My dog saw it first—a cat sitting on top of the utility pole just outside my home. The cat sat calmly atop the pole, while my dog jumped up periodically in enthusiasm, if to no avail. I called off said dog and tried to coax down the cat, a grey, short-haired cat I’d never seen before—also to no avail.
I can, at least, see WHY the cat climbed the pole. This was the traditional post of a red-winged blackbird, a clear and welcome target. Every morning I’d walk out to his incessant “Chit! Chit! Chit!” call. Over time, I realized that he was the look-out (and what better place?), warning that I was in the vicinity, even tracking me as I worked about the place. One day, as I got too close to a nest 100 feet away, this guy smoothly but swiftly glided down just two feet over the nest, let out a single, soft, musical note—and the female took off immediately. Beautiful teamwork. Once I realized that, I fretted for a nest another year when the male disappeared, fate unknown. Sure enough—a week later the nest had been overturned, no sign of its former contents.
Anyway, the feline pole sitter remained, and eventually I called my vet’s office for advice. They had no ideas other than the ones I’d already tried, and suggested a wildlife nuisance expert. I called. He listened patiently. “OK, look,” he started, in a very nice voice, “I don’t mean this harshly. I have four cats myself.” I listened. “You just don’t find cat skeletons in trees. We get calls like this all the time. Chances are, we’d climb one side of the pole, and the cat would run down the other. When it’s hungry, it will finally come down. It got up there; it can find it’s way down—probably when things quiet down.” Reluctantly, I had to agree. I’d just wait.
My dog certainly wasn’t helping, spending the bulk of her time guarding the pole, intently watching the aerialist intruder (“and I want you more than need you…”). The cat certainly had things to do, other than occasionally changing from sitting to lying atop its perch. After all, my cats LOVE watching birds from their vantage point inside my windows, so just imagine from the top of the utility pole! And not just red-winged blackbirds—robins, sparrows, finches, and much more so frequent that vicinity that every morning at 5 a.m. brings a cacophony so raucous that sleeping in can, at best, mean rolling over and going back to sleep, even over the purr of the air conditioner and fan. A cat’s dream (“I hear you singing on the wires…”). Indoors, I’ve seen cats sit for several hours, calmly waiting out a mouse. Or perhaps the cat was just practicing Zen, but “Zen for Cats” is essentially meant to be funny, and I find cats don’t really get humor. Additionally, as one cartoon depicted with a cat sleeping on a poor reader’s open newspaper, “cats don’t read, and they don’t want you to read either.”
I called my dog, and she happily bounded in to dinner, her shift over, oblivious that we didn’t have a night shift. She curled up at my feet as I worked. I looked out the window. Cat. When I finally went to bed, late that night, I looked out—dark shape atop the utility pole. So it continued, me anxious, dog watching, cat unmoved (“I know I need a small vacation…”). At least it didn’t look like rain. I started to feel the strain.
On the morning of the third day, I looked out, and the cat was gone. I rushed outside for evidence of what happened, but found nothing. No sign of egress, descension, ascension, recinsion, or any other kind of cension. No tracks, no fur, no claw marks, no carcass, no skeleton, no nothing.
I guess you just need to know…
…which cats are linemen…
Dunno. But I’m still on the line. Another overload.
Writer
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Voice (Or, Writing like a Musician)
Mindful of the persistent student perception that their grades simply depend on who reads their work, I tried an experiment. I took one of my pieces and, acting as if a student wrote it, asked a colleague what she thought of it (sharing student work is not an uncommon practice—we frequently share pieces for help with difficult grading calls). My experiment failed inside of a minute—she turned to me and said with firm conviction, “YOU wrote this.” I admitted the ploy, and asked how she knew so quickly. “I was halfway through the first sentence,” she replied, “when I thought ‘I KNOW this voice!’”
I should have known. A former girlfriend, Jean, once read me a passage she wanted to share. “Nice!” I noted. “Do you know who it is?” she asked (Jean was fanatically competitive and given to provocation). “No,” I answered, “but it sounds like Joyce.” “It is Joyce,” she confessed.
In college, I used to look for my fellow music major and best friend Gordon, a trombonist, simply by walking around the practice rooms—I knew his sound from the other trombonists. One day in the snack bar, scarfing down my cheeseburger and fries over lively conversation, I suddenly stopped, exclaiming, “That’s Phil Woods!” recognizing the alto saxophone work I admired on Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” playing on the radio, a song new to me that day. Much more recently, a writing colleague and friend called me to excitedly say “Turn on the radio!” I did. He was listening to a classical piece and wanted to purchase the recording. “Do you know what it is?” he asked. “No,” I responded, “but it’s Beethoven.” Then the violin took over. “Oh!” I explained, “It must be the Beethoven Violin Concerto,” a judgment the announcer later confirmed.
