commencement

Ceremony PresentationAnother May. Collared shirts, once under polyester sport coats and now under polyester regalia, too hot. Lawn parties, everyone trying to say things all at once they thought they’d have a lot longer to say but now the car is idling, time to go. That sickening feeling of dislocation: everything is changing, right now, packing boxes in rooms you’ve lived in for months that feel like years.

I much prefer August, when we’re all arriving. Oh, much. New backpacks and books; move-in day and iffy parking with hazards blinking; orientations and (f)acebooks and mixers and assemblies. But we don’t get to choose where we are on the gyre, and right now we’re here.

Right now’s all about endings, whatever we call it. I am a fit for the university in a thousand ways, but not this one. I chafe in the short half-life of the college classroom. I chafe at packing up and ending just when we are learning each other’s names, just when it is starting to get good. I am much better fit for the year-long story of middle and high school, or preferably the multi-year arc. The one where we meet when you’re thirteen and can’t find your head with both hands or even know you have one, and we say good bye when you’re eighteen and brilliant and cocky and ready to eat the world, and proceed to do just that as I track your dazzling arc on (F)acebook for the rest of our lives.

I’ve begun asking my education students to write a letter to themselves five years hence, where they remind that early-career teacher what they thought mattered most when they were sophomores. It’s a hedge against the semester thundering to a close, a flail at the future that’s coming no matter how we feel about it. Like all time capsules, it’s an insistence that our relation to time is other than it is, and that who we are now will somehow stay. I rubberband them and archive them carefully in my office, with the send-by date affixed on a Post-It. And when the appointed year rolls around, I spring for postage – I’m a professor after all, I make the big bucks.

It’s a satisfying exercise for me, a fitting close to a semester’s work. It almost transcends the fifteen-week cage we work in, almost reaches into the future as resolutely as our multiple autobiographical reflections helps us reach into the past. It’s smart and defensible practice, this corralling and commanding of time. But really, it is the only way I can dig in my heels.

Because I want to, I need to. Because time moves so fast now. When I was in college, a week was a month, and a year was nearly a lifetime. Now, the semesters race by. Starting in the cold and ending in the heat, then starting in the sun and ending in the snow, round and round. I can barely track the passage of time by which jacket I am wearing. Maybe this acceleration as we age empowers our teaching: since we grownups know just how fast things go, maybe we’re more empowered to advise our students what to attend to and what to notice.

I don’t like where this story is heading, though, time speeding up like a Charlie Chaplin assembly line. Maybe when I’m older I’ll wish for these years when things seemed comparably manageable and breathable. (Does it slow down again, later? If we get a later?) Maybe the pain of ending makes precious the time we have. Maybe it pushes us forward, and even back, so we will more fully know what we know, and rejoice in it. (David Rakoff gives this valediction, forbidding mourning, so much more beautifully than I could, here.)

What’s clear is that I’m not getting better at endings. I’m probably getting worse. This week will be full of joy and sadness as I wear itchy clothes with my colleagues, sit in rows, and watch another class cross another stage, out of our lives and into theirs. Writing about this always stinks, because there’s only one thing to say: good bye, thank you, good luck.

August offers so much more. Hello. Welcome. Who are you?

I can’t wait. See you then.

just a little bit of a new one

ceuwr0muyaqwkfhThe only one who has the best thing ever is when you have to be a good day to be a good day to be a good day.

I love you so much fun and I was just a little bit of a new one is the best thing ever is when you have to be a good day to be a good day to be a good day.

My computer started this piece for me. Some freaky ghost in the program’s machine: when I hit “ESC” on a blank page, the cursor suddenly offered me up a cascading list of words, with the top one highlighted, auto-complete style. I hit Enter, accepting its first suggestion, then hit Space – and it did it again. Over and over again, ESC Enter Space, and suddenly the computer composed two lines for me.

It was eerie, seeing full sentences emerge of apparently their own volition in the predawn gloom I prefer for writing. Maybe a message, maybe an automatic writing comment on the proliferation of words and their meaninglessness before mute facts we can’t topple. Or maybe an oracle affirming the truth and ever-emerging possibility of the best thing ever: a good day, love, just a little bit of a new one.

I’ll take any of these options to get me started, because I don’t know another. I don’t know how to start writing about this week’s North Carolina General Assembly special session, where my state’s lawmakers gave lie to the story that government is slow and bloated and unresponsive by undoing a fifty-year arc of civility and humanity in eleven hours.

Just a little bit of a new one: what can we do with majorities in both Houses and the Governor’s Mansion that we couldn’t ever ever otherwise? What could we do if we responded right now, lickety-split, to our darkest unfounded suspicions about people we don’t understand and who they might be, who knows? What could we do if we took the inchoate fears of some and stoked them high enough to seem like a mandate?

I don’t want to descend into purple prose: I want to be clear. But I do want to communicate how fully we North Carolina citizens woke to a different world than the one we went to sleep in. “Well, I’m illegal again,” a dear friend in Charlotte posted on Facebook.

Have you ever been erased? Unfairly maligned, set aside, left to your own devices in a moment when you were completely unprepared to be?

This is deep, childhood stuff. That’s where someone like me has to go to begin to glimpse the experience of my friend, or that of the thousands of LGBT people whose human rights to dignity, safety, and inclusion in society were functionally erased on Wednesday.

