I'm generally not much for buying flowers for women.
But once upon a time, in a life long ago, I was told it would be advisable.
My college president had the misfortune (or fortune, as the case may have it) to get divorced from a woman whom I'll call Barbara. They had been married for some time, and he came to the college with her. She was by his side at ceremonial events, and she presided over parties and other social obligations. But she started to lose her mind. She attributed this to the pressure of being a college president's wife, but she was probably going to lose her competence anyway.
Several years later, the president remarried--a woman whom I'll call Judith.
I am notoriously lackadaisical about names (I shouldn't be), and I happened to call his house after he had been married to Judith for several years. I had met her and talked to her. She was a tall, rather harsh-looking woman, who seemed to have to try to be pleasant. But she also came from money and seemed impatient with people who did not (like myself). When I called the house, she answered the phone, and I inadvertently addressed her as "Barbara."
The conversation went something like this, me being chipper and friendly, her becoming more angry and impatient:
"Hi! Barbara, it's good to talk to you."
"Harry! What planet are you on?"
"Wha---?"
"I'm not Barbara. Barbara is gone."
I hesitated, confused. But I persevered.
"Come on--we've met. We've talked. I know you're Barbara."
I enlarged my mouth as my foot enlarged to fit into it. My insistence on being right astonishes me now, and should be a good object lesson: whenever I'm absolutely certain of my ground, I have no ground whatsoever and should back off.
But no, I forged merrily on, insisting that she was Barbara, though she was, in fact, Judith, and had every right to be perturbed with me.
Finally, not admitting defeat, I asked to talk to Jerry, and she huffed off. I began to think something might have been wrong and asked Jerry what his wife's name was:
"Judith--we've been married a couple of years now."
"She sounded pissed."
"Send flowers."
I got the address and squeezed out about $50 for a bouquet to be sent to the house.
I don't know if she remembered the incident, but years later, when I happened to be near their new home in Naples, Florida, she and Jerry invited me and my girl friend to the house for dinner. The evening passed pleasantly enough, though she recalled, with some acerbity, that another refugee from the college, the former chair of the photography department, Bob Vigiletti, had also dropped in, unannounced, a year earlier. They seemed to have gone underground. Jerry was running a gallery connected to a large hotel in Naples, and Susan (that's her name!) was occupying herself in various charitable pursuits, including a throwaway newspaper about local arts activities. She was quite bitter about events in Detroit, and I only put my foot in my mouth once, relaying what I thought would be well-received greetings from another colleague--Diane Voss. Susan spat out that Diane had savaged Jerry mercilessly as he was getting ready to resign. I decided there were stories that I didn't know and was better off in my innocence.
Flowers. They weren't roses. I couldn't picture what the florist told me the bouquet would consist of. But I thought I'd better trust his judgement, since mine had betrayed me so effectively.
Monday, July 30, 2007
A Tale from the Crypt
At first, I thought I remembered this incident for no particular reason. I was returning home from UCLA around 10:30 pm after delivering a baritone sax to my wife, who was playing a gig at Ackerman Union. The band's bari sax player, who shall remain nameless for tonight, failed to show--he's a notorious flake--so she needed a horn for the leader to use.
I thought of my first faculty party at Center for Creative Studies in Detroit. Here I was, a new faculty member at an art and design college. It was December, end of the semester, and time for the big Christmas Party. I knew some studio faculty, but not many--there was not extensive communication between the academic department and the studio faculty. In fact, academic faculty were tolerated, at best, so the college could offer a bachelor's degree. "Academic" had a particularly ugly ring in the mouth of the fine arts chairman.
I showed up at the front door of the new president. He had a large-ish house in Grosse Pointe. What I remember most about the house was an extensive collection of African masks he and his then wife had accumulated, and a pool table on the second floor. My then-wife was with me, a reticent person entering the forbidding world of "artists"--people who think strange thoughts and do strange things. I at least had been teaching there for awhile. This was her first glimpse.
Vaguely familiar faces turned in our direction. The president must have been up playing billiards. Behind us, outdoors, was snow and chill. Indoors were a big fireplace, bright lights, a tree with Christmas decorations, a mix of people in the living room, some appropriate music. I was aware of my wife boggled by it all. Then I was aware of the chairman of the ceramics department--Gordon O'Rear. He and I had said hi in a friendly manner several times on campus. He left his wife's side and approached us with a welcoming smile. I started to extend my hand and introduce my wife. Instead of taking my hand, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me solidly on the lips, then held me at arms' length. I'm not sure what I said or did, but I must have passed muster because he laughed and brought the two of us into the living room, where we proceeded to enjoy the party, though I think my wife's first introduction to the surreal happened that night, and she may never have recovered.