In a few seconds, I can tell the difference between Baroque and Classical, Stravinsky and Ravel, even which orchestra and conductor are performing—and so can any other musician. [I’m reminded of a cartoon depicting a smug looking music listener and his agitated wife, saying, “Why can’t you just say ‘Scarlatti,’ instead of ‘Scarlatti, of course!’”] We also talk about “an ear for language,” and why not? I’m in the midst of reviewing a new text for my Intro to Poetry class, and the emphasis there on slight variations in sound, meter, rhythm and their permutations will be enough to send the average undergraduate into utter despair over ever passing the course. [I’ll work on fixing that problem.]
My fellow writing professors understand this about language, but they also notice a difference between us. Looking over my shoulder while I composed a piece on my laptop during a contentious faculty meeting, one colleague noted admiringly, “You’re just so fluent at this stuff.” Another colleague on a previous occasion remarked, “I can see the poetry in your writing.” A bit confused (since I’m primarily an essayist), I shared that with Tim, another colleague and friend, who nodded and said, “You don’t write poems, but you do write poetry.” My department chair, after visiting my class (on my request), had a single comment afterward: “You should be editing MY writing.”
None of this is to my credit—it’s just who I am. My colleagues are excellent writers, but different writers. And I can see the difference they mention too—my friend and colleague Joe and I see writing much the same way, but we also couldn’t be more different. Joe always wanted to be an English professor, and his frame of reference is continually focused on that perspective. Joe is also a musician, but he sees the world in terms of his English background. I NEVER intended to teach writing (not that I’m sorry), pursuing instead a career in music—which led to music business, which led to writing for those businesses, which led to free lancing, which led to offers to teach, which led to teaching at better colleges—and while Joe and I see writing in similar ways, my approach to the world is that of a musician, and it colors my writing.
How, then, does one write as a musician? Well, when I recorded my albums, I designed first the overall idea, the structure—then added other elements quite freely (jazz background kicking in here). In many ways, I could have played anything over the underlying structure, as long as it reflected and either reinforced or developed the overall idea. This is how I write too. The piece needs an overall flow, but it also needs percussive elements arranged in a pattern that both keeps the piece moving forward and adds interest and vitality. This isn’t easy to explain. Jazz musicians call this approach “feel.” We just know it when we hear it. Many music writers have noted sentiments like “Many people note that music is expressive, but when asked to explain what it expresses, fall silent.”
Aaron Copland may have summarized this best in his essay “How We Listen”:
“My own belief is that all music has an expressive power, some more and some less, but that all music must has a certain meaning behind the notes and that that meaning behind the notes constitute, after all, what the piece is saying, what the piece is about. This whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking, “’Is there a meaning to music?’ My answer to that would be, ‘Yes.’ And ‘Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?’ My answer to that would be, ‘No.’ Therein lies the difficulty.”
After all, what does a Bach fugue mean? Or a John Coltrane improvisation? Sure, songs have lyrics, but change the underlying music, and your favorite songs could easily become silly. Imagine ZZ Top in their standard style performing the theme from “Titanic.” Um…could change it a bit. [Could be fun, though: “Word goin’ round….ship goin’ down….by an iceberg round North seas…”]
Improvising over a song structure is not a matter of just going nuts, but rather mining the original piece for essential elements and reconstructing those pieces in multiple, original, creative ways. Classical composers do the same thing—look what Beethoven does in his Fifth Symphony with just a few notes. How does a musician learn to play like this on demand, live? Practice. Lots and lots and lots and lots of it. For me, writing is the same. All that reading? All that studying? All those drafts? These become tools and material ready to use to develop a motive on the page.
How does this translate to writing? First, I choose a direction. Sometimes, as in an argument, I can state that purpose explicitly, others, it’s just a feeling, as in a piece of music, and only implicit. From that starting point, I choose the major “events” that will happen along the way, looking for a good flow of ideas toward a meaningful climax and satisfactory denouement—whether I can explain it literally or not. And I remember that no musician grows without taking chances, exploring new territory, going out on a limb…(substitute your favorite cliché here—see the point?).
For a good musical example of how I see writing, download Pat Metheny’s “Last Train Home” [or buy this excellent album—“Still Life (Talking)”]. It starts quietly. The drummer is pushing a very quick regular “train” background consistently through what comes off as a slow, easy song. Listen and you’ll see what I mean about this song and writing.
Then it builds in the middle, adding (what else?!)—voices.
Writer
I should have known. A former girlfriend, Jean, once read me a passage she wanted to share. “Nice!” I noted. “Do you know who it is?” she asked (Jean was fanatically competitive and given to provocation). “No,” I answered, “but it sounds like Joyce.” “It is Joyce,” she confessed.