I remember the first “It Gets Better” video, when Dan Savage’s husband Terry reports on the message he was given in school:

My school was pretty miserable. I lived in Spokane, Washington, which is a mid-sized town with a small-town mentality. And I was picked on mercilessly in school. People were really cruel to me. I was bullied, a lot, beat up; thrown against walls, and lockers, and windows, you know, stuffed into bathroom stalls; people shit on my car, people scratched my car, broke my windows.

And my parents went in once to talk to the school administrators about the harassment I was getting at school, and they basically said: if you look that way, talk that way, walk that way, act that way, then there’s nothing we can do to help your son.

I have the passage mostly memorized, because I teach the video each semester, to rooms of students who plan to teach in North Carolina public schools. I teach it because it rings with the simple power of specificity; the plain truth said, as it was lived by someone not you, in a place that you know well. He was thrown against walls, AND lockers, AND windows.

It tells us that the halls and parking lots and football games and locker rooms that some of us remember fondly, as places we belonged and could carry on with whoever we were trying to be when we inhabited them, were quite different places for others of us. That these school places were, and are, battlefields, where some of us could not – cannot – navigate a day of school without a constant, thrumming vigilance to where the next imagined threat might materialize, within an institutional world that asks some not to ask and not to tell and, when something happens, probably won’t do anything about it anyway but make you the problem.

I heard last month about a student who was called a racial epithet in the halls of the middle school (or maybe high school – I don’t remember, doesn’t matter, there’s plenty of these stories to go around). When the student went to the principal, she was told that in order for any step to be taken to protect her, affirm her safety, or achieve any redress, she would first have to produce three witnesses who would independently corroborate her story.

Let that sink in for a moment, if you would. Consider its echoes in our growing understanding of our cultural tendency to shift the burden of proof in cases of assault to their victims. Note if you will especially how manifestly common-sense such a solution feels, from the principal’s side: how can we possibly proceed unless we know what really happened? These are serious accusations, miss. Reputations are at stake. Note how sane and deliberate and okay this response is.

Note also how completely wrong, how worse-than-useless, since it returns the wounded to the place of the wound unhelped, unhealed, and, if anything, weakened as the world that created the wound is automatically, subtly affirmed.

This is the way power works in culture. Some responses just feel right, warm like bath water, and so are chosen by supposedly well-meaning school leaders who, let’s face it, have plenty else to do that day, other fires to put out.

This is how the status quo gets affirmed; this is how culture is created, in microdecisions that are measured out in coffee spoons by people who of COURSE aren’t racist, or misogynist, or homophobic. They just need to get along with it. (Lisa Delpit can explain this way better, if you don’t like how I’m talking about it. Also Peggy McIntosh. Also Ta-Nehesi Coates. Just look it up. It’s not a novel concept, by a damn sight.)

In 2009, our state passed the School Violence Protection Act, which explicitly included sexual orientation, gender identity, and physical appearance as categories of people protected in public schools from harassment and bullying. One completely-unremarked side effect of our legislature’s turning the table over this week is, apparently, its erasure.

For a few years there, those in our schools who sought to interrupt an institutional culture in which some were always unsafe (predictably, empirically unsafe) had the law on their side. Could backstop against the knowledge that, if they encountered an administrator who told them what Terry’s parents heard, the policy would strengthen them. Now, that’s gone – and in its place, the worse-than-zero affirmation of “biological sex” as a protected category (whatever that is, as knows anyone who knows anything about what a slippery characteristic gender really is).

Well, I’m fuming now, though I tried not to. I’ll have to take this energy and go do what so many of us will now do: teach, organize, vote. This law won’t stand. For all I know, it was never meant to. Maybe it’s just a feint in some legislative power game whose players and purposes will remain invisible. I’ll continue to believe the arc is long but bends toward justice.

But I hope I never forget the corrosive power of what so many legislators in that whirlwind session appealed to as “common sense.” Which, at core, is nothing more than the stupid, bovine belief that one’s gut check should supersede another’s, especially when what your gut says is, for the moment, in the majority.

What vast swaths of damage are done in a civilization by those who can’t imagine they are doing it. They can’t imagine because they are not working to imagine. What it might be like. To be behind another’s eyes, in another’s body; what it might be like if the thousands of voices trying to make the larger culture know what it feels like to be lesbian, gay, bi, trans…are right.

They can’t try to imagine what tiny steps those of us who don’t feel those things might take to allow a life more livable for those who do.

The people who did this sleep well. It feels OK to them. It’s just common sense. That’s the problem. We can do better. I have to believe we will. We have to.

Just a little bit of a new one is the best thing ever. When you have to be a good day. The only one who has the best thing ever. I love you so much. I love you. I love you.

before it’s a what, it’s a where

old-ads-from-the-watauga-democrat_1901-watauga-academyI was honored to share opening remarks this weekend at my College’s observance of the fiftieth anniversary of the integration of schools in North Carolina’s High Country. App State began as a teacher’s college, like many regional masters institutions. So what a fitting and spectacular occasion: a history lecture by Karl Campbell, a panel of folks who were in school during the integration years sharing their experiences, and a deeply moving performance by the Junaluska Gospel Choir.

Today we are sanctified and recommitted! Thanks to everyone who worked to make this wonderful event a reality.

 *     *     *

I teach future teachers, and my subject is social foundations of education, which I describe in one sentence as “the places where school meets the real world.” We seek to understand the impact of race and ethnicity, gender, socioeconomic status, and sexuality on education; the several achievement gaps that plague our state, and what we each can do to close them. The challenges of developing a disposition that all students can learn in a national culture that is historically, inveterately racist, sexist, classist, and homophobic; in a nation where SAT scores are best predicted by household income and zip code predicts educational achievement; in a place where inequality and bias feel as comfortable as bathwater.

