Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Bitter Pills that We don't Swallow
A couple of years ago I did some time (Oops, I mean spent some time) as a high school English teacher. While I have managed to bury most of that experience in the deep recesses of my subconscious, there are a few things I still remember.
I had this student, a freshman, who was like no one I had ever meant. He would talk almost constantly in class, if not to me, then to his classmates. He also had the uncanny ability to both hold a conversation with his neighbor and follow my lecture. I’d call on him sometimes when it looked like he wasn’t paying attention. I’d ask him something about what I had been discussing. He’d answer me, and then calmly resume his conversation right where he had left off.
His work was never very good, but it was always complete, at least for the first two months of the year. After that, however, he changed. He would go from extremely disruptive to sullenly silent, sometimes in the same class. His test scores dropped. He stopped handing in work.
One day I stopped him before class to ask what was the matter.
“Well, Mr. Bananafish,” he said, “can I make a suggestion?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Well, you see, I have a tough time in your class. We read too much, and when we’re not reading, you’re talking. You talk for too long. I can’t really concentrate on what you’re saying.”
I couldn’t believe a student would say something like this. He continued: “You see, I’m more of a hands-on learner.” He made a circular motion with his hands to emphasize this point. “I do much better when I’m doing something, like group work. Everyone else says the same thing.”
This five-minute exchange very likely gave me more to consider than I gave him the whole of my five-month mistake. Did he suppose I came out of the womb reading classical literature? Did he think that the ability to think about ideas for any extended period of time was a gift that you either have or don’t have, like being able to curl your tongue? Did he think anything?
Ay, there’s the rub. He didn’t think; he rationalized. You can’t think about your rationalizations, because if you do, you might realize that they’re wrong. This poor sap is going to go through life thinking that he struggles at reading and writing (and, by extension, thinking), not because they’re inherently difficult activities (difficult for even professionals), but because there’s something about him that renders him unable to do these things well. He’ll go on to live what Socrates called the unexamined life.
And someone had to have put this idea into his head. After all, how many 14-year olds have phrases like “hands-on learner” in their conversational vocabulary? The same people probably convinced him that education is supposed to be fun. It is, sometimes. But more often than not it’s a difficult, solitary, sometimes emotionally painful experience that is anything but fun. Until teachers start to recognize this truth, students will be the same.
Sometimes my kids get sick and have to take medicine. Some of their medicine tastes good. So good, in fact, that they ask for second helpings. Sometimes they pretend they’re sick so they can take it. But I don’t give it to them because it tastes good; I give it to them because it’s good for them. And when the medicine tastes horrible, I still give it to them, and for the same reason.
So too with education. Sometimes it’s fun. Some teachers are better than others at making it fun. But to say that education has to be fun is a mistake. Because most times it won’t be fun. Hold their noses if they must, but they still have to take it, because it’s good for them.
I had this student, a freshman, who was like no one I had ever meant. He would talk almost constantly in class, if not to me, then to his classmates. He also had the uncanny ability to both hold a conversation with his neighbor and follow my lecture. I’d call on him sometimes when it looked like he wasn’t paying attention. I’d ask him something about what I had been discussing. He’d answer me, and then calmly resume his conversation right where he had left off.
His work was never very good, but it was always complete, at least for the first two months of the year. After that, however, he changed. He would go from extremely disruptive to sullenly silent, sometimes in the same class. His test scores dropped. He stopped handing in work.
One day I stopped him before class to ask what was the matter.
“Well, Mr. Bananafish,” he said, “can I make a suggestion?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Well, you see, I have a tough time in your class. We read too much, and when we’re not reading, you’re talking. You talk for too long. I can’t really concentrate on what you’re saying.”
I couldn’t believe a student would say something like this. He continued: “You see, I’m more of a hands-on learner.” He made a circular motion with his hands to emphasize this point. “I do much better when I’m doing something, like group work. Everyone else says the same thing.”
This five-minute exchange very likely gave me more to consider than I gave him the whole of my five-month mistake. Did he suppose I came out of the womb reading classical literature? Did he think that the ability to think about ideas for any extended period of time was a gift that you either have or don’t have, like being able to curl your tongue? Did he think anything?
Ay, there’s the rub. He didn’t think; he rationalized. You can’t think about your rationalizations, because if you do, you might realize that they’re wrong. This poor sap is going to go through life thinking that he struggles at reading and writing (and, by extension, thinking), not because they’re inherently difficult activities (difficult for even professionals), but because there’s something about him that renders him unable to do these things well. He’ll go on to live what Socrates called the unexamined life.
And someone had to have put this idea into his head. After all, how many 14-year olds have phrases like “hands-on learner” in their conversational vocabulary? The same people probably convinced him that education is supposed to be fun. It is, sometimes. But more often than not it’s a difficult, solitary, sometimes emotionally painful experience that is anything but fun. Until teachers start to recognize this truth, students will be the same.
Sometimes my kids get sick and have to take medicine. Some of their medicine tastes good. So good, in fact, that they ask for second helpings. Sometimes they pretend they’re sick so they can take it. But I don’t give it to them because it tastes good; I give it to them because it’s good for them. And when the medicine tastes horrible, I still give it to them, and for the same reason.
So too with education. Sometimes it’s fun. Some teachers are better than others at making it fun. But to say that education has to be fun is a mistake. Because most times it won’t be fun. Hold their noses if they must, but they still have to take it, because it’s good for them.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Remembering Richard Mitchell, Part 6
I got this story second hand from another professor at Rowan University.
In a previous post, I told the story about how Mitchell once told me that I had written one of the best undergraduate papers he had ever read. That moment meant a lot to me. But I haven’t written about my final meeting with him.
When I graduated from Rowan, I spent a year studying philosophy at Temple University. I didn’t like it and I wasn’t sure what to do with my academic future. Hoping for advice, and longing for a return to earlier years, when things were so much simpler, I went to Rowan one morning to talk with Mitchell. I went to find out if I could audit his class the next semester. I also wanted to know if he had any recommendations for graduate school. But really I just wanted to hear him talk again.
I waited for him outside of the classroom. Class had ended, but he was talking to a few stragglers about gardening. He described himself as a gardener’s assistant (his wife, he said, was the real gardener). I had heard a version of this story before. He said his wife used to make him go to flower shows a lot. Listening to him talk brought back memories that were only a year old, but filled me with the same fondness of childhood memories like when my grandmother used to take me out for hamburgers at the Five and Dime. Special feelings, you know?
