Saturday, August 30, 2014

Jilly, Jane, and J.K. Rowling: The Pleasures of Reading Out Loud


            In our first year together, my wife and I started reading out loud to one another.  It began as a joke.  She had picked up a Jilly Cooper novel somewhere – England’s equivalent of Danielle Steele – but she couldn’t make it through the first chapter, deciding it was too trashy.  One night, as we cleaned the kitchen, I began reading it out loud.  At first I declaimed and emoted and goofed around and then . . . we got into the story.  We read the entire book.  And then another one.
            I think we read three Coopers before we decided to elevate our tastes and try Jane Austen.  I was skeptical.  I had “read” Pride and Prejudice in college and hadn’t liked it.  This time, however, I loved it.  It may have been because I was no longer nineteen, but it also was because reading it out loud meant reading it slowly.  In college, it had been an assignment, and we had done the book in less than two weeks.  I whipped through it, concentrating only on plot – they don’t like each other and then they do.  I was going too fast to appreciate the irony, the wit, the style, in short, what makes Austen Austen.
            We read all of Jane Austen, and then moved on to Harry Potter, a series that was just coming out.  Each year, as Rowling published a new volume, we would read it out loud.  A chapter a night.  We weren’t among those who finished a book as soon as possible.  That seemed crazy to us.  No, we savored it.  And, sometimes to prepare for the release of a new volume, we would read the last one again.
            My son has now reached the age where we think he can handle the series (which grows progressively darker), and we’ve begun reading it out loud once again.  The family gathers after dinner and listens to my wife.  (She is fantastic with accents and reads wonderfully.  If I even make a gesture of reaching for the book, the children understandably complain.)  For my son, it’s a revelation.  Harry’s a wizard?  Awesome!  For us, it’s also a revelation as we realize how tightly Rowling has constructed this world.  Hagrid brought the baby to the Dursleys on a motorcycle he borrowed from Sirius Black, a character who won’t show up for two volumes?  Awesome!
            Part of the pleasure stems from the story itself.  Rowling’s very popularity sometimes means she doesn’t get as much credit as she should for her skill as a writer.  Part of it is seeing my son’s engagement and knowing he has the whole series in front of him.  And much of it is from a sense of communion.  Books are usually solo experiences.  We read them by ourselves.  Even when we read the same ones, we have different experiences.  But, a book read out loud, that’s a shared experience.  It’s a story, and more than a story; words spoken out loud are a spell, binding us together.

Saturday, May 31, 2014

Summer Hiatus 2014


My son gets faster and stronger, and I get slower and weaker.  This year I've realized that if he takes off running, even if I try, I might not be able to catch him. (This is so much of a psychic shock that, in the previous sentence I had to use the verb “might.” I can't bring myself to write the truth outright.) I used to play basketball against him left-handed to make it challenging, a la Inigo Montoya.  Then a month ago, he beat me straight-out at HORSE even after I stopped fooling around and switched hands.  He has mastered a tricky top of the garden wall shot and, in that game, hit it 8 times in a row.  So, unless I simply want to accept my decline, I need to take a break from non-essential activities, like blogging and work, and concentrate on my shooting skills (and my dodge-ball, tag, and slip-and-slid techniques).

I think I still have a few good years left to be in the game(s), but it will take a commitment.  I'll start posting again in August.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Memorial Day and NASCAR


This column appeared in a local paper years ago.  I thought when it came out that readers would be annoyed, but that wasn’t the case.  Surprisingly, it was a column on hockey that enraged people and earned me the most vitriolic emails I’ve every received.