That is the things about culture: no one thinks they have one. How we come up – who our people are, and how they show us to be with other people, and how all those lessons prepare us for our place in the world – these aren’t parts of our lives that we usually see. They are just the way things are. So a great deal of my course seeks to help students dethrone themselves from their perches atop the individual sovereign worlds that we all occupy – the worlds in which we understand everything, and everything is as we expect it to be. And instead begin, if only tentatively, to really understand the world through another’s eyes. 

The most powerful way to do this, I believe, is through stories.  Through hearing how somebody else has gone through the same thing you did – “school” – but really had a different experience. You see, I believe that unless we make a conscious choice to do otherwise, we will all teach the way we were taught, or wish we had been. Unless we make a conscious choice to do otherwise, we will all assume that the students arrayed before us are, at core, little “us-ses.” And if – or better, when – they turn out not to be, we will be bereft, out of options, and even more tragically we probably won’t even realize it. We’ll just label those who didn’t respond the “right way” as deficient somehow, and blithely move along to the next batch of kids. 

That’s not good enough. We who teach need to know more. To teach, I submit that we need to be able, if only tentatively, to imaginatively feel the world through another’s eyes. This is a daily practice, hour-to-hour – this dethroning. this decentering, this admission that the majority of American teachers are white women, and the majority of American students a black and brown boys and girls, and that if learning is to happen we who teach must first unlearn a great deal. And that we will best begin that labor by hearing from others what it was like, and what it is like. And thereby coming to know our shared and individual history. For if we know our history, as Bob Marley sings, we will know where we’re comin’ from.

Stories and histories always happen in places. Just like school. School is always physical, located: it is always a question of bodies housed somewhere, inventoried and ordered, before it is anything else. Before it’s a what, it’s a where.

A year ago I became a little obsessed with the “where” of Boone, North Carolina – this beautiful mountain town my family and I moved to six years ago from Chapel Hill. What was this where, before we arrived? What was it twenty years ago, forty, fifty, a hundred – back when the roads were so bad that they used to sell a popular postcard on King Street that said “the best way to get here is to be born here?” Why do some folks call the stream that runs through campus “Cabbage Creek?” Was there always a Holiday Inn across from the Peddler Steak House? Where did the train run that finally made it possible to get here regularly, most months, until the hurricane blew it away? 

And above all: where were the children? 

Up too late at night on the internet, I discovered the remarkable digital collections of Belk Library and got lost in old photos. I discovered that only fifty years ago Appalachian High School occupied the stately stone WPA building on campus now called Chappell Wilson Hall; that the it looked out over a football field, where professors’ kids played and sunned themselves each spring like we do now a quarter mile east. That where Belk Library and the parking deck stand was once another education building and a laboratory elementary school, where the legacy of the Dougherty brothers was carried on for generations of teacher preparation – that the ed school at App was up here way before it was in Edwin Duncan, so our new building is actually a sort of homecoming. I found Appalachian High’s twin out in Cove Creek, and the other smaller high schools in Bethel and Blowing Rock. 

And I discovered the much smaller Watauga Consolidated School – its original building a five minute walk from the public library, and its newer and slightly grander one, occupied for less than five years, a little further up the mountain, deeper into the Junaluska community. And I noticed that these schools were dramatically repurposed, or closed, as the new Watauga High School opened in 1965, roughly concurrent, as in so many other places, with the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. 

What was it like, I wondered? What was it like for the black and white children of Watauga to share this narrow valley in the mountains for so many years, walking the same streets but having such different experiences of them? What was it like to live in a segregated community you could cross on foot in twenty minutes, but whose terrain was clearly welcoming to some and tricky to others? What was it like to have your body housed and cataloged for school in such a different place, and in such different circumstances, depending on who you were? And more than anything: what was it like when, fifty years ago this year, all of what had been normal for generations was changed in an instant, as the new integrated high school opened just over the hill behind the new Goodwill store, off 105?

That question – what was it like? – led to today’s event. We’ve worked to bring together people who can help us understand what it was like, and what that means for those of use who live and study here now. We’ve brought together people who can answer that question better than we can. By the end of the afternoon, I sincerely hope that we’ll all be a lot smarter and a lot more understanding of what it was like, and urgently, what that understanding needs to mean for us now.

I hope we will leave newly connected to our own lived experience. To understand better what it’s like, as Dorothy Allison says, to think that:

Entitlement is a matter of feeling like we rather than they. You think you have a right to things, a place in the world, and it is so intrinsically a part of you that you cannot imagine people like me, people who seem to live in your world, who don’t have it.

I hope we experience some of what Dr. King called “the constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth,” as many of us come to understand the realities of the world we enter to teach more vividly and more powerfully. 

And most of all, I hope we all come to understand what Ta-Nehesi Coates wrote, just last year:

But all of our phrasing — race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy — serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience…You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land with great violence upon the body. 

May our teaching be wiser and deeper and better for that understanding: to help those of us who teach, or hope to, understand that our care for children, and our desire to “love them up,” is only the beginning of what we must know and understand to truly change the world.