I’m not sure what I expected when he walked out of the classroom. Something short of throwing his arms around me, but more than what actually happened. I asked if I could talk to him for a few minuets, and he said gladly, provided I didn’t mind if we did it outside where he could smoke. There was no recognition in his face. I told him I was his student for two classes, I told him what the classes were, I told him what books we read. He remembered the books and said he vaguely remembered me. Not what I would expect for someone who wrote him such a good paper (I couldn’t bring myself to try to remind him of that for fear that he wouldn’t remember). I asked how the semester was going, and he said he had just read a paper that was so good he wanted to keep it and use it as a sample for future classes. I guess he would keep it with mine.
He wasn’t able to give much advice because he stopped paying attention to graduate schools well before he retired. But talking to him again was well worth it, even if it shattered an illusion.
Now to the second-hand part. Two years ago I interviewed to teach a couple of English classes at Rowan as an adjunct. I spent most of the interview talking with the department chair about Mitchell (she hired me, but I had to back out to accept a full-time high school job, which I quit after five months). Towards the end I told her about my disappointment at his not knowing me. She told me not to worry. She said that, towards the end of his life, he had done some things that were difficult to explain. As he had the reputation for being eccentric, no one paid much attention (I recalled one day in class he asked us a simple question. No one answered, so he walked to the door and yelled, “Help! Someone has replaced my students with zombies! Help! Help!” No one so much as peaked into the room). But after he died, people started to talk to each other about him.
She told me that one day he had sat in on another teacher’s class. The teacher wasn’t an English teacher and didn’t even know Mitchell. He sat in the back taking notes. At the end of class, he proceeded to savagely critique her lesson. She complained, but everyone chalked it up to Mitchell being Mitchell. That was the only story she told me, but there were presumably others.
The point, she said, was she suspected that he had been ill for longer than anyone knew. He got sick for the final time around the Thanksgiving break, and then he died just before New Year’s. She wondered if his sudden illness had anything to do with some of his inexplicable behavior. Maybe that’s why he didn’t recognize me. Or maybe she said that to make me feel better.
In a previous post, I told the story about how Mitchell once told me that I had written one of the best undergraduate papers he had ever read. That moment meant a lot to me. But I haven’t written about my final meeting with him.
When I graduated from Rowan, I spent a year studying philosophy at Temple University. I didn’t like it and I wasn’t sure what to do with my academic future. Hoping for advice, and longing for a return to earlier years, when things were so much simpler, I went to Rowan one morning to talk with Mitchell. I went to find out if I could audit his class the next semester. I also wanted to know if he had any recommendations for graduate school. But really I just wanted to hear him talk again.
I waited for him outside of the classroom. Class had ended, but he was talking to a few stragglers about gardening. He described himself as a gardener’s assistant (his wife, he said, was the real gardener). I had heard a version of this story before. He said his wife used to make him go to flower shows a lot. Listening to him talk brought back memories that were only a year old, but filled me with the same fondness of childhood memories like when my grandmother used to take me out for hamburgers at the Five and Dime. Special feelings, you know?
I’m not sure what I expected when he walked out of the classroom. Something short of throwing his arms around me, but more than what actually happened. I asked if I could talk to him for a few minuets, and he said gladly, provided I didn’t mind if we did it outside where he could smoke. There was no recognition in his face. I told him I was his student for two classes, I told him what the classes were, I told him what books we read. He remembered the books and said he vaguely remembered me. Not what I would expect for someone who wrote him such a good paper (I couldn’t bring myself to try to remind him of that for fear that he wouldn’t remember). I asked how the semester was going, and he said he had just read a paper that was so good he wanted to keep it and use it as a sample for future classes. I guess he would keep it with mine.
He wasn’t able to give much advice because he stopped paying attention to graduate schools well before he retired. But talking to him again was well worth it, even if it shattered an illusion.
Now to the second-hand part. Two years ago I interviewed to teach a couple of English classes at Rowan as an adjunct. I spent most of the interview talking with the department chair about Mitchell (she hired me, but I had to back out to accept a full-time high school job, which I quit after five months). Towards the end I told her about my disappointment at his not knowing me. She told me not to worry. She said that, towards the end of his life, he had done some things that were difficult to explain. As he had the reputation for being eccentric, no one paid much attention (I recalled one day in class he asked us a simple question. No one answered, so he walked to the door and yelled, “Help! Someone has replaced my students with zombies! Help! Help!” No one so much as peaked into the room). But after he died, people started to talk to each other about him.
She told me that one day he had sat in on another teacher’s class. The teacher wasn’t an English teacher and didn’t even know Mitchell. He sat in the back taking notes. At the end of class, he proceeded to savagely critique her lesson. She complained, but everyone chalked it up to Mitchell being Mitchell. That was the only story she told me, but there were presumably others.
The point, she said, was she suspected that he had been ill for longer than anyone knew. He got sick for the final time around the Thanksgiving break, and then he died just before New Year’s. She wondered if his sudden illness had anything to do with some of his inexplicable behavior. Maybe that’s why he didn’t recognize me. Or maybe she said that to make me feel better.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Remembering Richard Mitchell, Part 5
I reserved my copy of the latest Harry Potter book about 3 months ago. The anticipation of the book's release among young readers is amazing. With that in mind, I thought I'd share what Mitchell said about Harry Potter.
In Spring 2000, when I had Mitchell for the first time, a girl in the class asked him if he had read any of the Harry Potter books. He hadn't, and he said it was funny she should bring it up, as his podiatrist had asked him the same question during his last appointment. The conversation ended with the student telling him he should check out the books, and he said that he might do just that.
Later in the semester (the week before Spring Break, I think), that girl brought in a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for him to borrow. He responded with what at first appeared to be sarcasm, but actually turned out to be genuine thanks.
"For me? My very own Harry Potter book. Thank you."
A week or so later, he returned the book to the girl (he said he had only read about 2/3 of it). When asked what he thought, he replied, "Well, there's certainly nothing wrong with it." To that bathtub water-warm endorsement, he added, "But it'll make kids want to read more, and that's a good thing." He also commented on the accuracy of Rawling's description of the teachers at Hogwarts. He had himself been a teacher in a prep school before he went for his PhD., so it rang especially true for him.
That was around the same time I started reading the novels. While I thought the first 2 were OK, it wasn't until the third and fourth that I got sucked into the series. I think the books have been progressively better since then.
I wonder what Mitchell would've thought had he continued the series. I think he'd have nothing but joy in seeing the kids get so excited to read.
In Spring 2000, when I had Mitchell for the first time, a girl in the class asked him if he had read any of the Harry Potter books. He hadn't, and he said it was funny she should bring it up, as his podiatrist had asked him the same question during his last appointment. The conversation ended with the student telling him he should check out the books, and he said that he might do just that.
Later in the semester (the week before Spring Break, I think), that girl brought in a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for him to borrow. He responded with what at first appeared to be sarcasm, but actually turned out to be genuine thanks.
"For me? My very own Harry Potter book. Thank you."