Memorial Day weekend always makes me nostalgic.  The unofficial start of summer, it is also when the Indy 500 is run.  Growing up in Indiana, I was more familiar with the names Foyt and Andretti than Nixon and Carter.  It seemed every radio and television broadcast the race.  Even people who didn’t care tuned in as a type of patriotic duty.
            As a kid, I played with matchbox cars then graduated to hotwheels then slots.  I read all the books about racing in the school library (learning, for example, about Junior Johnson, the stock car legend that essayist Tom Wolfe called “The Last American Hero”).  I loved The Dukes of Hazzard and Burt Reynolds movies, and even now I hum the Smokey and the Bandit theme song occasionally.  I learned to drive at thirteen, got my license at fifteen, and had a car at sixteen.  By eighteen, I had earned a couple speeding tickets and smashed my mother’s Toyota into a telephone pole on a moonlit dirt road. 
            In short, I would seem to fit solidly within NASCAR’s target audience, but although I’ve tried, I just can’t get enthused about the sport.
            When I moved South, I discovered the newspaper was filled with racing articles.  I knew almost nothing about contemporary NASCAR, but I was willing to learn.  Soon, I could identify the jump-suited men shilling products from 7-Up to HMOs on the television.  I also could explain to my wife why people flew flags with numbers from their houses.
            A few times, I turned on a race.  I quickly realized, however, that the broadcasts jack up the sound effects to distract you from the fact that there is not much actual racing.  Tracks are so cramped, and cars are so fast that except for a few brief moments there can be little jockeying for position.  Drivers rely on pit stops and mechanical failures to advance their positions.  They don’t race as much as try to wait each other out.
            Often what they seem to be waiting for is a wreck, and, if you strap dozens of people into the equivalent of land-based rockets and send them hurtling together in circles, you’re pretty much guaranteed one.  I’m not sure why these are called “accidents” instead of “inevitables.”  The only surprising thing is that people are surprised when they occur. Yet, after each one, people vilify some mysterious entity called “NASCAR” as if the rules have been responsible.
            Why the bewilderment that drivers get hurt and die?  When I wrecked my mother’s car at roughly forty miles an hour, I walked away.  If I had been going 180, I would not have.  It’s physics.  If you really want to guarantee driver safety, take them out of the cars.  Give each one a remote control and put them in the stands.  They will still need superior reflexes.  They can still cover themselves in advertising.  They still will be putting their livelihoods on the line, but not, however, their lives.
            The irony of modern NASCAR is that the founders were outlaws, those moonshiners who needed souped-up cars to get away from the law, and now the sport endlessly focuses on regulations about restrictor plates, air flow, and technical measurements.  The bad boys have been replaced by rule sticklers and whiners. Perhaps it’s inevitable because of the money involved, but NASCAR doesn’t seem to be a sport as much as a marketing machine paid for by multinational corporations and selling a sanitized “rebel” image.  To be true to the heritage, let them race whatever they want.
            I read the articles in the paper because it’s like following soap opera storylines.  I also like being able to identity the cardboard figures in the beer aisle.  As for watching races, however, I’ll pass until someone tells me that Junior Johnson and Burt Reynolds are out on some old U.S. highway.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