There were many lessons here, but the first was: take the unpredictable in stride. I think I passed a test that night--I was generally accepted into the Art College milieu after that evening. The other lesson is The Test itself. Fortunately, I passed.
Perhaps I remembered the incident after dropping off the horn because that, too, was a test, though neither my wife nor I would have thought of it that way. She needed the horn--I had the time to drive it out. She's done the same for me when I forgot cymbals or mallets, or music. The unexpected kiss, the instrument transport: such tests are meaningful because they have real-world consequences. They result in better collegial or domestic relationships-- compared to the "testing" that God is often said to do to certify one's faith. Husbands and wives do favors for each other--that's wonderful. Colleagues test one's ability to handle the unexpected. That's fine.
An earthquake comes, and the house collapses. Or the doctor gives us the news that we have cancer. Or we trip on a raised sidewalk and break an arm. These are random occurrences and have no connection to what we deserve, so they are chalked up to God's divine wish to "test" the faith of his creatures. This glib, specious speculation is intended to keep one from questioning. But it's easier to recognize the circumstance for what it is and leave God out of it. The circumstance is random. One is lucky, or unlucky. No self-respecting god (or no God that a self-respecting human could respect) would waste his time ingeniously creating sufferings. If the testing theory were true, God would be awfully mean-spirited: essentially, He would be thinking it's a good idea to make people suffer to see if they continue in their faith. That's a form of entrapment--tempt them to defect by making life unendurable, and when they defect, punish them.
So, my wife and I will keep doing favors for each other because it's a good thing to do, and we give each other plenty of points. And, I'll be a good colleague. But don't mention God to me--my life works fine without Him. And if things go wrong, I won't speculate that I'm being tested, I'll do some trouble shooting.
I thought of my first faculty party at Center for Creative Studies in Detroit. Here I was, a new faculty member at an art and design college. It was December, end of the semester, and time for the big Christmas Party. I knew some studio faculty, but not many--there was not extensive communication between the academic department and the studio faculty. In fact, academic faculty were tolerated, at best, so the college could offer a bachelor's degree. "Academic" had a particularly ugly ring in the mouth of the fine arts chairman.
I showed up at the front door of the new president. He had a large-ish house in Grosse Pointe. What I remember most about the house was an extensive collection of African masks he and his then wife had accumulated, and a pool table on the second floor. My then-wife was with me, a reticent person entering the forbidding world of "artists"--people who think strange thoughts and do strange things. I at least had been teaching there for awhile. This was her first glimpse.
Vaguely familiar faces turned in our direction. The president must have been up playing billiards. Behind us, outdoors, was snow and chill. Indoors were a big fireplace, bright lights, a tree with Christmas decorations, a mix of people in the living room, some appropriate music. I was aware of my wife boggled by it all. Then I was aware of the chairman of the ceramics department--Gordon O'Rear. He and I had said hi in a friendly manner several times on campus. He left his wife's side and approached us with a welcoming smile. I started to extend my hand and introduce my wife. Instead of taking my hand, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me solidly on the lips, then held me at arms' length. I'm not sure what I said or did, but I must have passed muster because he laughed and brought the two of us into the living room, where we proceeded to enjoy the party, though I think my wife's first introduction to the surreal happened that night, and she may never have recovered.
There were many lessons here, but the first was: take the unpredictable in stride. I think I passed a test that night--I was generally accepted into the Art College milieu after that evening. The other lesson is The Test itself. Fortunately, I passed.
Perhaps I remembered the incident after dropping off the horn because that, too, was a test, though neither my wife nor I would have thought of it that way. She needed the horn--I had the time to drive it out. She's done the same for me when I forgot cymbals or mallets, or music. The unexpected kiss, the instrument transport: such tests are meaningful because they have real-world consequences. They result in better collegial or domestic relationships-- compared to the "testing" that God is often said to do to certify one's faith. Husbands and wives do favors for each other--that's wonderful. Colleagues test one's ability to handle the unexpected. That's fine.