In college, I used to look for my fellow music major and best friend Gordon, a trombonist, simply by walking around the practice rooms—I knew his sound from the other trombonists. One day in the snack bar, scarfing down my cheeseburger and fries over lively conversation, I suddenly stopped, exclaiming, “That’s Phil Woods!” recognizing the alto saxophone work I admired on Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” playing on the radio, a song new to me that day. Much more recently, a writing colleague and friend called me to excitedly say “Turn on the radio!” I did. He was listening to a classical piece and wanted to purchase the recording. “Do you know what it is?” he asked. “No,” I responded, “but it’s Beethoven.” Then the violin took over. “Oh!” I explained, “It must be the Beethoven Violin Concerto,” a judgment the announcer later confirmed.
In a few seconds, I can tell the difference between Baroque and Classical, Stravinsky and Ravel, even which orchestra and conductor are performing—and so can any other musician. [I’m reminded of a cartoon depicting a smug looking music listener and his agitated wife, saying, “Why can’t you just say ‘Scarlatti,’ instead of ‘Scarlatti, of course!’”] We also talk about “an ear for language,” and why not? I’m in the midst of reviewing a new text for my Intro to Poetry class, and the emphasis there on slight variations in sound, meter, rhythm and their permutations will be enough to send the average undergraduate into utter despair over ever passing the course. [I’ll work on fixing that problem.]
My fellow writing professors understand this about language, but they also notice a difference between us. Looking over my shoulder while I composed a piece on my laptop during a contentious faculty meeting, one colleague noted admiringly, “You’re just so fluent at this stuff.” Another colleague on a previous occasion remarked, “I can see the poetry in your writing.” A bit confused (since I’m primarily an essayist), I shared that with Tim, another colleague and friend, who nodded and said, “You don’t write poems, but you do write poetry.” My department chair, after visiting my class (on my request), had a single comment afterward: “You should be editing MY writing.”
None of this is to my credit—it’s just who I am. My colleagues are excellent writers, but different writers. And I can see the difference they mention too—my friend and colleague Joe and I see writing much the same way, but we also couldn’t be more different. Joe always wanted to be an English professor, and his frame of reference is continually focused on that perspective. Joe is also a musician, but he sees the world in terms of his English background. I NEVER intended to teach writing (not that I’m sorry), pursuing instead a career in music—which led to music business, which led to writing for those businesses, which led to free lancing, which led to offers to teach, which led to teaching at better colleges—and while Joe and I see writing in similar ways, my approach to the world is that of a musician, and it colors my writing.
How, then, does one write as a musician? Well, when I recorded my albums, I designed first the overall idea, the structure—then added other elements quite freely (jazz background kicking in here). In many ways, I could have played anything over the underlying structure, as long as it reflected and either reinforced or developed the overall idea. This is how I write too. The piece needs an overall flow, but it also needs percussive elements arranged in a pattern that both keeps the piece moving forward and adds interest and vitality. This isn’t easy to explain. Jazz musicians call this approach “feel.” We just know it when we hear it. Many music writers have noted sentiments like “Many people note that music is expressive, but when asked to explain what it expresses, fall silent.”
Aaron Copland may have summarized this best in his essay “How We Listen”:
“My own belief is that all music has an expressive power, some more and some less, but that all music must has a certain meaning behind the notes and that that meaning behind the notes constitute, after all, what the piece is saying, what the piece is about. This whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking, “’Is there a meaning to music?’ My answer to that would be, ‘Yes.’ And ‘Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?’ My answer to that would be, ‘No.’ Therein lies the difficulty.”
After all, what does a Bach fugue mean? Or a John Coltrane improvisation? Sure, songs have lyrics, but change the underlying music, and your favorite songs could easily become silly. Imagine ZZ Top in their standard style performing the theme from “Titanic.” Um…could change it a bit. [Could be fun, though: “Word goin’ round….ship goin’ down….by an iceberg round North seas…”]
Improvising over a song structure is not a matter of just going nuts, but rather mining the original piece for essential elements and reconstructing those pieces in multiple, original, creative ways. Classical composers do the same thing—look what Beethoven does in his Fifth Symphony with just a few notes. How does a musician learn to play like this on demand, live? Practice. Lots and lots and lots and lots of it. For me, writing is the same. All that reading? All that studying? All those drafts? These become tools and material ready to use to develop a motive on the page.
How does this translate to writing? First, I choose a direction. Sometimes, as in an argument, I can state that purpose explicitly, others, it’s just a feeling, as in a piece of music, and only implicit. From that starting point, I choose the major “events” that will happen along the way, looking for a good flow of ideas toward a meaningful climax and satisfactory denouement—whether I can explain it literally or not. And I remember that no musician grows without taking chances, exploring new territory, going out on a limb…(substitute your favorite cliché here—see the point?).
For a good musical example of how I see writing, download Pat Metheny’s “Last Train Home” [or buy this excellent album—“Still Life (Talking)”]. It starts quietly. The drummer is pushing a very quick regular “train” background consistently through what comes off as a slow, easy song. Listen and you’ll see what I mean about this song and writing.
Then it builds in the middle, adding (what else?!)—voices.