A week or so later, he returned the book to the girl (he said he had only read about 2/3 of it). When asked what he thought, he replied, "Well, there's certainly nothing wrong with it." To that bathtub water-warm endorsement, he added, "But it'll make kids want to read more, and that's a good thing." He also commented on the accuracy of Rawling's description of the teachers at Hogwarts. He had himself been a teacher in a prep school before he went for his PhD., so it rang especially true for him.
That was around the same time I started reading the novels. While I thought the first 2 were OK, it wasn't until the third and fourth that I got sucked into the series. I think the books have been progressively better since then.
I wonder what Mitchell would've thought had he continued the series. I think he'd have nothing but joy in seeing the kids get so excited to read.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Remembering Richard Mitchell, Part 4
On the first day of class, he had, in the course of his introduction, written on the board the names of the books we'd be reading (Candide, Faust Part 1, and The Brothers Karamazov). Mitchell had been talking for a while, with no prospect of stopping (in fact, he told us that if the class period ended and he was still talking, we should just leave. He would stay and finish whatever he was discussing, by himself if necessary.).
Finally, as the class period was about to end, one student couldn't control himself any longer. He raised his hand and asked (more like demanded) when we'd be getting the syllabus.
"The syllabus?" Mitchell asked. "What do you mean?"
The student fired back, "Most teachers give us a syllabus on the first day. It has all of the information for the class."
"What do you need that for? What is a syllabus but a list of books you're going to read? There," he pointed to the board. "I've written the syllabus." He then resumed his talk as if he hadn't been interrupted. The student was silent.
I got to know that student over the course of the next year. He was in the other class I took with Mitchell. We were both psychology majors, but we took his class again anyway. That was the thing about Mitchell. He'd talk and talk and most of the class would daydream, study for other classes, or sleep (his classes were always early). But there'd be a couple of students in the class who recognized that they were having some of the most edifying experiences in their lives. I was one, but there were a few others, ones I didn't even know until the memorial service after his death.
Recently, I learned about a website where students can rate their teachers. I've been accused on a couple of occasions of talking about things unrelated to class. I don't think this site was up when Mitchell was still alive, but if it were, I'm sure he'd get some of the same responses.
I like that.
Finally, as the class period was about to end, one student couldn't control himself any longer. He raised his hand and asked (more like demanded) when we'd be getting the syllabus.
"The syllabus?" Mitchell asked. "What do you mean?"
The student fired back, "Most teachers give us a syllabus on the first day. It has all of the information for the class."
"What do you need that for? What is a syllabus but a list of books you're going to read? There," he pointed to the board. "I've written the syllabus." He then resumed his talk as if he hadn't been interrupted. The student was silent.
I got to know that student over the course of the next year. He was in the other class I took with Mitchell. We were both psychology majors, but we took his class again anyway. That was the thing about Mitchell. He'd talk and talk and most of the class would daydream, study for other classes, or sleep (his classes were always early). But there'd be a couple of students in the class who recognized that they were having some of the most edifying experiences in their lives. I was one, but there were a few others, ones I didn't even know until the memorial service after his death.
Recently, I learned about a website where students can rate their teachers. I've been accused on a couple of occasions of talking about things unrelated to class. I don't think this site was up when Mitchell was still alive, but if it were, I'm sure he'd get some of the same responses.
I like that.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Remembering Richard Mitchell, Part 3
I'm encouraged to see that a few people are reading my blog (thanks to Mark and others for the links). I can't post as often as I'd like, but please continue to check in from time to time.
Once he told us about the only time that he tried marijuana. A former student of his had paid him a visit after returning from Vietnam. Upon leaving the office, the soldier gave Mitchell a “gift.” He said he thanked him and immediately hid the joint in his desk.
Later, while sitting in his office with time to kill, Mitchell decided to give it a go. He said that as he lit the joint, he half expected the FBI to burst into his office and arrest him. But they never showed. As someone who rolled his own cigarettes, he said his first reaction was to wonder why people would smoke something that tasted so horrible.
He then went to have lunch with a colleague at a Glassboro diner. He said he’s always been a picky (sometimes he brought his own food when he went out to dinner with others), extremely light eater, but on this occasion, he found himself ordering seconds. In the middle of a particularly engaging conversation, Mitchell said Attila the Hun walked up to the table. After briefly stopping his conversation, he greeted the warrior, then continued talking to his friend (he said that neither he nor his colleague ever mentioned that lunch afterwards).
That evening he had to do a show in Philadelphia (I have no idea what show and welcome any information that anyone might have about it). It was raining and the night was foreboding. He mentioned a particularly ominous Sunoco sign that had since been torn down.
He didn’t say much about the show, except that he felt it was the best show he had ever done (at least he thought so that night), though he has no recollection of what he said.
That was his first and only experience with marijuana.
Once he told us about the only time that he tried marijuana. A former student of his had paid him a visit after returning from Vietnam. Upon leaving the office, the soldier gave Mitchell a “gift.” He said he thanked him and immediately hid the joint in his desk.
Later, while sitting in his office with time to kill, Mitchell decided to give it a go. He said that as he lit the joint, he half expected the FBI to burst into his office and arrest him. But they never showed. As someone who rolled his own cigarettes, he said his first reaction was to wonder why people would smoke something that tasted so horrible.
He then went to have lunch with a colleague at a Glassboro diner. He said he’s always been a picky (sometimes he brought his own food when he went out to dinner with others), extremely light eater, but on this occasion, he found himself ordering seconds. In the middle of a particularly engaging conversation, Mitchell said Attila the Hun walked up to the table. After briefly stopping his conversation, he greeted the warrior, then continued talking to his friend (he said that neither he nor his colleague ever mentioned that lunch afterwards).
That evening he had to do a show in Philadelphia (I have no idea what show and welcome any information that anyone might have about it). It was raining and the night was foreboding. He mentioned a particularly ominous Sunoco sign that had since been torn down.
He didn’t say much about the show, except that he felt it was the best show he had ever done (at least he thought so that night), though he has no recollection of what he said.
That was his first and only experience with marijuana.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Remembering Richard Mitchell, Part 2
Mitchell did his Masters thesis on Theodore Dreiser. One day he told us a little about his work.
He had gone so far as to visit Dreiser’s house (I guess it had been converted into a museum). When he was being examined, one of the teachers was so impressed with how much he knew about Dreiser that he asked, jokingly, whether or not the color of the wallpaper in the author’s living room played into any of his fiction. As he had just explained the significance of the plastic ornaments on Dreiser’s front lawn, he said, the wallpaper was no problem.
(I thought Mitchell was joking about this. Then I studied English in graduate school. I discovered that seemingly trivial pieces of information do in fact find their way into the essays and theses of students and professors.)