An earthquake comes, and the house collapses. Or the doctor gives us the news that we have cancer. Or we trip on a raised sidewalk and break an arm. These are random occurrences and have no connection to what we deserve, so they are chalked up to God's divine wish to "test" the faith of his creatures. This glib, specious speculation is intended to keep one from questioning. But it's easier to recognize the circumstance for what it is and leave God out of it. The circumstance is random. One is lucky, or unlucky. No self-respecting god (or no God that a self-respecting human could respect) would waste his time ingeniously creating sufferings. If the testing theory were true, God would be awfully mean-spirited: essentially, He would be thinking it's a good idea to make people suffer to see if they continue in their faith. That's a form of entrapment--tempt them to defect by making life unendurable, and when they defect, punish them.
So, my wife and I will keep doing favors for each other because it's a good thing to do, and we give each other plenty of points. And, I'll be a good colleague. But don't mention God to me--my life works fine without Him. And if things go wrong, I won't speculate that I'm being tested, I'll do some trouble shooting.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Ghosts of Composition Classes Past
My wife and I were in Home Depot this evening, and a young female salesperson said a friendly
"Hi," as though she knew me.
My wife said, "Was that a student?"
I said, "I don't recognize her."
But when I asked the student if she had gone to PCC, she said yes, and that she had been in my Grammar and Composition Review course several semesters before. I had taught her to write a good essay, and she was preparing to transfer to Cal State Northridge.
"When I'm not in school, I'm here," she said. She was in her orange work apron.
The student was quite friendly and helpful, we joked a bit, and she got us the price on a folding chair for the porch. Unfortunately, the only boxed chairs were palleted out of reach on a high shelf. She told us to wait.
I went to check out the cacti, and when I returned, there was the student driving a forklift. "I just got my license for this," she beamed. With the help of a supervisor, she maneuvered the thing into position and got the pallet of chairs down. The supervisor proposed that we buy two now that 12 or 15 were available, so we did. I mean, what if both my wife and I wanted to sit on the porch, contemplating intellectual stuff, as we do so often?
I hyped my student lavishly to her supervisor. "She has extraordinary powers of persuasion. We were only going to buy one." Even though he had been the one to suggest it, I supposed he would credit her.
But more important was the forklift driving. I'm always looking for practical ways to motivate my students to take their essay-writing seriously. I had one here: "Learn the essay, drive a forklift." It made sense: identifying your territory (Home Depot required that they fence customers out of the work area for safety), the introductory maneuvering and jockeying for position, elevation of the forks as you build toward a climactic moment, the sense of timing, the satisfaction and relief when you bring your load to solid ground. And then the concluding pitch: this was good, buy two.
"I'm so proud of you," I told her. "You put my class to good use."
"Hi," as though she knew me.
My wife said, "Was that a student?"
I said, "I don't recognize her."
But when I asked the student if she had gone to PCC, she said yes, and that she had been in my Grammar and Composition Review course several semesters before. I had taught her to write a good essay, and she was preparing to transfer to Cal State Northridge.
"When I'm not in school, I'm here," she said. She was in her orange work apron.
The student was quite friendly and helpful, we joked a bit, and she got us the price on a folding chair for the porch. Unfortunately, the only boxed chairs were palleted out of reach on a high shelf. She told us to wait.
I went to check out the cacti, and when I returned, there was the student driving a forklift. "I just got my license for this," she beamed. With the help of a supervisor, she maneuvered the thing into position and got the pallet of chairs down. The supervisor proposed that we buy two now that 12 or 15 were available, so we did. I mean, what if both my wife and I wanted to sit on the porch, contemplating intellectual stuff, as we do so often?
I hyped my student lavishly to her supervisor. "She has extraordinary powers of persuasion. We were only going to buy one." Even though he had been the one to suggest it, I supposed he would credit her.
But more important was the forklift driving. I'm always looking for practical ways to motivate my students to take their essay-writing seriously. I had one here: "Learn the essay, drive a forklift." It made sense: identifying your territory (Home Depot required that they fence customers out of the work area for safety), the introductory maneuvering and jockeying for position, elevation of the forks as you build toward a climactic moment, the sense of timing, the satisfaction and relief when you bring your load to solid ground. And then the concluding pitch: this was good, buy two.
"I'm so proud of you," I told her. "You put my class to good use."
Playing Cards
I've been teaching full time at the college level since 1970, and I've been accused of discrimination twice. In both cases, the students were angry about receiving a D in the class.