Writer
Friday, June 8, 2007
Why I have little faith in High School
A bad joke at best, admittedly, but when my total at the local store came to $19.32, the clerk duly announced "Nineteen Thirty Two." “Not a good year,” I remarked.
“I wouldn’t know,” shrugged the clerk, a High School graduate.
These people know me well (I see them almost daily), so I teased, “What do they teach in High Schools these days?”
She shrugged again. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t go to school.”
I couldn’t yet give up. “What did they USED to teach in High School?”
Stymied. “Dunno. I never paid attention.” And so on with her life long career as a clerk. But I can’t say my High School experience was much better.
I remember Kindergarten—age four. My teacher read us “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” I was fascinated. My home had several books—my mother had been a librarian, my maternal grandmother was a sixth grade teacher, and my dad was going to night school—and I started to read them. I read all of the C. S. Lewis Narnia series over the next few years (along with many other works).
Then it stopped. I was failing 1st grade arithmetic—until my mother bought a pile of flashcards and forced me to go through them again and again until I mastered it. Second grade wasn’t much better—I’d learned to hate school. Third grade was the deal breaker. My teacher was a witch, and I shut down. I received a C in reading. My parents were so confused and concerned that they invested in a flurry of eyesight and hearing tests. I don’t remember fourth grade at all (but I DO remember my dad coming home early when JFK was assassinated). In one of these grades, shuffled off to art class, I showed a friend a sundial I had designed and built from cardboard—hours of work. The art “teacher” walked over and ripped it to shreds.
In 5th grade, when my dad was transferred, I moved to a new school. My parents resisted placing me in the recommended “accelerated” class, noting that perhaps I just wasn’t up to the pressure. My new teacher, then, was an extremely tall, imposing man I frankly feared a bit—Mr. Christensen. Not only is he one of the best teachers I’ve ever known, but YEARS later, when I was facilitating a “introduce the arts” class for teachers, he was among the attendees—and instantly remembered me. Ironically, a few years after that, I had his daughter in two separate college classes. Yet a few years later, now working for National Public Radio, she interviewed me for an Indian land claim piece.
6th grade clinched the turning point. When my mom arrived for a parent/teacher conference, Mr. Grudzinski (as I understand from my mom later), apparently fresh from a parental conflict, announced, “I gave your son a B because that’s the grade he deserved!” Unfazed, Mom replied, “OK…” and Mr. Grudzinski relaxed. “I’m not supposed to show you this,” he noted, “but I think you should see this,” and he showed her the results of our placement tests.
Mom came home. “You will earn “A” grades from now on,” she announced. End of story. It was OK. I loved Mr. Grudzinski—a very nice man, a very funny man, and a great teacher.
Junior High School was scary. Suddenly, I was in classes with those “accelerated” students, none of whom I knew. I withdrew again, finding refuge in only two places—mathematics and music. Mark, a math wiz, became my best friend. We both entered a county wide contest. I won a gold medal for my presentation on “Functions and their Graphs.” Mark didn’t fare so well. The next year, I wrote a paper for the same contest on differential calculus. I thought about a career as a mathematician, but I was worried, and was cautioned, that this might not be a promising field. Add computers to this and consider just how bad this advice proved to be.
Four Junior High teachers stand out—two of them surprisingly in Social Studies, a subject I had always hated: Mr. Neufang and Mr. Lane. Suddenly, I understood that this was not about boring dates and events, but about people and exciting times. Riding a horse through the White House? Got my attention. I started to care about the outside world—and learn about it. The other teachers were in science. My 7th grade teacher was so full of puns and tricks that he kept my interest—40 years later I can still name the bones of the body. But my 8th grade teacher, Mr. Wiltze, really pulled it all together. We had to write a series of correlations—Dandelions and Icebergs, for example. We had to think. We were not rewarded for mere length (I wrote 12-20 page papers). We didn’t get good grades for the hell of it (and I didn’t do so well—B grades, as I remember).
Unfortunately, that was the end of my public school education. Yes, I did have a few good teachers—I remember a geometry and a French teacher—but my education moved to what I was reading/studying outside of class. By far the worst was English—we just did the same damn thing we had done in 7th grade over and over and over, just with different reading material. To get an A, just write about some personal interest. These teachers were pathetically easy to play. No wonder students come to college so ill-prepared. I did have one excellent teacher, Mr. Wanzer, my music teacher, who taught us Music History and Appreciation with a college level text, Donald J. Grout’s “A History of Western Music.” Wanzer took us step by step, and showed us the importance of each development. He developed our talent—I directed our Jazz Band my senior year. I earned performance scholarships from the Eastman School of Music and the New England Conservatory, entering my classes knowing far more than my classmates ever learned—no exaggeration. Of course, Wanzer was fired.
As a High School freshman, I visited my guidance counselor to choose my courses. I had a choice between Biology and Earth Science. I wasn’t (then) interested in biology, so I opted for Earth Science—but first I had a question. I DEFINITELY wanted to study physics (a passion I still hold today), so I asked for assurance that Earth Science would allow me to follow the sequence of courses I would need to get to physics in my senior year. I was given that assurance, so I took Earth Science (in a class of mostly seniors).