But the most interesting part of his Dreiser studies was what he called “The American Tragedy Experiment.” Mitchell wanted to see if it was possible for Clyde to really navigate through the woods in the dark like Dreiser describes in the book. So he tried it. He went to the lake in New York were the murder took place, waited until it got dark, and then took off in Clyde’s direction. He couldn’t have a flashlight, he told us, because Clyde didn’t have one.
After a few hours of walking, he was convinced that Clyde couldn’t have made that journey. He stopped and waited for daybreak.
When he arrived in the town the next morning, he struck up a conversation with one of the townsfolk. Mitchell explained what he had been doing and was surprised to find that the person he talked to, who seemed like an ordinary workingman, knew the novel and the story on which it was based.
Mitchell told the guy that Clyde’s journey was impossible, but as he was explaining himself, he told us, he had a revelation. He wasn’t able to complete his journey because he had no dead girl to run away from. What he had to do, he said, was take a girl to the lake, drown her, and then see if he could make it.
He never said if he tried the experiment a second time.
He had gone so far as to visit Dreiser’s house (I guess it had been converted into a museum). When he was being examined, one of the teachers was so impressed with how much he knew about Dreiser that he asked, jokingly, whether or not the color of the wallpaper in the author’s living room played into any of his fiction. As he had just explained the significance of the plastic ornaments on Dreiser’s front lawn, he said, the wallpaper was no problem.
(I thought Mitchell was joking about this. Then I studied English in graduate school. I discovered that seemingly trivial pieces of information do in fact find their way into the essays and theses of students and professors.)
But the most interesting part of his Dreiser studies was what he called “The American Tragedy Experiment.” Mitchell wanted to see if it was possible for Clyde to really navigate through the woods in the dark like Dreiser describes in the book. So he tried it. He went to the lake in New York were the murder took place, waited until it got dark, and then took off in Clyde’s direction. He couldn’t have a flashlight, he told us, because Clyde didn’t have one.
After a few hours of walking, he was convinced that Clyde couldn’t have made that journey. He stopped and waited for daybreak.
When he arrived in the town the next morning, he struck up a conversation with one of the townsfolk. Mitchell explained what he had been doing and was surprised to find that the person he talked to, who seemed like an ordinary workingman, knew the novel and the story on which it was based.
Mitchell told the guy that Clyde’s journey was impossible, but as he was explaining himself, he told us, he had a revelation. He wasn’t able to complete his journey because he had no dead girl to run away from. What he had to do, he said, was take a girl to the lake, drown her, and then see if he could make it.
He never said if he tried the experiment a second time.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Preface to Further Entries about the Underground Grammarian
I've spent the last week or so jotting down what I remember from my classes with Richard Mitchell. I'll be posting more entries soon. But there is a short encounter that I had with him that is useful to keep in mind.
After class one day I went up to his desk for a little talk. He often took a student or two outside for a cigarette after class. I don't remember what I was going to ask him, probably because I never got to ask it. Before I could say anything, he picked up a note that was on his desk.
"What's this?" he asked himself, even though he was the one who put the note there before class began.
After looking at it for a moment, he crumbled up the note, dropped it in the trash, and muttered, "Him again."
We walked out of the classroom and I asked him who wrote the note. He told me that some pain-in-the-ass had been bothering him for months. He said that the man was writing a book about great thinkers of the 20th century, and that he wanted some biographical information to include in the book.
"But I'm not going to tell him that," (he emphasized the word "that").
"Well, then what are you going to tell him?" was the most logical reply I could think of.
At this point our paths diverged. I stopped and he continued down the hall.
"Lies! Lies! Lies!" he yelled, his back to me, while laughing a devious laugh.
(I wonder what happened with that book.)
I'm not sure how much of what Mitchell said in his classes was "Lies! Lies! Lies!" As a teacher myself, I've come to believe that teachers have to say the right thing to students, even if that's not the true thing. He never talked about this, but I think he made the same distinction. You'll see what I mean when I post a few more entries.
After class one day I went up to his desk for a little talk. He often took a student or two outside for a cigarette after class. I don't remember what I was going to ask him, probably because I never got to ask it. Before I could say anything, he picked up a note that was on his desk.
"What's this?" he asked himself, even though he was the one who put the note there before class began.
After looking at it for a moment, he crumbled up the note, dropped it in the trash, and muttered, "Him again."
We walked out of the classroom and I asked him who wrote the note. He told me that some pain-in-the-ass had been bothering him for months. He said that the man was writing a book about great thinkers of the 20th century, and that he wanted some biographical information to include in the book.
"But I'm not going to tell him that," (he emphasized the word "that").
"Well, then what are you going to tell him?" was the most logical reply I could think of.
At this point our paths diverged. I stopped and he continued down the hall.
"Lies! Lies! Lies!" he yelled, his back to me, while laughing a devious laugh.
(I wonder what happened with that book.)
I'm not sure how much of what Mitchell said in his classes was "Lies! Lies! Lies!" As a teacher myself, I've come to believe that teachers have to say the right thing to students, even if that's not the true thing. He never talked about this, but I think he made the same distinction. You'll see what I mean when I post a few more entries.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Good News Keeps A-Coming!
I just received word that my first story is to appear in an upcoming issue of The Writers Post Journal. I took a writing class on a whim after I was turned down for a full-time job at the school where I teach. This was one of the stories that I wrote for that class. I guess things have a way of working out.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Oh, Sweet Irony!
Revenge is sweet, but I don’t think people could possibly love it as much as they do irony. Is there anything more satisfying than seeing a self-important windbag fall prey to the same weakness that he excoriates in others (I’m thinking right now of Christian preachers who are closet homosexuals)?
But irony, while satisfying to recognize in the lives of others, is hard to acknowledge in oneself. I took a graduate class a few years ago in Romantic poetry. My teacher was a knowledgeable man and a good scholar. He was also a member of what I like to call the masturbatory school of literary criticism. He would sometimes read a line from Wordsworth or Keats, then sit back, gaze into the air, and say what a great line that was. That was it. He was usually right, but I didn’t think I needed a professor to tell me that.
As a writing teacher, I have become a card-carrying member of the same school of criticism. I’ll read from one of the essays my students were supposed to have read, and just comment on what a great passage it was. I don’t tell my students about that graduate class, though. There are some things that are just best left unsaid.
It is with this sense of irony in mind that I gather my thoughts and try to figure out what to say about Waiting for Snow in Havana by Carlos Eire. It’s this year’s “One Book, One Philadelphia” choice. Like The Things They Carried (last year’s selection, I think), this is a memoir written by someone who went through a deeply traumatic experience (Why do they have to be memoirs?). For Eire, it’s having to leave Cuba after the Revolution and becoming a refugee, then a foster child, in the States. While this is a good book, written with a self-deprecating, caustic humor and a bitterness and guilt of childhood, I can’t imagine it would go over very well at a book discussion in Philadelphia.