Image from the great Western NC history blog A Look Back at Watauga. A rabbit hole if ever there was one.

all you people are vampires

let-the-right-one-in-cover-3My last two film posts have been about children and the errors they make in gauging the distances of adulthood. Winter’s Bone tracks the mismatch between the child’s and adult’s understanding of time. Pacific Rim gives us the monstrous difference in scale between child’s and adult’s world. The tragedy of fitting oneself to the procrustean bed of the grownup world’s expectations is at each film’s heart. Each is a different angle on the inexorable last scene of the adolescent drama. We drop our child’s take on the world into the memory hole, the cost of admission to autonomy and maturity.

Let the Right One In is different. Its core message about the spaces and reaches of adolescence stunned me on first viewing, and I still can’t look away.

I should not have been surprised, maybe. What better primer for holding onto youth into age than a vampire film? Vampires explore plenty of archetypes by upending them, but none so powerfully as their defiance of the Faustian punishment. The vampire’s (frequently unwilling) deal with the devil renders him immortal but alone. Anne Rice helped us see how he’s afforded a view of time and scale that no human can know, and is therefore intensely lonely in all the most human aspects. His appetites must be sated furtively, in violation of human mores, and therefore the only real intimacy he can know is with others who share the twilight.

Keith Richards (perhaps part-vampire) famously sneered at the judge who held him for drug use, “We are not old men, and we are not subject to your petty morals.” That’s why we watch them, the night creatures – what would you do if you could do anything? The power of the Buffyverse to hold our popular and critical attention was always rooted in the relationship between Buffy and Angel, if and how their twinned statuses (neither fully human, neither fully monstrous) would allow them to find each other on the threshold. He drinks from the blood bank, not real people; she kicks lethal ass, and kind of likes it. He’s from the morning side of the mountain, she’s from the twilight side of the hill: how can they love each other? But then, how can they not?

Let the Right One In adds itself to a long exploration of vampires as category-crossers. What could this frame offer to those of us who seek to understand and empower regular human children as they navigate the crossing point between immaturity and adulthood? Plenty, it turns out.

The most startling aspect of Let the Right One In on first viewing is how it plays with our cultured expectations of distance and its supposed role in discretion. Eight minutes in, we inexplicably watch a middle-aged man trick a stranger into inhaling something that knocks him out, and in no time the victim is strung up like a kosher pig, bleeding out from his slit throat. The horror comes from the banality of the event: the killer must be a psychopath, because who else is familiar enough with the rhythms of death to know how little effort and time it takes to accost a stranger and kill them? It’s the last thing anyone would expect to happen – and so it can happen in minutes, if done by someone who lives outside of the rhythms of regular life.

But the deepest horror comes from where this all goes down: a suburban path in the woods, maybe fifty feet from a busy road. We see the headlights passing in the middle distance as the murder unfolds before us. Despite ourselves, we feel fear for the murderer. Can’t he see how close he is to civilization? Doesn’t he know such practices must be furtive, hidden away from the real world’s eyes? But apparently he doesn’t, and not knowing (or caring) gives him license to escalate the horror through his violation of our expectations not just of what one should do but, if one must do it, then where one should do it. The killer is interrupted mid-murder by a dog running ahead of two civilians out for a stroll. His surprise at the fact that others might be using this busy suburban path cues us to wonder if he is too engrossed in his task to notice his location, or if he is simply inept – a bad psychopath who hasn’t seen enough movies, maybe.

But when we first meet Eli, our vampire, her boundary crossing is clearly not out of ineptitude. The first scene bears rewatch over and over. Something like forty-five scenes in this supremely naturalistic film use CGI, usually subtly, to give the sickening impression of things being just a little out of joint. She interrupts Oskar, our protagonist, in a private moment of acting out a violent Travis Bickle revenge fantasy against his bully. She gets the drop on him, literally. Their first, halting conversation follows the awkward terror of any adolescent encounter between boy and girl, with sarcasm and denial snaking through.

But we are also ticking off everything else that is wrong, that disturbs our expectations, in a cavalcade of dawning horror. We barely hear the door squeak open, but there wasn’t time between the squeak and her appearance for her to have traveled that distance. She doesn’t quite move right. She is wearing a mens’ shirt, wrinkled and carelessly thrown on. She doesn’t have a coat against the cold – though her breath steams, confusingly (don’t we even know what a vampire is? Doesn’t even that rule hold here?). When she drops to the ground, she seems to have no weight; it’s a dancer’s drop, if the dancer weighed seventeen pounds. And her voice is off as it echoes over the snow in the empty courtyard. It is a young voice, but too low, lower than his, and not the sound someone who looks like her is supposed to make. (This, we discover on the internet, achieved by dubbing her lines with a boy’s voice, meant to hint at a subplot in the source material that she is a eunuch – another border crossing, another twilight status.)

The combined effect is supremely disquieting, discontinuous with a dozen expectations we have come to have of meet-cutes in movies in ways that are subliminal at first watch, managing only to put us off-center for what comes next. There has been no horror depicted in these two minutes, other than the horror of being spied upon by a girl in a private moment, and the stammering and futile effort to recover one’s sangfroid. But we are bent by the encounter, and shall remain so.

Except when we aren’t. Their third meeting (always at night, always on the jungle gym) is the closest we get to something unfolding the way its supposed to – “developmentally appropriate,” as we educators like to say. She’s dressed in something more like what a twelve year-old girl might wear. “Do I smell better?” she wonders, referencing his comment at the last meeting that she smelled funny (because she hadn’t fed, maybe, or because she is ancient, and hygiene concerns drop away over the centuries). We wonder what is going on – why this attachment, gentle looks and connections? In this scene we are given some of what we hope time’s march will give us: dawning love, stirring feelings (a bud in the snow lovingly depicted just before, natch), even a quiet piano motif rising behind. We know this isn’t right, and that whatever designs she has on him can’t be for his best interest. But we want them to find each other. We want what we can’t not want – the bargain none can escape, time holding us green and dying as we sing in our chains like the sea.