The Classroom as Chaotic System


I'm not sure when I first heard the term SLO -- Student Learning Outcomes --or when the idea became institutionalized, but now, each semester, professors have to put on their syllabi the SLOs of a course.  Suggested examples are along the lines of “In this course, a student will learn the fundamentals of ...”
Although I appreciate the desire to make educational goals clear, I have reservations about SLOs.  One is the use of the verb “will” in sentences like “students will learn.”  Well, maybe, they will.  That depends on the student. 
The saying about leading a horse to water is relevant.  Registering, paying for, and attending a course is no guarantee that a person will learn its content.  Buying a book doesn’t mean you know what’s in it, and it’s possible to read and not comprehend a thing.   In college, I was so focused on how many pages I had left to complete an assignment – 90, 75, 32 – that I had no idea sometimes what I was reading.  Pride and Prejudice?  A woman and man don’t like each other, and then they do.  (Or is that Sense and Sensibility?)  Hobbe’s Leviathan?  Something about governments and how death is bad, so kings are good.
The exchange in A Fish Called Wanda struck close to home.  Kevin Kline’s character, Otto, says, “Apes don’t read philosophy,” and Jamie Lee Curtis’s Wanda retorts, “Yes, They do, Otto.  They just don’t understand it.”  She goes on to say, “Now let me correct you on a couple of things, OK? Aristotle was not Belgian. The central message of Buddhism is not "Every man for himself." And the London Underground is not a political movement.
If students put in the work and if they commit to the material and if they spend the time and energy and if they have a certain intelligence, then they may learn something in a course.  Maybe.
More fundamentally, however, I'm skeptical of the basic premise which assumes a direct process of the professor teaching X and the student learning X. My own experience was much more along the lines of the professor tried to teach X but I actually learned Y or LMNOP.  What do I remember from my Literary Theory course?  That Roland Barthes died by being hit by a laundry truck.  From Modern Literature?  That John O’Hara was hit by a taxi.  And, in some class I learned that Isadora Duncan strangled when her scarf tangled in the wheel of her car. 
What was I learning?  Terrific artists die mundane deaths.  I don’t think this was the SLO of any of my courses.
As teachers, we may know what we want the outcome to be or what we think it should be, but we don't actually know what it will be.  I often have former students say things like, “I’ve never forgotten how you once said…” and it will be something I have no memory of.  Something that was probably a throw-off line or digression.  This is the butterfly effect of education.
The classroom can be a chaotic system.  We know the general direction of how the water will flow, but it sputters and splashes in unpredictable ways.  

Saturday, May 10, 2014

So What? The Key Question


The most useful comment that I ever received on a paper came when I was an undergraduate.  The assignment had been to explicate a poem.  I don’t remember what it was – perhaps John Donne, perhaps Robert Frost -- but the paper had to be at least three pages long.  So, to pad at it out, I catalogued rhyme schemes, talked about metrical scansion (as best I could), counted syllables and words and lines.  Next to a paragraph in which I tallied these up, saying something like “this five stanza poem has five stanzas with each stanza having four lines each and each of the four lines contains ten syllables….” the professor, Wayne Booth, wrote in the margin, “So what?” 

So what?

Even though I was shocked at the bluntness, and a bit hurt, I understood that he wasn’t being flip or sarcastic.  Those two words pierced to the essential point.  Why did this information matter? He wasn’t saying that it didn’t; he was noting that I hadn’t made it clear why it did.  I was scurrying around, offering the appearance of analysis, without actually explaining what these observations added up to. 

So what?

The comment scared me because I couldn’t answer it.  What was the point?   I didn’t know. The point was to write three full pages.  The point was to do the paper so I would pass the class.  The point was to pass the classes so I would get the degree.  The point was to get the degree so …

So what?

Even now, I keep returning to these words, particularly when I’m revising my writing.   On bad days, they torment as “why bother?”  On good days, they prompt and provoke and force me to think about what I’m doing.  When I have put down yet another anecdote that’s merely shaped like a poem, I step back and look at it and think, “So what?”  What is this doing and why?  Is it more than a diary entry?  If not, why am I telling it?  It’s not always easy to find, or admit, the answers.
There also are a couple paradoxes or problems to the question.  One is that, in some work, explaining the “so what?” diminishes it and condescends to the audience, saying “I’m spelling this out so that you’ll be sure to get it.” 
Another is that sometimes you may not be able to articulate an answer.  Sometimes the process involves an element of faith that what you’re doing has a purpose. 
And a third is that if you explicitly try to sound deep, relevant, profound, you’ll probably fail.  In golf or baseball, if you try to blast the ball, you’ll often miss or pull it.  The effort will deform your stroke, and you won’t hit it as hard as you’d like.  If you try to act for the award, it’s unlikely you’ll do good work.  Reach for too much, and you won’t get anywhere.  And yet, simultaneously, as the poet Donald Hall puts it, "I see no reason to spend your life writing poems unless your goal is to write great poems. … To desire to write poems that endure — we undertake such a goal certain of two things: that in all likelihood we will fail, and that if we succeed we will never know it."