The first time was at Wayne State University, in a community outreach course, taught at the Canfield Center, about three miles away from the main campus, in a very depressed neighborhood. This one African-American student wrote poorly, but when I tried, in individual conferences, to explain what his mistakes were and how to correct them, he explained why he was right. After 45 minutes of increasingly frustrating conference, in which he was right and I was wrong, I had to move on--and these were not judgment call mistakes. He was genuinely a person who thought the writing style he had cultivated (apart from grammar and sentence mistakes) was remarkable and compelling. It was over-inflated, misused words, and often obscure. He consistently got Ds, but consistently refused to hear anything I said. At one point I had to tell him that if he was as good a writer as he considered himself, he would be teaching the course, not me.
At the end of the semester, I gave him a D, and he filed a discrimination complaint with the university ombudsman: I had given him the D because he was black. When I went in to the ombudsman's office, two other professors, from Humanities and Art History, were there--the same student had filed grievances against them. When they heard I had given him a D, they applauded me, admitting they had not had the nerve. The ombudsman had my roll sheets in his hand. Students had gotten the usual array of grades--a couple of As, some Bs, some Cs. The only question the ombudsman asked was, how many African-American students were in the class. I replied that the whole class was African American students, except for one. End of grievance. [The unfortunate aspect of this situation was that the student seemed to have consciously tried to develop a style; he employed some sophisticated vocabulary and had a kind of oracular, proclamatory tone. But what he meant was too often unintentionally obscure and ambiguous, and he did not have mechanics under control. If he hadn't been so obstinate, I could have taken a more helpful tack with him.]
The other incident involved a Muslim student who took my Bible as Literature course at Pasadena City College. About five weeks into the semester, I noticed that his attendance was spotty. He came to the office to explain that his father from Iran was visiting, and he was responsible to show him about. The student also filled in a bit of family history: the mother had brought the kids to America and the father could not understand why neither his kids nor his wife obeyed him any more. The ongoing conflict made life difficult for the son.
The student asked for some leniency on my part, and I said we could work out something equitable, and then, thinking that his attendance would improve, I hardly saw him again until the final. He had missed a good 75% of the class meetings, and had not submitted a major assignment. There was no way to make up the missed classes, and the college catalog stipulates that a student who misses more than two weeks of class, can be failed. I told the student he was going to get a D.
Then the arguing began. He insisted that if he took the final, he would get an A. I told him there was no point taking the final: he had been absent too much, and an assignment was missing. We went back and forth for a good twenty minutes. His strategy was to wear me down. I finally told him that he could take the final, but he would have to get his A in order to earn a C in the class. He went away, satisfied. My office mate was there during the whole haggling conversation.
The student took the final, failed it, got the D in the class, and filed a grievance against me for discriminating against him because he was Muslim. He added that I had identified him in class as a member of a terrorist organization (this was a lie--I don't believe I even knew what his religion was, and I certainly did not automatically equate Islam and terrorism), and claimed that I had given all the Christians in the class As (this was a lie--he could not possibly have known--not to mention laughable; my grade sheets told a different story). Finally, he claimed that I had promised to give him a C if he took the final. I called on my office mate to verify what I had actually said, and the grievance was dismissed.
There was a third case, though it did not consist of playing the race card in the same way as the previous incidents. This occurred at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, where I was teaching a freshman composition course. Art Center has many, many remarkable, intelligent students, but one Caucasian fellow took me to task for giving him a C on a paper. He was irked particularly because I had given As and Bs to several Asian students. "Are you telling me that those Asians write better than I do, when they can't even speak English?" I didn't know which papers by which students he was referring to, but there were certainly Asians who spoke and wrote fluently in the class. I just said, "It's the same eyes grading both, so I guess they must be better." I didn't get any more complaints. He had played a race card against his classmates, and it didn't work.
The first time was at Wayne State University, in a community outreach course, taught at the Canfield Center, about three miles away from the main campus, in a very depressed neighborhood. This one African-American student wrote poorly, but when I tried, in individual conferences, to explain what his mistakes were and how to correct them, he explained why he was right. After 45 minutes of increasingly frustrating conference, in which he was right and I was wrong, I had to move on--and these were not judgment call mistakes. He was genuinely a person who thought the writing style he had cultivated (apart from grammar and sentence mistakes) was remarkable and compelling. It was over-inflated, misused words, and often obscure. He consistently got Ds, but consistently refused to hear anything I said. At one point I had to tell him that if he was as good a writer as he considered himself, he would be teaching the course, not me.