The bitch lied. When I wanted to enroll in the next course, Chemistry, I was told I needed Biology first. So, I completed my science education one year behind my peers. I never studied physics, except for the extensive reading I’ve done on my own.
The final straw was my senior year. When I received my schedule, it beared no semblance to reality—completely ignored my language sequence, for example, and scheduled me for three periods of study hall. Huh? I finally knew then, completely, that my education was up to me.
Working around the bandroom and Mr. Wanzer’s office, I happened upon the Master Schedule. Hmmm. I opened it. Interesting.
I threw away my course schedule and wrote my own—partly getting into my friends’ classes, but also getting myself into classes I wanted—Humanities, for example. I had no study halls. I went to the classes I had chosen, knowing that in each class, after attendance, the teachers would ask, “Is there anyone I didn’t call?” I raised my hand. “Does your schedule say you’re supposed to be here?” I nodded yes, knowing they never checked. “OK,” they said, and added me to their rosters.
Three months later—three months—my guidance counselor asked to see me. “People have been looking for you,” she said, “calling your name in study halls.” So right there, I knew she was a lying idiot—or at least I hope people wouldn’t look for a lost student by calling a name every day for three months. Obviously, they had long ago just crossed my name off their attendance lists. “Um, well, when I got my schedule,” I explained, knowing I was talking to a moron, “I realized it was a mistake, so I just went to the right classes instead.”
“You can’t just do that!” she exclaimed. Knowing I had already won this battle three months ago, I put on my most contrite face. “Gee, I’m so sorry,” I swore. “I didn’t realize. I’ll never do it again!” Of course not. I’m a senior. I’m out of here.
And thank god. I needed to learn, and I clearly wasn’t going to do it in High School. Mostly they wanted me to pursue a career as an architect, as my aptitude tests indicated (I think my dad still wishes I’d done this). This, of course, is currently a depressed field. I scored 720 on the math portion of the SATs--before they decided to lower the bar. I graduated with honors. And I knew that school did not equal learning.
Writer
“I wouldn’t know,” shrugged the clerk, a High School graduate.
These people know me well (I see them almost daily), so I teased, “What do they teach in High Schools these days?”
She shrugged again. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t go to school.”
I couldn’t yet give up. “What did they USED to teach in High School?”
Stymied. “Dunno. I never paid attention.” And so on with her life long career as a clerk. But I can’t say my High School experience was much better.
I remember Kindergarten—age four. My teacher read us “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” I was fascinated. My home had several books—my mother had been a librarian, my maternal grandmother was a sixth grade teacher, and my dad was going to night school—and I started to read them. I read all of the C. S. Lewis Narnia series over the next few years (along with many other works).
Then it stopped. I was failing 1st grade arithmetic—until my mother bought a pile of flashcards and forced me to go through them again and again until I mastered it. Second grade wasn’t much better—I’d learned to hate school. Third grade was the deal breaker. My teacher was a witch, and I shut down. I received a C in reading. My parents were so confused and concerned that they invested in a flurry of eyesight and hearing tests. I don’t remember fourth grade at all (but I DO remember my dad coming home early when JFK was assassinated). In one of these grades, shuffled off to art class, I showed a friend a sundial I had designed and built from cardboard—hours of work. The art “teacher” walked over and ripped it to shreds.
In 5th grade, when my dad was transferred, I moved to a new school. My parents resisted placing me in the recommended “accelerated” class, noting that perhaps I just wasn’t up to the pressure. My new teacher, then, was an extremely tall, imposing man I frankly feared a bit—Mr. Christensen. Not only is he one of the best teachers I’ve ever known, but YEARS later, when I was facilitating a “introduce the arts” class for teachers, he was among the attendees—and instantly remembered me. Ironically, a few years after that, I had his daughter in two separate college classes. Yet a few years later, now working for National Public Radio, she interviewed me for an Indian land claim piece.
6th grade clinched the turning point. When my mom arrived for a parent/teacher conference, Mr. Grudzinski (as I understand from my mom later), apparently fresh from a parental conflict, announced, “I gave your son a B because that’s the grade he deserved!” Unfazed, Mom replied, “OK…” and Mr. Grudzinski relaxed. “I’m not supposed to show you this,” he noted, “but I think you should see this,” and he showed her the results of our placement tests.
Mom came home. “You will earn “A” grades from now on,” she announced. End of story. It was OK. I loved Mr. Grudzinski—a very nice man, a very funny man, and a great teacher.