What I liked best about Eire was his tone. You should read the book yourself, and if you do, you’ll probably notice that my post “Portrait of the Artist” (see below) was a poor attempt to emulate Eire’s style.
So it turns out that there’s very little I can offer about the book, except saying, “What a good book that was!” If anyone ever decides to cover Alanis Morisette’s song, and wants to change the words to reflect things that are truly ironic and not merely unfortunate, this would fit well.
But irony, while satisfying to recognize in the lives of others, is hard to acknowledge in oneself. I took a graduate class a few years ago in Romantic poetry. My teacher was a knowledgeable man and a good scholar. He was also a member of what I like to call the masturbatory school of literary criticism. He would sometimes read a line from Wordsworth or Keats, then sit back, gaze into the air, and say what a great line that was. That was it. He was usually right, but I didn’t think I needed a professor to tell me that.
As a writing teacher, I have become a card-carrying member of the same school of criticism. I’ll read from one of the essays my students were supposed to have read, and just comment on what a great passage it was. I don’t tell my students about that graduate class, though. There are some things that are just best left unsaid.
It is with this sense of irony in mind that I gather my thoughts and try to figure out what to say about Waiting for Snow in Havana by Carlos Eire. It’s this year’s “One Book, One Philadelphia” choice. Like The Things They Carried (last year’s selection, I think), this is a memoir written by someone who went through a deeply traumatic experience (Why do they have to be memoirs?). For Eire, it’s having to leave Cuba after the Revolution and becoming a refugee, then a foster child, in the States. While this is a good book, written with a self-deprecating, caustic humor and a bitterness and guilt of childhood, I can’t imagine it would go over very well at a book discussion in Philadelphia.
What I liked best about Eire was his tone. You should read the book yourself, and if you do, you’ll probably notice that my post “Portrait of the Artist” (see below) was a poor attempt to emulate Eire’s style.
So it turns out that there’s very little I can offer about the book, except saying, “What a good book that was!” If anyone ever decides to cover Alanis Morisette’s song, and wants to change the words to reflect things that are truly ironic and not merely unfortunate, this would fit well.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Remembering Richard Mitchell, Part 1
I just got an email from Mark Alexander. He runs the site that has all of Richard Mitchell's writings. He's working on Mitchell's entry for Wikipedia and he's compiling remembrances from people who knew the man. Here's the first installment.
Richard Mitchell was the most important teacher I ever had. The best think he taught me was that I had a lot to learn, about reading, about writing, about living. After my first class with him (Masterpieces in Western Literature, Spring 2000), I started to fill in the deficiencies in my education. I’m still working on it.
I took Adolescent Literature with him in the Spring of 2001. I didn’t need the class, but I wanted to see if I could improve on the less-than-stellar work I had done for him in the first class.
I anxiously awaited the return of our first essays. He was not very punctual about returning essays. I think he said he had left them at a friend’s house for a week. He didn’t give me my essay, but instead told me to see him after class. I had been feeling pretty good about my work, but this request scared me so much that I remember little of his lecture.
After class he led me to a small seminar room, windowless and barely large enough to hold the table and chairs. He followed me and closed the door behind him. The room got smaller. Then he handed me my paper and I saw, in his barely legible handwriting, A+. He called it “one of the best undergraduate papers he had ever read” (I wrote his exact words down as soon as I left the building. I refer to them often, especially when my writing is going nowhere.). He asked what my plans were after graduation, and I told him I was applying to graduate programs. He said that was a good idea. In fact, he told me he had planned to “kick my ass” if I had answered otherwise.
For some strange reason, there was a stack of original issues of The Underground Grammarian in the middle of the desk. He asked if I knew who put them there. Having never been in that room before, I didn’t have the slightest idea. I told him that I had read them all online and learned a great deal about writing in the process, but had never seen an original. So he grabbed a stack, gave them to me, and sent me on my way.
I think I was one of only a few students in his classes who took him for anything other than a crazy old professor. Having him as a teacher was my most important experience in college, but most of my classmates probably don’t even remember his name. I became a college English teacher 3 years ago, and remembering Mitchell has helped me cope with many an uninterested student. It seems like I’ve never stopped learning from him. I probably never will.
Richard Mitchell was the most important teacher I ever had. The best think he taught me was that I had a lot to learn, about reading, about writing, about living. After my first class with him (Masterpieces in Western Literature, Spring 2000), I started to fill in the deficiencies in my education. I’m still working on it.
I took Adolescent Literature with him in the Spring of 2001. I didn’t need the class, but I wanted to see if I could improve on the less-than-stellar work I had done for him in the first class.
I anxiously awaited the return of our first essays. He was not very punctual about returning essays. I think he said he had left them at a friend’s house for a week. He didn’t give me my essay, but instead told me to see him after class. I had been feeling pretty good about my work, but this request scared me so much that I remember little of his lecture.
After class he led me to a small seminar room, windowless and barely large enough to hold the table and chairs. He followed me and closed the door behind him. The room got smaller. Then he handed me my paper and I saw, in his barely legible handwriting, A+. He called it “one of the best undergraduate papers he had ever read” (I wrote his exact words down as soon as I left the building. I refer to them often, especially when my writing is going nowhere.). He asked what my plans were after graduation, and I told him I was applying to graduate programs. He said that was a good idea. In fact, he told me he had planned to “kick my ass” if I had answered otherwise.
For some strange reason, there was a stack of original issues of The Underground Grammarian in the middle of the desk. He asked if I knew who put them there. Having never been in that room before, I didn’t have the slightest idea. I told him that I had read them all online and learned a great deal about writing in the process, but had never seen an original. So he grabbed a stack, gave them to me, and sent me on my way.
I think I was one of only a few students in his classes who took him for anything other than a crazy old professor. Having him as a teacher was my most important experience in college, but most of my classmates probably don’t even remember his name. I became a college English teacher 3 years ago, and remembering Mitchell has helped me cope with many an uninterested student. It seems like I’ve never stopped learning from him. I probably never will.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Portrait of the Artist
I sometimes rationalize that the reason I haven’t been able to write anything worth reading is my childhood. Many artists lead tumultuous lives full of disappointment, addiction, and sadness. Many of their lives end tragically. Not so for me. I grew up fairly well off in a suburban neighborhood. None of the artist-stuff happened to me. Sometimes I used to wish that it had. If only I could’ve had bad parents, like O’Neill, or suffered from poor health, like Flaubert, or been in a war, like Hemingway. Anything at all and I could’ve used that tragedy for inspiration with my writing.