At the end of the semester, I gave him a D, and he filed a discrimination complaint with the university ombudsman: I had given him the D because he was black. When I went in to the ombudsman's office, two other professors, from Humanities and Art History, were there--the same student had filed grievances against them. When they heard I had given him a D, they applauded me, admitting they had not had the nerve. The ombudsman had my roll sheets in his hand. Students had gotten the usual array of grades--a couple of As, some Bs, some Cs. The only question the ombudsman asked was, how many African-American students were in the class. I replied that the whole class was African American students, except for one. End of grievance. [The unfortunate aspect of this situation was that the student seemed to have consciously tried to develop a style; he employed some sophisticated vocabulary and had a kind of oracular, proclamatory tone. But what he meant was too often unintentionally obscure and ambiguous, and he did not have mechanics under control. If he hadn't been so obstinate, I could have taken a more helpful tack with him.]
The other incident involved a Muslim student who took my Bible as Literature course at Pasadena City College. About five weeks into the semester, I noticed that his attendance was spotty. He came to the office to explain that his father from Iran was visiting, and he was responsible to show him about. The student also filled in a bit of family history: the mother had brought the kids to America and the father could not understand why neither his kids nor his wife obeyed him any more. The ongoing conflict made life difficult for the son.
The student asked for some leniency on my part, and I said we could work out something equitable, and then, thinking that his attendance would improve, I hardly saw him again until the final. He had missed a good 75% of the class meetings, and had not submitted a major assignment. There was no way to make up the missed classes, and the college catalog stipulates that a student who misses more than two weeks of class, can be failed. I told the student he was going to get a D.
Then the arguing began. He insisted that if he took the final, he would get an A. I told him there was no point taking the final: he had been absent too much, and an assignment was missing. We went back and forth for a good twenty minutes. His strategy was to wear me down. I finally told him that he could take the final, but he would have to get his A in order to earn a C in the class. He went away, satisfied. My office mate was there during the whole haggling conversation.
The student took the final, failed it, got the D in the class, and filed a grievance against me for discriminating against him because he was Muslim. He added that I had identified him in class as a member of a terrorist organization (this was a lie--I don't believe I even knew what his religion was, and I certainly did not automatically equate Islam and terrorism), and claimed that I had given all the Christians in the class As (this was a lie--he could not possibly have known--not to mention laughable; my grade sheets told a different story). Finally, he claimed that I had promised to give him a C if he took the final. I called on my office mate to verify what I had actually said, and the grievance was dismissed.
There was a third case, though it did not consist of playing the race card in the same way as the previous incidents. This occurred at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, where I was teaching a freshman composition course. Art Center has many, many remarkable, intelligent students, but one Caucasian fellow took me to task for giving him a C on a paper. He was irked particularly because I had given As and Bs to several Asian students. "Are you telling me that those Asians write better than I do, when they can't even speak English?" I didn't know which papers by which students he was referring to, but there were certainly Asians who spoke and wrote fluently in the class. I just said, "It's the same eyes grading both, so I guess they must be better." I didn't get any more complaints. He had played a race card against his classmates, and it didn't work.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Labyrinth and the Garden and the Bible-o-phile
Check out these blogs too--there's a lot of overlap. All venues harbor labyrinths and gardens, the academic world among them.
Two lessons I learned on my first job:
a. if you take notes, you'll be assigned to take notes
b. the less there is at stake, the harder people fight over it
Argh, just a comment--this seemed particularly true at Wayne State, where I was a faculty member in the English Department for six years (I didn't get tenure). There was vicious and snide animosity among younger faculty. The older faculty seemed to ignore it or look on in amusement, except for one mid-level faculty member who accused the junior faculty of throwing tantrums (we had asked for representation on the hiring committee).
There was bitter hostility over the formulation of a "department charter," which had been requested by the dean. Older faculty vs. younger faculty again. The fight went on, and by the time I left, four years or so after the beginning of the charter effort, no charter had been written.
Several extraordinary experiences from my time at WSU:
1. one bitterly cold winter morning, I parked my car in the dirt parking lot (Wayne did not have a lot of amenities) and got my briefcase. I turned toward the building where I taught and caught a glance of snow crystals blowing off the roof of a nearby apartment. They sparkled in the morning sun. The bright blue sky was dazzling.