Junior High School was scary. Suddenly, I was in classes with those “accelerated” students, none of whom I knew. I withdrew again, finding refuge in only two places—mathematics and music. Mark, a math wiz, became my best friend. We both entered a county wide contest. I won a gold medal for my presentation on “Functions and their Graphs.” Mark didn’t fare so well. The next year, I wrote a paper for the same contest on differential calculus. I thought about a career as a mathematician, but I was worried, and was cautioned, that this might not be a promising field. Add computers to this and consider just how bad this advice proved to be.
Four Junior High teachers stand out—two of them surprisingly in Social Studies, a subject I had always hated: Mr. Neufang and Mr. Lane. Suddenly, I understood that this was not about boring dates and events, but about people and exciting times. Riding a horse through the White House? Got my attention. I started to care about the outside world—and learn about it. The other teachers were in science. My 7th grade teacher was so full of puns and tricks that he kept my interest—40 years later I can still name the bones of the body. But my 8th grade teacher, Mr. Wiltze, really pulled it all together. We had to write a series of correlations—Dandelions and Icebergs, for example. We had to think. We were not rewarded for mere length (I wrote 12-20 page papers). We didn’t get good grades for the hell of it (and I didn’t do so well—B grades, as I remember).
Unfortunately, that was the end of my public school education. Yes, I did have a few good teachers—I remember a geometry and a French teacher—but my education moved to what I was reading/studying outside of class. By far the worst was English—we just did the same damn thing we had done in 7th grade over and over and over, just with different reading material. To get an A, just write about some personal interest. These teachers were pathetically easy to play. No wonder students come to college so ill-prepared. I did have one excellent teacher, Mr. Wanzer, my music teacher, who taught us Music History and Appreciation with a college level text, Donald J. Grout’s “A History of Western Music.” Wanzer took us step by step, and showed us the importance of each development. He developed our talent—I directed our Jazz Band my senior year. I earned performance scholarships from the Eastman School of Music and the New England Conservatory, entering my classes knowing far more than my classmates ever learned—no exaggeration. Of course, Wanzer was fired.
As a High School freshman, I visited my guidance counselor to choose my courses. I had a choice between Biology and Earth Science. I wasn’t (then) interested in biology, so I opted for Earth Science—but first I had a question. I DEFINITELY wanted to study physics (a passion I still hold today), so I asked for assurance that Earth Science would allow me to follow the sequence of courses I would need to get to physics in my senior year. I was given that assurance, so I took Earth Science (in a class of mostly seniors).
The bitch lied. When I wanted to enroll in the next course, Chemistry, I was told I needed Biology first. So, I completed my science education one year behind my peers. I never studied physics, except for the extensive reading I’ve done on my own.
The final straw was my senior year. When I received my schedule, it beared no semblance to reality—completely ignored my language sequence, for example, and scheduled me for three periods of study hall. Huh? I finally knew then, completely, that my education was up to me.
Working around the bandroom and Mr. Wanzer’s office, I happened upon the Master Schedule. Hmmm. I opened it. Interesting.
I threw away my course schedule and wrote my own—partly getting into my friends’ classes, but also getting myself into classes I wanted—Humanities, for example. I had no study halls. I went to the classes I had chosen, knowing that in each class, after attendance, the teachers would ask, “Is there anyone I didn’t call?” I raised my hand. “Does your schedule say you’re supposed to be here?” I nodded yes, knowing they never checked. “OK,” they said, and added me to their rosters.
Three months later—three months—my guidance counselor asked to see me. “People have been looking for you,” she said, “calling your name in study halls.” So right there, I knew she was a lying idiot—or at least I hope people wouldn’t look for a lost student by calling a name every day for three months. Obviously, they had long ago just crossed my name off their attendance lists. “Um, well, when I got my schedule,” I explained, knowing I was talking to a moron, “I realized it was a mistake, so I just went to the right classes instead.”
“You can’t just do that!” she exclaimed. Knowing I had already won this battle three months ago, I put on my most contrite face. “Gee, I’m so sorry,” I swore. “I didn’t realize. I’ll never do it again!” Of course not. I’m a senior. I’m out of here.
And thank god. I needed to learn, and I clearly wasn’t going to do it in High School. Mostly they wanted me to pursue a career as an architect, as my aptitude tests indicated (I think my dad still wishes I’d done this). This, of course, is currently a depressed field. I scored 720 on the math portion of the SATs--before they decided to lower the bar. I graduated with honors. And I knew that school did not equal learning.
Writer
Monday, April 23, 2007
McReading
Sometimes I just ask a class: “How many of you have read this?” The response is often discouraging. While small groups are theoretically discussing the question of the day, I can clearly hear the incessant song of many a college student, bragging about how eNotes or some similar site or a Google/Yahoo search or Wikipedia etc. circumvented the arduous task of actually reading (at least they could learn to use Answers.com). And, of course, perhaps there’s a movie.
I can show ANY class why Shakespeare is so important—but not to a class that won’t read it. I love Internet sources, and I use them frequently, but I also know that the above sources are not going to offer much insight into the richness of themes in Shakespeare. Further, even if they did, students will gravitate toward what’s easiest and clearest—plot summaries, free essays (written by other students who also don’t get it) and so forth.