No. My life has been comfortable. In fact, the only emotional scars I carry from childhood result from things I’ve seen on television. One night my parents were watching Gone With the Wind. I was sitting on the floor, arranging my baseball cards in plastic sleeves in a brown binder. This was a full-time occupation for me. I would separate the players by team, then I’d start over and do it by position. Then by skill level. I even resorted to separating them by age, by place of birth (all this information was on the back of the card). Anything to pass the time. Sometimes, now, as a grow man, I think wistfully of those days when I could spend an afternoon pointlessly arranging baseball cards, and not have to worry about having put off something important that I was to do. Sometimes I have these thought as I type something for my blog. My desk is by the window, and I see my neighbor mowing his lawn, though it’s impossible to tell what’s just been cut because he already mowed it less than a week ago. Another neighbor is watering her plants, though it looks like it’ll rain later on. It’s not baseball cards, but it’ll do.
To get back to the movie. I remember a man in the movie was screaming loud enough to distract me from my distraction. He was the Confederate soldier with the wounded leg. The doctor was just explaining how they had no medicine and how they badly needed more supplies. He looked at this poor soldier’s leg, and announced that he had gangrene and needed the leg removed. Instantly someone appeared with a saw, and since there was no medicine, there was no prep needed for the procedure. “Noooooooooooo! Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaasssse!” the soldier bellowed, and then he was silent. I asked my mom if he had died, and she said he had only passed out from the pain.
You could pass out from pain? That was news to me. I thought that I knew pain, but I had never passed out. A few years later, when my mom took me to a different doctor (my regular doctor was on vacation) to examine a wart on the side of my head, I experienced pain. This wart was right on my temple, covered by my hair. The only reason I knew it was there was because I had scratched it while washing my hair. The doctor saw it and told my mom (he never spoke directly to me) that he would burn it off. No Novocain, though, because the needle would hurt more than the procedure. Maybe he was right. If so, the needle probably would’ve made me pass out like that Confederate soldier, because the pain was by far the worst I have ever felt. But I didn’t pass out.
Of course there are those poor people who don’t use their suffering to create good art. But “That which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger,” goes Nietzsche’s aphorism that has long since become cliché. Nietzsche, by the way, is another example of an artist (his work seems more like poetry to me than philosophy) whose bitter life led to great art. He spent much of his life in obscurity, chronically ill, moving from place to place in Europe seeking healthier climes. His last lucid moment occurred years before he died. He saw a man beating a horse, then intervened on the horse’s behalf. He then collapsed in the street and spent the rest of his life hopelessly insane. By the time people started to take his writing seriously, he was well beyond the point where he could appreciate it. How’s that for tragedy?
So since there’s no guarantee that you’ll reap the benefits of your suffering, maybe it’s better to be comfortable and create nothing. Unless you need to rationalize why you can’t seem to write anything worthwhile.
No. My life has been comfortable. In fact, the only emotional scars I carry from childhood result from things I’ve seen on television. One night my parents were watching Gone With the Wind. I was sitting on the floor, arranging my baseball cards in plastic sleeves in a brown binder. This was a full-time occupation for me. I would separate the players by team, then I’d start over and do it by position. Then by skill level. I even resorted to separating them by age, by place of birth (all this information was on the back of the card). Anything to pass the time. Sometimes, now, as a grow man, I think wistfully of those days when I could spend an afternoon pointlessly arranging baseball cards, and not have to worry about having put off something important that I was to do. Sometimes I have these thought as I type something for my blog. My desk is by the window, and I see my neighbor mowing his lawn, though it’s impossible to tell what’s just been cut because he already mowed it less than a week ago. Another neighbor is watering her plants, though it looks like it’ll rain later on. It’s not baseball cards, but it’ll do.
To get back to the movie. I remember a man in the movie was screaming loud enough to distract me from my distraction. He was the Confederate soldier with the wounded leg. The doctor was just explaining how they had no medicine and how they badly needed more supplies. He looked at this poor soldier’s leg, and announced that he had gangrene and needed the leg removed. Instantly someone appeared with a saw, and since there was no medicine, there was no prep needed for the procedure. “Noooooooooooo! Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaasssse!” the soldier bellowed, and then he was silent. I asked my mom if he had died, and she said he had only passed out from the pain.
You could pass out from pain? That was news to me. I thought that I knew pain, but I had never passed out. A few years later, when my mom took me to a different doctor (my regular doctor was on vacation) to examine a wart on the side of my head, I experienced pain. This wart was right on my temple, covered by my hair. The only reason I knew it was there was because I had scratched it while washing my hair. The doctor saw it and told my mom (he never spoke directly to me) that he would burn it off. No Novocain, though, because the needle would hurt more than the procedure. Maybe he was right. If so, the needle probably would’ve made me pass out like that Confederate soldier, because the pain was by far the worst I have ever felt. But I didn’t pass out.
Of course there are those poor people who don’t use their suffering to create good art. But “That which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger,” goes Nietzsche’s aphorism that has long since become cliché. Nietzsche, by the way, is another example of an artist (his work seems more like poetry to me than philosophy) whose bitter life led to great art. He spent much of his life in obscurity, chronically ill, moving from place to place in Europe seeking healthier climes. His last lucid moment occurred years before he died. He saw a man beating a horse, then intervened on the horse’s behalf. He then collapsed in the street and spent the rest of his life hopelessly insane. By the time people started to take his writing seriously, he was well beyond the point where he could appreciate it. How’s that for tragedy?
So since there’s no guarantee that you’ll reap the benefits of your suffering, maybe it’s better to be comfortable and create nothing. Unless you need to rationalize why you can’t seem to write anything worthwhile.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Good News!
I just found out that I'm going to be published for the first time. It's an essay on Captain Ahab and it'll appear in a new journal called The Melville and Milton Review. Keeping this blog has brought some good luck.
Find the article here.
Find the article here.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Third Generation
My paternal grandfather was born in 1918. He had to quit school after the second grade because he had to get a job and help out the family. My father was born in 1947. He graduated high school before he plunged into the workforce. I was born in 1977 and went as far as graduate school.
I've been thinking recently about sacrifice. Both my grandfather and my father worked hard all their lives (in fact, my father is 60 and is still working hard) and sacrificed comforts in order for their children to have things a little better, to take the family one step further. It worked. They made things comfortable enough for their children to have opportunities that they never had. Each generation has taken a small step up the social ladder.
But then there's me. I feel like my generation has hit a dead end. What sacrifices can I make to make things better for my children? Sure, they may become more successful than me; but if they do, it'll be by virtue of what they've done for themselves rather than what I do for them.
I know this may sound like a petty thing to worry about. Perhaps my problem is one of definition: I think of success solely in financial terms. But if I think about success some other way, say, in terms of happiness, that still leads me with no sacrifices to make to ensure that my children's lives are better.
Where do we go from here?