2. It was a late March day--the wind was blowing, maybe fifty miles an hour. I had never been in wind so strong--the Santa Anas of Southern California can't compare. I walked down Second Avenue, pulling myelf forward parking meter by parking meter.
3. my first real snowstorm: late afternoon, the snow was coming down in big flakes, the street turning silent white. I stopped for gas and asked the attendant if this was a blizzard. "If this isn't, I don't know what is," he said.
Two lessons I learned on my first job:
a. if you take notes, you'll be assigned to take notes
b. the less there is at stake, the harder people fight over it
Argh, just a comment--this seemed particularly true at Wayne State, where I was a faculty member in the English Department for six years (I didn't get tenure). There was vicious and snide animosity among younger faculty. The older faculty seemed to ignore it or look on in amusement, except for one mid-level faculty member who accused the junior faculty of throwing tantrums (we had asked for representation on the hiring committee).
There was bitter hostility over the formulation of a "department charter," which had been requested by the dean. Older faculty vs. younger faculty again. The fight went on, and by the time I left, four years or so after the beginning of the charter effort, no charter had been written.
Several extraordinary experiences from my time at WSU:
1. one bitterly cold winter morning, I parked my car in the dirt parking lot (Wayne did not have a lot of amenities) and got my briefcase. I turned toward the building where I taught and caught a glance of snow crystals blowing off the roof of a nearby apartment. They sparkled in the morning sun. The bright blue sky was dazzling.
2. It was a late March day--the wind was blowing, maybe fifty miles an hour. I had never been in wind so strong--the Santa Anas of Southern California can't compare. I walked down Second Avenue, pulling myelf forward parking meter by parking meter.
3. my first real snowstorm: late afternoon, the snow was coming down in big flakes, the street turning silent white. I stopped for gas and asked the attendant if this was a blizzard. "If this isn't, I don't know what is," he said.
Etymologically Speaking, That Is
Etymologically speaking, I know what happened to the lost tribes of the Israelites. The lost city of Atlantis? That's not a Hebrew word!
The Mormons are right--the lost tribes migrated to North America and become Native Americans!
How do I know this for such certain, you may wonder. Indeed, you may. But to someone linguistically intuitive, as you know I am, it's encoded in "Yosemite." You see, there are Anti-semites, and there are pro-semites (I count myself in the bunch)--the Native American tribe which gave its name to the tourist spot is obviously pro-semitic, as suggested by "Yo!" (a term of endearment, greeting, down-home camaraderie) attached to "Semite," an ethnic designation. There were the Paiute, the Shawnee, the Reubenites (famous for sandwiches), the Menassahites, the Shoshone, the Luddites, and the descendants of Jacob's lone daughter, Dinah--one branch is the Shorites, the other the Dianetics.
This is the thought for the day. The academic world harbors and nourishes freedom of thought.
The Mormons are right--the lost tribes migrated to North America and become Native Americans!
How do I know this for such certain, you may wonder. Indeed, you may. But to someone linguistically intuitive, as you know I am, it's encoded in "Yosemite." You see, there are Anti-semites, and there are pro-semites (I count myself in the bunch)--the Native American tribe which gave its name to the tourist spot is obviously pro-semitic, as suggested by "Yo!" (a term of endearment, greeting, down-home camaraderie) attached to "Semite," an ethnic designation. There were the Paiute, the Shawnee, the Reubenites (famous for sandwiches), the Menassahites, the Shoshone, the Luddites, and the descendants of Jacob's lone daughter, Dinah--one branch is the Shorites, the other the Dianetics.
This is the thought for the day. The academic world harbors and nourishes freedom of thought.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
You Can Never Tell
You try your best as a prof, and you come up with what you think is going to be an innovative, original way to dramatize a point. You think you've done a great job, but then it turns out that some student, somewhere, missed the point and considered you a dope.
When I taught at Center for Creative Studies in Detroit (a college of art and design), I had frequent conversations with Joseph Bernard, a painter who taught a course in twentieth century modernism required for all fine arts majors. We would talk about Joyce, Duchamp, Beckett and Cage. It is to Joseph that I owe the story (which I hope is not apocryphal) about Duchamp dropping a piece of rope from a ladder one day. When the rope touched the ground, Duchamp said, "That's enough art for today," and got down. Joseph is very intelligent, completely involved in 20th century art, and a wonderful, original artist himself who has swum with the whales off the north Atlantic coast.