Three things strike me about this--first, the tremendously low value placed on reading. By implication, this means low valuation of other thoughts and ideas. One college freshman, who came to see me for help about his grade, even explained that he literally couldn’t read the required material, since he hadn’t read anything since 3rd grade (he just got the gist of the material from class sessions, and until my class, he was even quite proud of this). Second, speed tops the values list—the less time, the better, and content be damned. In his novel “Straight Man” (a book I actually read), Richard Russo quotes H. L. Mencken: “For every complex problem, there’s a simple solution—and it’s always wrong.” Third, the sheer arrogance is astounding—students feel they have better insight than the entire recorded history of thought. College committees worked to design programs that include courses apparently useless. Professors outline courses with no point. But students know better than anyone (ironic that they then pay money to attend the college, no?), so they blow off all that unnecessary reading bullshit.
Students who do grow to understand complain that high school does not prepare them adequately for college. This problem encompasses a number of issues, but I like to point out that college students are legal voters, and THEY help elect the school boards, THEY vote on school budgets. Hell, they can even RUN for school board! If things aren’t good—change them!
Of course, playing the victim and wondering why someone doesn’t do something is easier.
Writer
I can show ANY class why Shakespeare is so important—but not to a class that won’t read it. I love Internet sources, and I use them frequently, but I also know that the above sources are not going to offer much insight into the richness of themes in Shakespeare. Further, even if they did, students will gravitate toward what’s easiest and clearest—plot summaries, free essays (written by other students who also don’t get it) and so forth.
Three things strike me about this--first, the tremendously low value placed on reading. By implication, this means low valuation of other thoughts and ideas. One college freshman, who came to see me for help about his grade, even explained that he literally couldn’t read the required material, since he hadn’t read anything since 3rd grade (he just got the gist of the material from class sessions, and until my class, he was even quite proud of this). Second, speed tops the values list—the less time, the better, and content be damned. In his novel “Straight Man” (a book I actually read), Richard Russo quotes H. L. Mencken: “For every complex problem, there’s a simple solution—and it’s always wrong.” Third, the sheer arrogance is astounding—students feel they have better insight than the entire recorded history of thought. College committees worked to design programs that include courses apparently useless. Professors outline courses with no point. But students know better than anyone (ironic that they then pay money to attend the college, no?), so they blow off all that unnecessary reading bullshit.
Students who do grow to understand complain that high school does not prepare them adequately for college. This problem encompasses a number of issues, but I like to point out that college students are legal voters, and THEY help elect the school boards, THEY vote on school budgets. Hell, they can even RUN for school board! If things aren’t good—change them!
Of course, playing the victim and wondering why someone doesn’t do something is easier.
Writer
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Harry Potter and the Banning of Books
A few years ago, I left a summer Jazz Fest around 11:30 p.m., and realizing I could just reach the Barnes & Noble superstore before it closed at midnight, I set off to purchase a CD.
I had forgotten about the release of J. K. Rowling’s “Order of the Phoenix.” Every square foot of that superstore was packed with costumed children and their parents. As I made my way back to the music section, I observed child after child, regardless of the section of the store, sitting and reading, pulling other books from the shelves, sitting and reading more—all patiently waiting for the midnight release of their new Harry Potter book.
I found my CD and made my way to the counter. “Hello,” I joked with the clerk. “I’m not here to buy the new Harry Potter.” “Oh—so you’re the one!” he joked back. I paid for my CD and headed home.
“Damn,” I thought. “Anyone who can get hundreds of children to read, especially such a long book, has MY respect.” And the next day, largely out of curiosity, I bought all five of the then available books. When book six became available, I ordered it through Amazon (I remembered all those people in the superstore), and I’ll soon order book seven, due for release this July. They’re wonderfully written (with perhaps the exception of some dragging parts in book five) and well conceived—not a poor reading choice at all, despite the mumblings of a few educators here and there.
In elementary school, my classmates and I regularly received small catalogs of books we could purchase for a dime, a quarter, later thirty-five cents—and I did, saving my allowance to buy every book about dogs I could find. When I had exhausted their supply, my mother pointed out that the local library would lend me books for free. I hopped on my bike and got a library card. When I had exhausted the canine offerings in the children’s section, the librarian suggested another book: “Call of the Wild.” “White Fang” was next. When I finished Jack London, she suggested branching out to other animals: “The Jungle Book.” “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” was next, and I was off on a journey to discover this fascinating world that stretched from the Alaskan tundra to the jungles of India. Soon, raiding the adult contemporary paperback rack, reading Saul Bellow and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., I realized this was also a world of ideas, and included non-fiction works. I didn’t always understand them, but I knew that my reading would improve, that the journey was worth the effort—all because of dogs and a mongoose. Today, I’m fascinated with the language itself—especially Joyce.