I’ll leave some of the film for your to discover on your own. Suffice it to say here that the adult world is shown to be incapable of truly reaching Oskar. The scenes of him losing himself in the spaces of the school really only show us the incapacity of overdetermined, grown-up structures to hold youth. We tick off the usual signs: the inelegance of the curriculum and its ill fit to his life; the hiding in the “negligently private” spaces of the restroom to escape his bully; the slipping out of the flat he shares with his Mom (where she never looks him full-on but rather glimpses him in mirrors, around corners), his happily agreeing to “stay in the courtyard where he’ll be safe” because that’s where he’ll find her. The boy pulls down his baseball cap, and covers up his eyes. Adulthood remains what it always has been: distant, dull, drunk, concerned with dinners and radio news and who the new neighbor is, whatever. The spaces of adulthood are too big to connect in, even when they are tiny and dingy and overheated as a Swedish apartment in winter.

The only space with proportions that make sense and feel right to him are the ones that, to us, are terrifyingly wrong: the ones he inhabits when he is with her. Of course, we witness the inevitable undoing of her former handler, and do the math on what led to his fate beneath the spell of his Lamia, but we do it at a remove. Our hearts are with the young lovers, as they always are. And Eli’s final deliverance of Oskar from his bullies is formal, Grand-Guignol, a set piece that reassures with its inevitability more than it shocks with its gore. We knew where we were heading: we only wondered how and when. The last scene is the deepest terror, as we see Oskar remit to his fate in thrall to his new master. But it’s simultaneously sweet and reassuring, love messages tapped through walls. We applaud Oskar even as we mourn him. We hope he’ll escape the clutches of development too. Even though we know he won’t, we thrill to his intention to. He’ll get to be something other than a grownup. Not immortal…but something else.

Adults cannot hold on to the proportions of youth. We can’t remember the way things looked when we first saw them. As adults, we can’t, given to the exigencies of a life where we need to recognize more than see, because we need to make the donuts and get to the church on time. And teachers, perhaps, even less so. We hold responsibility for fitting the child to the adult world, and school inexorably means disabusing the child of the notion that his version of the world is the one the rest of us hold, through the thousand natural shocks that school is heir to.

But we who teach perhaps must work to stay within touching distance of that world. We must maintain our capacity to see the world’s proportions as a child, even if we need to squint and strain to do it. Maybe so we can better translate those adult exigencies to their scale in ways that nurture rather than constrain. And those of us who are most skilled at that sleight-of-hand must respect the gift, because when children will follow you your responsibility of where to lead them is awesome. (Vampires are border-crossers too. Where do they lead those in thrall to them?)

Or maybe it’s the other way round: perhaps its better for us to maintain that contact with a child world in order to disabuse ourselves of our own.

There’s a scene early in the film of Oskar in his underwear, lying on his bed at night, gazing into the distance. Hands behind his head, naked in the indoor heat, his thoughts are his alone. We see him through the window. We feel the overwhelming cold of a Nordic winter pressing on the glass, and we wonder how he can be so vulnerable, so confident, with the threat of freezing right outside the window. We are outside the window too. We are in the threat; we understand it and wish to protect him from it.

But maybe we ARE the threat. We ARE the cold we wish to bundle our students against. There’s the teacher’s challenge: to know what we know and prepare our students for that knowledge too, while not becoming part of what would freeze them, chill them to the bone. Perhaps we are the vampires. We age in ageless teacherness, while our consorts come and go, always young. Our breath steams, even knowing what we know. May we connect benignly with those we nurture, and who nurture us. May we remain students of their energies and concerns and senses of scale, lest we, unwittingly, end up draining them of what they most need to survive.

Image from hackedofffilms.com, with thanks.

bags of meat

A couple of months ago, my College’s IT department invested in several “telepresence devices”: rolling robot-type gizmos with iPads on top, of the sort that most of us probably have only seen on a legendary episode of “The Big Bang Theory.” I dismissed the purchase as a curious end-of-year exuberance; nothing to do with me and my work.

But yesterday, I sat shooting the breeze with a few of our instructional technology types while they were setting up my new laptop. And I realized how this innovation might be used in the near future to supplant the weekly drives that many of my colleagues and I make “down the mountain” to teach the several off-campus graduate cohorts that have been a core part of our mission for years.

As in: you can earn an Ed.D. at my institution, in Boone NC, by attending classes at campuses in Winston-Salem or Hickory, 90 minutes away – classes that have heretofore been held by professors that showed up after making the drive both ways in one of the fleet cars the university maintains. A wildly inefficient way to do anything, especially in an age when Skype and virtual interactive spaces are pushing the questions of what it means to “learn something from someone.” It would be a heck of a lot cheaper, and save wear and tear on both the aging fleet cars and the aging faculty who drive them, if we could find a better way. So: isn’t it more efficient to tele-teach such seminars, rather than schlepping our bags of meat up and down route 421?

To be clear: I do not know for a fact that anyone upstairs is considering this nefarious scheme. Really, they would be foolish not to, since we are a public university in a state that seems to be leading the country in its redefinition of what it means to support a public university system. Doing more with less – and less and less – is the way we do business nowadays.