Anyway, in one of my own classes, I had a student who mentioned that he was taking Joseph's modernism class. I asked how he liked it, expecting that he would brighten up. Instead, the student looked resentful. So far, he informed me, the class had been a waste. "He spent the whole first meeting playing a recording of some woman lying in bed talking about herself and her husband." Pointless.
It took a second, but I realized that Joseph must have played a recording of the last chapter of Ulysses, Molly Bloom's nearly non-stop interior monologue, a lively, funny, revealing stream-of-consciousness review of nearly everything that had transpired in the life of herself and her husband, including (graphically) her own affair with Blazes Boylan, men she had loved before meeting her husband, the death of her 12-year-old son years ago, etc., etc., all this while she and Bloom lie on the bed in opposite directions, his feet near her face and visa-versa. If there is a classic modernist literary passage, this is it. It must have been on the basis of this long, long chapter that Ulysses was banned from the United States for some quarter century after its publication.
I told the student he had experienced one of the great great works of twentieth-century literature. He just shrugged. For him, at that moment, it had been a waste of time. It was too vast, compelling, profound, and humane a piece of writing. Perhaps for me, at that age, the first time through, it would have been a waste of time, too. I can only hope that the student, frustrated as he was, grew to fit the revelation he had been given.
I remember the first time I played a composition of John Cage in a Humanities class. The angriest students were two music majors, who accused Cage of not making music at all, just noise.
Willing or not, receptive or not, students benefit by the enigmas their teachers lob into their midst. As a teacher, you have to move forward, not teach only what you think your students can relate to: that might not teach them anything at all. You have to go for it, jump over the edge and risk getting lost in wilderness.
When I told Joseph about his student's reaction, we both got a kick out of it, but we were both also somewhat sobered. For awhile, anyway. Then we were back to lobbing our enigmas.
When I taught at Center for Creative Studies in Detroit (a college of art and design), I had frequent conversations with Joseph Bernard, a painter who taught a course in twentieth century modernism required for all fine arts majors. We would talk about Joyce, Duchamp, Beckett and Cage. It is to Joseph that I owe the story (which I hope is not apocryphal) about Duchamp dropping a piece of rope from a ladder one day. When the rope touched the ground, Duchamp said, "That's enough art for today," and got down. Joseph is very intelligent, completely involved in 20th century art, and a wonderful, original artist himself who has swum with the whales off the north Atlantic coast.
Anyway, in one of my own classes, I had a student who mentioned that he was taking Joseph's modernism class. I asked how he liked it, expecting that he would brighten up. Instead, the student looked resentful. So far, he informed me, the class had been a waste. "He spent the whole first meeting playing a recording of some woman lying in bed talking about herself and her husband." Pointless.
It took a second, but I realized that Joseph must have played a recording of the last chapter of Ulysses, Molly Bloom's nearly non-stop interior monologue, a lively, funny, revealing stream-of-consciousness review of nearly everything that had transpired in the life of herself and her husband, including (graphically) her own affair with Blazes Boylan, men she had loved before meeting her husband, the death of her 12-year-old son years ago, etc., etc., all this while she and Bloom lie on the bed in opposite directions, his feet near her face and visa-versa. If there is a classic modernist literary passage, this is it. It must have been on the basis of this long, long chapter that Ulysses was banned from the United States for some quarter century after its publication.
I told the student he had experienced one of the great great works of twentieth-century literature. He just shrugged. For him, at that moment, it had been a waste of time. It was too vast, compelling, profound, and humane a piece of writing. Perhaps for me, at that age, the first time through, it would have been a waste of time, too. I can only hope that the student, frustrated as he was, grew to fit the revelation he had been given.
I remember the first time I played a composition of John Cage in a Humanities class. The angriest students were two music majors, who accused Cage of not making music at all, just noise.
Willing or not, receptive or not, students benefit by the enigmas their teachers lob into their midst. As a teacher, you have to move forward, not teach only what you think your students can relate to: that might not teach them anything at all. You have to go for it, jump over the edge and risk getting lost in wilderness.
When I told Joseph about his student's reaction, we both got a kick out of it, but we were both also somewhat sobered. For awhile, anyway. Then we were back to lobbing our enigmas.
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