But others don’t see Harry Potter in this light. J. K. Rowling’s website notes that Harry Potter books are again among the most commonly banned books. I’ve heard people complain about them, claiming that witchcraft is an affront to Christianity (I wonder if they also ban “Macbeth”). “Alice in Wonderland” is also commonly banned, since animals talk, in defiance of God’s creation. Somebody isn’t grasping the concept of fiction. What are these people afraid of? That children will start performing magic? Or listen to talking animals? Or are these people simply threatened that the real world is a world of ideas, a world contradictory to such a narrow, restrictive view of existence.
The Bible itself contradicts such fundamentalist foolishness. Consider Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 12: 4-12:
"Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are differences of administrations, but the same Lord. And there are diversities of operations, but it is the same God which worketh all in all. But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man to profit withal. For to one is given by the Spirit the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge by the same Spirit; To another faith by the same Spirit; to another the gifts of healing by the same Spirit; To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another divers kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues: But all these worketh that one and the selfsame Spirit, dividing to every man severally as he will. For as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body: so also is Christ."
Seems Paul believes in magic—or just maybe, unlike fundamentalists, he doesn’t see God as impotent, drifting if they don’t rush to his defense. Or, perhaps Paul is actually a disciple of Christ, turning the other check, spreading love and understanding—and new ideas. Paul gets it.
First, though, he needed to be dramatically knocked off his horse—even though he had thought he was doing the right thing.
Fundamentalists need to go riding. Christianity is about inclusion.
Some reading and thinking might help too.
Writer
I had forgotten about the release of J. K. Rowling’s “Order of the Phoenix.” Every square foot of that superstore was packed with costumed children and their parents. As I made my way back to the music section, I observed child after child, regardless of the section of the store, sitting and reading, pulling other books from the shelves, sitting and reading more—all patiently waiting for the midnight release of their new Harry Potter book.
I found my CD and made my way to the counter. “Hello,” I joked with the clerk. “I’m not here to buy the new Harry Potter.” “Oh—so you’re the one!” he joked back. I paid for my CD and headed home.
“Damn,” I thought. “Anyone who can get hundreds of children to read, especially such a long book, has MY respect.” And the next day, largely out of curiosity, I bought all five of the then available books. When book six became available, I ordered it through Amazon (I remembered all those people in the superstore), and I’ll soon order book seven, due for release this July. They’re wonderfully written (with perhaps the exception of some dragging parts in book five) and well conceived—not a poor reading choice at all, despite the mumblings of a few educators here and there.
In elementary school, my classmates and I regularly received small catalogs of books we could purchase for a dime, a quarter, later thirty-five cents—and I did, saving my allowance to buy every book about dogs I could find. When I had exhausted their supply, my mother pointed out that the local library would lend me books for free. I hopped on my bike and got a library card. When I had exhausted the canine offerings in the children’s section, the librarian suggested another book: “Call of the Wild.” “White Fang” was next. When I finished Jack London, she suggested branching out to other animals: “The Jungle Book.” “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” was next, and I was off on a journey to discover this fascinating world that stretched from the Alaskan tundra to the jungles of India. Soon, raiding the adult contemporary paperback rack, reading Saul Bellow and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., I realized this was also a world of ideas, and included non-fiction works. I didn’t always understand them, but I knew that my reading would improve, that the journey was worth the effort—all because of dogs and a mongoose. Today, I’m fascinated with the language itself—especially Joyce.
But others don’t see Harry Potter in this light. J. K. Rowling’s website notes that Harry Potter books are again among the most commonly banned books. I’ve heard people complain about them, claiming that witchcraft is an affront to Christianity (I wonder if they also ban “Macbeth”). “Alice in Wonderland” is also commonly banned, since animals talk, in defiance of God’s creation. Somebody isn’t grasping the concept of fiction. What are these people afraid of? That children will start performing magic? Or listen to talking animals? Or are these people simply threatened that the real world is a world of ideas, a world contradictory to such a narrow, restrictive view of existence.
The Bible itself contradicts such fundamentalist foolishness. Consider Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 12: 4-12:
"Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are differences of administrations, but the same Lord. And there are diversities of operations, but it is the same God which worketh all in all. But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man to profit withal. For to one is given by the Spirit the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge by the same Spirit; To another faith by the same Spirit; to another the gifts of healing by the same Spirit; To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another divers kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues: But all these worketh that one and the selfsame Spirit, dividing to every man severally as he will. For as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body: so also is Christ."
Seems Paul believes in magic—or just maybe, unlike fundamentalists, he doesn’t see God as impotent, drifting if they don’t rush to his defense. Or, perhaps Paul is actually a disciple of Christ, turning the other check, spreading love and understanding—and new ideas. Paul gets it.
First, though, he needed to be dramatically knocked off his horse—even though he had thought he was doing the right thing.
Fundamentalists need to go riding. Christianity is about inclusion.
Some reading and thinking might help too.
Writer
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