themes that concerned the ancients. I inundate them with the hope that, whether it be, the strong feminist figures of Antigone or Medea, that they consider different forms of insubordination, principle, but also what bonds us to one another. I ask what does it mean to be a migrant? What does it mean to be hospitable? We discuss the opening lines of the play, Oedipus at Colonus—“I come to you now seeking hospitality with nothing to offer,” to reconsider the idea of hospitality. We think of hospitality as being reciprocal, right? I offer something so that in the future, you may offer it back to me. What if you have nothing to offer? I come to you as the exile, the migrant, the foreigner. Will you take me in? I think from then on, students are hooked. They see their everyday lives in New York City, a very cosmopolitan liminal space. What is it to be among foreigners, right? They are, in most cases, foreigners themselves. They see their lives translated into the play, and these stories are not necessarily sweet and generous. They are able to question, on the same level, I feel, as Derrida or whatever intellectual behemoth we interrogate through our research. The themes are ongoing—that’s why these are great works.
Maddie: This is already so exciting. If there was a message that you could send to your students, past, present, or future, what would it be? This could be advice, or a general message. Maybe they’ll find it here.
Ghenwa: My advice is more general. It’s this: Don’t disappear. Life is hard, everyone has so much going on, and I know students in particular have a lot of things to worry about in addition to their studies. Just don’t disappear. Reach out to your teachers, talk to them. We’re not distant figures trying to control you, we’re here to help. There is always a way forward, no matter how delayed or behind you think you are, or how little time you have to put into the class. We know you might be working full-time and have caretaking responsibilities. There is always a way. It’s never too late. Sometimes students ask me if it’s too late to get back on track. My answer is no—just don’t disappear. Come to office hours, schedule a meeting, send an email, don’t wait for me to email you when 2-3 weeks have gone by and you haven’t come to class or you haven’t done any of the work. I teach hybrid classes a lot of the time, so we only meet once a week. There’s a bit more distance between my students. That is what I would say!
Maddie: I love that so much. How about you, Alex?
Alex: This might not be the best message, but I’ll offer it, and hopefully it will have some sort of weight to it. This is something I’ve inherited from my professors who were important to me—the ones who I try to model myself after as a teacher, and in a classroom setting. It’s this: always question. I always tell students: don’t ever take me at my word. If you have a doubt, tell me. I’m here to discourse with you and to help you question, because I don’t think the answers are out there in a set-in-stone way. I encourage my students to find different ways of engaging with the texts outside of the classroom, in connection to different interests. I’d say: don’t stop doing that. Maybe that’s basic, but I appreciate my students who constantly challenge me, and I would tell all students to challenge their professors. I have students whom I disagree with when it comes to ideological or political stances, but I think their engagement with me serves to further the classroom setting and studying, not only with me, but with their other seminars.
Joe: It’s really hard for students to imagine humanities instructors as someone other than an authority figure, but we’re interlocutors helping to understand texts. Sometimes, we teach a text we haven’t read before because we’re teaching a survey class that represents thousands of years.
Maddie: Agreed. Thank you both—I think hearing those messages would have helped me in the past. We have two great teachers here whom I respect immensely. Is there anything else you’d like to add?
Ghenwa: No, I think this is a good way to end the conversation. It’s a reminder to take my own advice, actually. Don’t disappear.
Joe: I was just thinking, I gotta email my advisor.
Maddie: Me, too!
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Closing reflection: Looking back on this interview from an editorial perspective, we remain inspired by our conversation with Ghenwa and Alex, whose thoughtful integration of research and activism into their teaching continues to resonate with us. Both instructors bring a deep awareness of social and political contexts to their classrooms, informed by their commitment to political engagement and justice. This is reflected not only in the texts they teach—ranging from classical literature to contemporary works on migration, hospitality, and family structures—but also in their pedagogical approach, which foregrounds empathy, dialogue, and critical inquiry.
They demonstrate a profound respect for the diverse backgrounds and circumstances of their students, especially in this unpredictable and often difficult time in higher education. By encouraging students to explore themes such as the relationship between family and both domestic and civic spheres, immigration, and belonging, Ghenwa and Alex create a space where literature becomes a tool for understanding the world and one’s place in it. Their message to students, “don’t disappear,” underscores the importance of presence, communication, and collaboration over perfectionism or grades.
This philosophy reflects their care for students not only as learners but as individuals navigating complex personal and societal landscapes. It is clear that they are passionate about fostering discussions that are both intellectually rigorous and personally meaningful. We were especially heartened to see how students continue to engage with enduring works like Medea, finding relevance and insight in these texts today.
Baruch College is fortunate to have such dedicated educators, who model a politically conscious and student-centered approach to teaching. Their work exemplifies how activism and academia can intersect in ways that enrich both the classroom and the broader community.
Key takeaways: students respond well to discussions about family structures and disciplinary figures; encourage students to challenge their instructors, and to always question; balance out longer texts with shorter texts to relieve pressure and encourage free-flowing discussions; students are familiar with living within hierarchies and enjoy critiquing institutions; students love Oedipus and Antigone, and exploring the question of what it means to be human; it is essential that students don’t disappear, because it’s rarely, if ever, too late to work out an arrangement.