I've been thinking recently about sacrifice. Both my grandfather and my father worked hard all their lives (in fact, my father is 60 and is still working hard) and sacrificed comforts in order for their children to have things a little better, to take the family one step further. It worked. They made things comfortable enough for their children to have opportunities that they never had. Each generation has taken a small step up the social ladder.
But then there's me. I feel like my generation has hit a dead end. What sacrifices can I make to make things better for my children? Sure, they may become more successful than me; but if they do, it'll be by virtue of what they've done for themselves rather than what I do for them.
I know this may sound like a petty thing to worry about. Perhaps my problem is one of definition: I think of success solely in financial terms. But if I think about success some other way, say, in terms of happiness, that still leads me with no sacrifices to make to ensure that my children's lives are better.
Where do we go from here?
My War: Killing Time in Iraq by Colby Buzzell
I just finished My War by Colby Buzzell. I read it because I was writing a war story and, since I have never been in the armed services, I wanted to learn a little of the lingo so the story would seem more real. After reading Buzzell, I don't know if I'm going to finish my story. I don't think I could tell it as well as it's already been told. We'll see.
I hate book reports and reviews. If you want to know what the book is about, read it yourself or just read the synopsis on Amazon. And no one would care if I liked the book or not.
There were, however, some thoughts that I had as a reult of having read the book.
Buzzell mentions Jello Biafra, former singer of the Dead Kennedy's and political activist. As a young, stupid teenager, I was a fan of the Dead Kennedys, though as an older, stupid man, I can't see what about the music was appealing. Biafra also released a few spoken-word CDs. I bought one, listened once to hours of him talking and talking (I was too young to care about what he was talking about), then promptly traded in the CD.
There was one message that stood out: become the media. Biafra praised Buzzell for the soldier's idea to post first-hand accounts of his experience in Iraq, including accounts of the battles he was in. Buzzell also reproduces the official News accounts of those battles, and the discrepancies, euphemisms, and flat out lies told by the army and perpetuated by the media make Buzzell a seemingly good candidate for the anti-war movement. The blurbs on the book seem to say as much.
But what makes My War so different is it's more complicated than that. People in the US aren't getting an accurate picture from the army and the media of what's going on in Iraq; but that doesn't change the fact that Buzzell deeply believes that the invasion wasn't necessarily a mistake, and he supports this argument with conversations he had with Iraqis on the base and positive accounts of his contact with Iraqis while on missions.
This leaves the book in an odd place. On the one hand, it's critical of the media (not for the same old "liberal bias" that conservatives like to trot out) for the inaccuracies that it accepts and then passes on. But the book doesn't turn into an anti-establishment jeremiad. In one word, it's honest. That honesty is apparent throughout the book.
Buzzell is a good writer who got his start as a blogger. But don't take my word for it--read the book yourself.
I hate book reports and reviews. If you want to know what the book is about, read it yourself or just read the synopsis on Amazon. And no one would care if I liked the book or not.
There were, however, some thoughts that I had as a reult of having read the book.
Buzzell mentions Jello Biafra, former singer of the Dead Kennedy's and political activist. As a young, stupid teenager, I was a fan of the Dead Kennedys, though as an older, stupid man, I can't see what about the music was appealing. Biafra also released a few spoken-word CDs. I bought one, listened once to hours of him talking and talking (I was too young to care about what he was talking about), then promptly traded in the CD.
There was one message that stood out: become the media. Biafra praised Buzzell for the soldier's idea to post first-hand accounts of his experience in Iraq, including accounts of the battles he was in. Buzzell also reproduces the official News accounts of those battles, and the discrepancies, euphemisms, and flat out lies told by the army and perpetuated by the media make Buzzell a seemingly good candidate for the anti-war movement. The blurbs on the book seem to say as much.
But what makes My War so different is it's more complicated than that. People in the US aren't getting an accurate picture from the army and the media of what's going on in Iraq; but that doesn't change the fact that Buzzell deeply believes that the invasion wasn't necessarily a mistake, and he supports this argument with conversations he had with Iraqis on the base and positive accounts of his contact with Iraqis while on missions.
This leaves the book in an odd place. On the one hand, it's critical of the media (not for the same old "liberal bias" that conservatives like to trot out) for the inaccuracies that it accepts and then passes on. But the book doesn't turn into an anti-establishment jeremiad. In one word, it's honest. That honesty is apparent throughout the book.
Buzzell is a good writer who got his start as a blogger. But don't take my word for it--read the book yourself.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Reality Ain't What It's Cracked Up To Be
My son spent most of the first seven months of his life crying. Colic, they said. Those months have now made it possible to determine my age by counting the lines under my eyes, like a tree. But if it weren't for his crying, my family and I wouldn't have made our first appearance on reality television.
A new TLC show was interested in filming us, so others could see what we were going through and how we cope, and maybe use what they learn to help themselves. In reality, no matter how bad things are, as a parent, all you can do is do. You just do what you have to. Or you can crack. But that advice would make for an uninteresting show, and we really wanted to be on TV, so we agreed.
"Reality" isn't the best word to describe what qualifies as reality television. "Reality" implies that what you are seeing is a slice of the real world. From the beginning, however, what we did was nothing like the reality that we lived every day.
In preparation for the show, we had our families come over to help us clean the house. Our house was brand new when we moved into it, and even then it wasn't as clean as it was the night before TLC came. What the house looked like was nothing like reality.
Then there was the candid interview with my wife and I standing in the kitchen, leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee by the counter (something we hadn't done since our first child). Except we couldn't have coffee because we were miked and the sounds that your stomach makes while drinking coffee would be audible. So we started to drink a mug of ice water as we began fielding the questions from the director (yes, there was a director). Then we had to cut because the clinking of the ice in the cups was too loud. When we began to answer the same question for the third time, we had to cut again so they could put a band-aid on my wedding ring. They wouldn't let me take it off, but I was clinking it against the cup.
The interview continued after these kinks were ironed out. We then went on a roll, answering questions with much more care and precision than we would normally use. I was OK, but my wife was great. In fact, there were times when she was downright eloquent. "Cut," the director would say. "Say that again. Bob (the camera guy), get a close up on her for that."
Instantly I began a revisionist history of reality television. How many of my favorite moments had been done on multiple takes? Did the director yell "Cut!" when Sue was giving her snake and rat speech on the first season of "Survivor?" How many takes did it take to kick Puck off of "The Real World?"
Then there was the edited version of the show. There were four other families showcased during our episode. One was a Canadian woman of Pakistani decent whose husband took frequent business trips. She talked about her concern with being a Muslim woman alone in post-9/11 America, and about how she rarely left the house with her daughter because of the looks she got. Then they cut to footage of the woman taking her child for a walk. Another woman walks past her, and a second later that woman does a double take. A perfect illustration of the mom's concern--except the passer-by was one of the show's producers.