And I am not even sure the scheme would be nefarious, if it were being cooked up. I do not think technology in education is inherently nefarious. I am convinced that some of its innovations really move us into new and productive places – like the “flipped classroom” vogue we are currently experiencing, which is an excellent corrective to lazy, talk-at-the-room-because-they-can’t-leave pedagogy when implemented thoughtfully.

But the specter of a telepresence professor “teaching” a room full of flesh-and-blood students from an office eighty miles away demands consideration. It’s drone-pilot teaching – and we’re just starting to reckon with the implications of doing remotely what we previously could only do face-to-face.

If it makes us uncomfortable – why? If we feel we are losing something if we go this way – well, what? It’s incumbent upon those of us who feel something is being lost to articulate that “what,” as clearly as we can.

I wonder if my unease has something in common with music – particularly, the way that recorded and reproduced music remains the palest simulacrum of the performed-and-heard-live event. Donald Fagen’s memoir last year left a lot of folks befuddled, because of its tremendous, almost misanthropic crankiness (a taste of the critics: “Mr. Fagen has changed from an alienated suburban kid, a subterranean in gestation with a real nasty case of otherness, into somebody’s crabby Uncle Morty”). Everyone knew he was a perfectionist, but who anticipated passages like this?

By the way, I’m not posting this journal on the internet. Why should I let you lazy, spoiled TV Babies read it for nothing in the same way you download all those songs my partner and I sacrificed our entire youth to write and record, not to mention the miserable, friendless childhoods we endured that left us with lifelong feelings of shame and reproach we were forced to countervail with a fragile grandiosity and a need to constantly prove our self-worth – in short, with the personality disorders that ultimately turned us into performing monkeys? (p. 89)

A lot of things really cheese Donald off: bad hotel pools, indifferent room service, and damp dressing rooms among them. But his most withering criticism is reserved for poor acoustics, in all its iterations.

The Orpheum in Vancouver is home to the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. For all I know, the orchestra sounds spectacular in this place. But, as is the case with many old symphony halls, when you are playing electric music at pretty high volume, you might as well be playing in an airplane hanger. If there’s a sonic hell, the entrance is somewhere on the stage of the Orpheum in Vancouver (p. 109).

And there’s plenty more where that came from.

But it’s not like he doesn’t have a reason. He has played a lot of music, in a lot of rooms, “performing monkey” that he is. And his curse is he remembers what music sounds like when it’s live, and hot, and awesome – mostly from tons of weekends as a kid when he’d spend his lawn mowing money on a bus ride “up the New Jersey turnpike across the industrial wasteland that must be crossed before the island of Manhattan is won.”

He was heading for the jazz clubs, still cooking in his formative years, where he got a schooling in what it was to make music for real, live, right now. And no quantity of forced in-ear monitors or slapback from the far side of a basketball arena can blunt his still-keen memory of the experience.

I remember seeing the mighty Count Basie band at a matinee at Birdland, with the great Sonny Payne on drums. When the whole band pumped out one of those thirteenth chords, you could feel the breeze on your face (p. 48).

One of my favorites was bassist / composer Charles Mingus, who would always bring along his demonic drummer, Dannie Richmond. Every time Richmond started banging out that triple time, the vibration of his sizzle cymbal would move my glass towards the edge of the table and I would have to push it back to the center. (p. 49).

Having been around the real deal – having had the power of extraordinary live music pour into his heart, and stop it cold – he’s ruined for the mp3 compression, or crummy little earbuds, or blasting away at a keyboard in a music hall that might as well be a big coffee can. He’s been around real people doing this thing, and he can’t pretend that technologies that separate “the musician from his labor” do anything but unravel the alchemic synthesis of human and instrument and mind and heart that music really is.

Is it too much of a stretch to claim that a similar transaction is happening in a powerfully-taught classroom? That there is something ineffably somatic about learning; something about bodies sharing space and air and time in a live, never-repeated moment that is a crucial part of the experience? Maybe one that is not missed until it is gone, dissolved into a virtual experience that, for all its fidelity, still falls into an uncanny valley of being less and less like the real thing?

This lines up with my own experience, for sure:

  • I remember little about Mrs. Otis’ sixth-grade class at Ridge Mills Elementary except her monologues about her trip to then-Soviet Russia; how they affirmed her deep convictions that commitment to American democracy was the only defense against the tyranny of totalitarianism. As an adult, I can quibble with her politics; as a child, I was transfixed by the specter of how another adult – not my parents – looked and felt when she was deeply moved, deeply frightened, deeply hopeful. She was one of the first grown-ups I saw fully enthralled by something bigger than she was.
  • I remember Dean Edgar Beckham teaching me the Iliad as a freshman; the way he settled into the lines he had taught to forty years of new college students like they were a well-worn leather armchair. Showing us how Achilles’ strength was undermined by his childishness; how Agamemnon’s pride would end all he had worked for and served heretofore. Dean Beckham didn’t just teach me literature: he taught me how to live with literature, how it had seeped into his body and enriched and colored his engagement with his world.
  • I remember Dr. Enda Duffy talking quickly about something called “postmodernism” in his dancing Irish voice – and prisons, and television, and surveillance, and God knows what else. Right there, eight feet from me – I remember becoming aware how fast his mind was working with ideas and problems I barely knew existed, and discovering that if I just did the reading before class and listened as hard as I could something would begin to come together, even if only contours and shapes. Shapes that have contained everything I have learned since.

These weren’t Dead Poets’ Society-style performances: none of the teachers I am remembering were show people, intent on singing and dancing their curriculum into my heart. I am remembering more the unspoken lessons about how what we know changes us, and how our commitment to engaging worthy ideas and art give us something to live for.

I don’t think I could have had these experiences if any of these teachers were disembodied faces on an iPad above a set of wheels. It has nothing to do with the level or quality of their voices (I do not know, in fact, if one can mute a telepresence device if one is tired of listening to it). It has to do with witnessing someone’s consecration to something; the way that a great teacher’s relationship to ideas, or logics, or beauty or answers, makes that teacher more than she was without it.

And it’s a live performance. I learned so much more than “content” from my teachers: I learned a way of being in relation to myself, and to the world I was being prepared to join. Witnessing someone older and wiser than I share this sacred, life-giving relationship with me had to happen in the flesh. I might have missed it if it were just another feed on another screen that I could choose to minimize if something else seemed more interesting to me in the moment.

History teaches that the gatekeepers of culture are usually slow to acknowledge the value of technologies that threaten their place in the social order (mass-produced books threatened those who could read, etc). I am aware that my defense of face-to-face teaching, even at a cost, might just be self-serving. Or maybe I am subconsciously defending the tiny stipend I get to make that drive every week? Battle Royales in academia have been waged over less!

But I don’t think so. In age when the value of everything we do in schools is reckoned according to oversimplified, quantifiable, comparable outcomes, it becomes even more urgent to interrupt the common-sense way of talking about efficiency with truths that are still true. Scholarly curiosity matters; critical engagement matters; erudition matters. We learn the value of these things by witnessing others who have developed them, and some part of that learning is as mimetic as a baby’s learning to make faces, smile, and laugh by watching his caregiver.

When my son sleeps on my chest at night, he is learning how to have a body from mine. When we share space and time and air with our students, as scholars, in some way we are giving them a similar structure within which to grow and become who they are going to become.

And that’s all I can say about it right now: my seven month-old son’s body is demanding some physical – not virtual – presence. Love to hear what Gentle Reader thinks of all this! Albeit virtually, in the comments.

Note: my original post described the telepresence device purchase in the first paragraph as an “excess.” I misspoke: nothing about our University or College budget is excessive these days. 

Screen grab from “The Big Bang Theory” linked from Hizook, with gratitude.

What’s Next, What’s Done, What’s Good

little shopYou know, I am really getting to the point where I don’t care if what I have to say about school sounds smart, or even if it is particularly compelling or convincing. I only care that I know that what I say is true: the truest, truest true that it can be. Because if we are going to be in the business of Making Other People – of consciously, deliberately climbing into their lives, daily, with the express intent of changing who they are into something new – well, we had better be damn sure we think we know what we are doing, and be able to explain it. And it better make sense. Our reasons for doing what we do had better be the most excellent ones we can come up with, and they best be aimed at the absolutely most important outcomes we can aspire to.

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Tonight was closing night of “Oklahoma!”, Watauga High School’s spring musical. It was astounding: the leads all still had voices, the extras were all still in character, the jokes still landed and, incredibly, not a light or sound cue was dropped, that I could tell. I was a wreck through their opening night, sympathetically, because for a few years I directed the plays at The Field School, back when I was a full-time high school teacher, and still remember what it takes to bring together a big production like that. How many moving parts, most of which don’t become visible until you run the whole thing for the first time a week before you open and all the seams you didn’t know had to be there show themselves, unraveling.

Every spring at Field brought Studio Day in late April. Field believed that every student needed to develop “all three legs of the stool”, as our founder described it: academic, athletic, aesthetic. Which meant that every student, every year, carried a full course load, but also played a sport and participated in a studio or performing arts experience. So for the arts faculty – some of the finest artists and educators I have ever known – spring always meant bringing everybody’s work to its ending point, the point where it was ready to show. Everybody crashed boards in the last weeks: students were coming in early and staying late in the dark rooms, at the potters’ wheels, in the paint studio to finish their stuff. I helped found the jazz band my first year there, which always performed – and, as I mentioned, the musical would play at least once on Studio Day too, as I remember. So the amount of stuff to bring in on deadline was immense.

But the day itself was overwhelmingly beautiful – beauty to stop you dead where you stood, wherever you looked. Every inch of every wall of the place showed something gorgeous: paint, photo, poetry, clay. We mingled and drank punch and listened to the jazz band outside on the astroturf and wondered at how these kids could be so much, do so much – give us so much more to see.

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Among the truest things I know about education is that it is on us, as teachers, to help our students learn three things:

  • What they are to do next,
  • When their work is done, and
  • How their work is good.

I learned to talk about these three essential outcomes mostly from wonderful Elliot Eisner at Stanford, and could (should) footnote it as such, but have probably changed it up a little through my own experience. As it turns out, the arts are among the best realms in which to help students learn these three things, but they can be learned just about anywhere else as well. And, I regret to report, that students learning these three things in school nowadays is far more the exception than the rule – and where it’s happening, there works a teacher worth her weight in gold.

What are we to do next? To teach is to assert that this thing that I am about to draw your focus to is worth doing. On its own merits, and because of what else it will allow you to do; because of how knowing it has enriched my own life, and because as you learn it it will enrich yours too; because it will prepare you to better engage the experience that awaits you, to make sense of it, survive it, and thrive in it. This is the core assertion of making curriculum and embarking upon it with students: This Is Worth Doing Now.