But the biggest alteration of reality was what we had to do to my son. The day the cameras arrived happened to be the best day of his life (up to that point). He was cooing, smiling, laughing--no crying whatsoever. That didn't work for the show, so we had to do things (I won't go into specifics, but pain wasn't involved) to make him cry. It worked. They had their footage. And my son has a story to tell his therapist in about twenty years.
Perhaps I was naive to think that the "reality" of reality television had anything to do with the real world. All the word means is that the characters don't get paid. I learned that from the show too.
A new TLC show was interested in filming us, so others could see what we were going through and how we cope, and maybe use what they learn to help themselves. In reality, no matter how bad things are, as a parent, all you can do is do. You just do what you have to. Or you can crack. But that advice would make for an uninteresting show, and we really wanted to be on TV, so we agreed.
"Reality" isn't the best word to describe what qualifies as reality television. "Reality" implies that what you are seeing is a slice of the real world. From the beginning, however, what we did was nothing like the reality that we lived every day.
In preparation for the show, we had our families come over to help us clean the house. Our house was brand new when we moved into it, and even then it wasn't as clean as it was the night before TLC came. What the house looked like was nothing like reality.
Then there was the candid interview with my wife and I standing in the kitchen, leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee by the counter (something we hadn't done since our first child). Except we couldn't have coffee because we were miked and the sounds that your stomach makes while drinking coffee would be audible. So we started to drink a mug of ice water as we began fielding the questions from the director (yes, there was a director). Then we had to cut because the clinking of the ice in the cups was too loud. When we began to answer the same question for the third time, we had to cut again so they could put a band-aid on my wedding ring. They wouldn't let me take it off, but I was clinking it against the cup.
The interview continued after these kinks were ironed out. We then went on a roll, answering questions with much more care and precision than we would normally use. I was OK, but my wife was great. In fact, there were times when she was downright eloquent. "Cut," the director would say. "Say that again. Bob (the camera guy), get a close up on her for that."
Instantly I began a revisionist history of reality television. How many of my favorite moments had been done on multiple takes? Did the director yell "Cut!" when Sue was giving her snake and rat speech on the first season of "Survivor?" How many takes did it take to kick Puck off of "The Real World?"
Then there was the edited version of the show. There were four other families showcased during our episode. One was a Canadian woman of Pakistani decent whose husband took frequent business trips. She talked about her concern with being a Muslim woman alone in post-9/11 America, and about how she rarely left the house with her daughter because of the looks she got. Then they cut to footage of the woman taking her child for a walk. Another woman walks past her, and a second later that woman does a double take. A perfect illustration of the mom's concern--except the passer-by was one of the show's producers.
But the biggest alteration of reality was what we had to do to my son. The day the cameras arrived happened to be the best day of his life (up to that point). He was cooing, smiling, laughing--no crying whatsoever. That didn't work for the show, so we had to do things (I won't go into specifics, but pain wasn't involved) to make him cry. It worked. They had their footage. And my son has a story to tell his therapist in about twenty years.
Perhaps I was naive to think that the "reality" of reality television had anything to do with the real world. All the word means is that the characters don't get paid. I learned that from the show too.
Friday, April 27, 2007
End of Semester Blues
As a student I always struggled at the end of the Spring semester. I don't know why. Maybe it was the changing of the weather, or the anticipation of Summer break, or the fact that the Christmas break isn't long enough to recharge the batteries. Whatever the reason, my worked sucked in the Spring.
I teach writing classes, and I primarily teach from class discussions of homework readings. I don't do many notes. If I run out of things to say and the students contribute nothing, class usually ends early.
My teaching at the end of the Spring semester is much like my work as a student was at the end of the Spring semester. It sucks. I have a tough time getting motivated to prepare for class, and it often shows. At least I think it shows, which brings me to my question: do the students realize this? I can't remember ever noticing this about my teachers when I was a student. Or do they even care?
I taught briefly in a high school a couple of years ago. I had one overpopulated class of bad kids. I didn't know what to do and they intimidated the hell out of me. But I thought I did a good job of faking it. I had a coteacher, who was also new, and who was struggling just like me.
Then one day I collected their writing journals, which I made them write in for five minutes every class. This kid who always gave me problems and never seemed to pay attention wrote this kernel of truth:
"I think we need new English teachers because they is scared of us."
From the mouths of babes...
I don't think I give my current college students enough credit. I just think they don't care. That to me is just as scary as a teacher who slacks off.
I teach writing classes, and I primarily teach from class discussions of homework readings. I don't do many notes. If I run out of things to say and the students contribute nothing, class usually ends early.
My teaching at the end of the Spring semester is much like my work as a student was at the end of the Spring semester. It sucks. I have a tough time getting motivated to prepare for class, and it often shows. At least I think it shows, which brings me to my question: do the students realize this? I can't remember ever noticing this about my teachers when I was a student. Or do they even care?
I taught briefly in a high school a couple of years ago. I had one overpopulated class of bad kids. I didn't know what to do and they intimidated the hell out of me. But I thought I did a good job of faking it. I had a coteacher, who was also new, and who was struggling just like me.
Then one day I collected their writing journals, which I made them write in for five minutes every class. This kid who always gave me problems and never seemed to pay attention wrote this kernel of truth:
"I think we need new English teachers because they is scared of us."
From the mouths of babes...
I don't think I give my current college students enough credit. I just think they don't care. That to me is just as scary as a teacher who slacks off.
About Me
The title of my blog is an homage to my previous two attempts at blogging. I was never able to get them going because I always wound up writing things that I thought were self-indulgent. Maybe that was true. But it seems now like that was just my rationalization to avoid writing. I find writing to be one of things that I'd least like to do; but it's also the thing that I'm most proud at having done.
I've always wanted to be a writer (maybe it's masochistic desire). When I go a while without writing anything, I think of "Little Cloud" by James Joyce. You know, about the pathetic guy who thinks he has some great poems in him, which he plans to write sometime. That usually gives me some motivation.
Recently I enrolled in a short story writing class. It was the first time I had to do that kind of writing, and I was surprised that my stuff wasn't terrible.
That class just ended, so I'm looking for the kick-in-the-ass that I need for motivation. I hope anyone who reads this blog enjoys it. But writing is a solitary activity, and I'm keeping this blog solely for me.
I've always wanted to be a writer (maybe it's masochistic desire). When I go a while without writing anything, I think of "Little Cloud" by James Joyce. You know, about the pathetic guy who thinks he has some great poems in him, which he plans to write sometime. That usually gives me some motivation.
Recently I enrolled in a short story writing class. It was the first time I had to do that kind of writing, and I was surprised that my stuff wasn't terrible.
That class just ended, so I'm looking for the kick-in-the-ass that I need for motivation. I hope anyone who reads this blog enjoys it. But writing is a solitary activity, and I'm keeping this blog solely for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)