The teacher rarely teaches this kind of discernment explicitly, but it is all over her practice. Amazing Ms. Miller, at Watauga, did it the moment she announced that the show that year was to be “Oklahoma!” She knew she had the four male and two female leads she’d need to pull it off; she knew she could open up the group numbers to include the hundred who would come out wanting to be part of it; she knew the show’s payoffs and anticipated how they would play to this town, in this county. As they worked the show up, she and her colleagues helped the students learn what to attend to first, and how: the lines, the songs, the character development.

Eisner notes that only in the arts do we develop the discernment to see how our last brushstroke on the canvas changed the overall work, and to let that discernment inform what we do next, all in the “absence of rule,” as he says (real painting is not paint by numbers). In putting on a show, students need to have the opportunity to feel the way their confidence grows by a master teacher supporting them in developing first just this skill, which leads to the capacity to do further things.

The whole experience of putting up a show – drama, musical, marching band, orchestra, ballet, improv comedy – is a process of engaging right-sized tasks, in the right order. Expert teachers facilitate the process so that students suddenly find themselves competent to do what the show asks of them; they accomplish this by asking them to stretch enough to feel it, enough to grow, but not so much as to break. Before we dismiss the extraordinary skill set a teacher must possess to pull this off, we can probably all remember a time in school when our teacher didn’t have it. When the expectations put upon us were unrealistic, or the project we were asked to work on was unworthy of our time and energy, or when the composite elements we needed to master weren’t adequately explained or staged out. The negative experience highlights the wonder of the positive one, doesn’t it?

When is our work done? This question seems a little nuts: the work is done when the show opens, right? Last Thursday night, for the Watauga cast. When Studio Day arrives. “It might not be done, but it is due!” Certainly working within external constraints of time and resources is a huge part of putting it together. The teacher must choose tasks that are doable with what is available to offer.

But it’s only part of what this principle means for teaching. Teachers must help students come to understand when their own work is done: when they have done all they can on a project, learned an aspect to the best of their ability. Sometimes it means pushing a student beyond what he considers good enough. (I’ll be forever grateful for the chorus teacher who cast me in a lead singing role in the middle school musical because she heard I had a voice, then hollered at me in practice to “sing already!” until I got enough air behind it to believe her.) Sometimes it means unwinding a perfectionist student so she can get out of her own way, silence the critic that tied her in knots before you met her and is still yammering away inside her head.

In either case, it’s about giving the student control over the work. Eisner notes that a painter must be able to judge when the work has achieved a desired effect (or an unanticipated effect that is more desirable than the one she set out to accomplish – another unique aspect of the arts is that goals can change is response to emerging opportunities). No one tells the painter, or the artist, when a work is done, ready to show or share. It’s a capacity that we must develop ourselves – and we learn how to by watching and hearing those more experienced do just that, for ourselves and for others. Ms. Miller had to help her actors come to understand when their work was as complete as it could be – which is not the same thing as giving yet another round of nitpicking notes about what could be better. Ceaselessly revealing faults doesn’t build capacity to create; it warps it, turns expression into a cautious composite creature that just wants to avoid being criticized ever again.

When is our work good? Is the painting good because it is praised by the famous critic? Is the play good because all the people who are not our parents laughed at its jokes and stood and applauded at the end? Well, yes – to begin with.

A sublime moment happens in education when work stops being a school thing and starts being a thing thing: an endeavor that has value outside the artificial world of assignments and grades, expectations and assessments and feedback loops that make us accountable to do better next time. Tonight’s play was not a school thing. It was enabled by school, supported by school – it even happened IN a school – but it was MORE than school. People came who did not have a kid in the cast. People came because they wanted to be moved by a true soprano singing beloved songs that were meaningful to some in the audience before the singer was born. People came to “Oklahoma!” because they wanted to root for Curly to get his girl in the end and survive Jud’s thuggery; even if they had seen the show a dozen times, they wanted to go on that trip with someone else. And in the first moments of “Oh! What a Beautiful Morning!” the crowd realized tonight’s Curly was rock solid, and they could stop worrying about him and believe him, make his struggles their own. I felt the room relax as they realized this was a real show, not a school show. They could laugh when something was funny and applaud when something was beautiful – not because they’d be embarrassed for the kids up there if they didn’t.

Kids smell phony. They know pity applause, and despise it. More to the point, they smell a phony teacher – they know when they are being turned out to make a teacher look good, to burnish a resume, and they hate it. That kind of teaching teaches cynicism and manipulation; it feeds off of fear and encourages abuse. Kids need teachers who are manifestly at peace with themselves, who live in joy, and whose joy is, in some way, linked to their choice to spend their lives negotiating connections between an endeavor they love and a constantly-rotating group of young people who are there to learn to love it too.

Kids need this deepest, most intimate lesson from their teachers, even if they never ask for it and teachers never plan to give it. They give it because it is the deepest and most vital lesson we ever teach: that “this is a way to be a happy adult.” We note that children see more of their teachers than their parents once they get to high school, but fail to remark on the real implications of this institutionalized fact. What are these adults showing them about adulthood? Are they dependent upon external validation to give their lives worth – their students’ grades, or their students’ approval? Or are they sourced in something deeper – something that is related to what they choose to teach, and how they choose to teach it? And THAT they choose to teach it? Are they whole adults who dedicate their lives to helping others find their own, and don’t count the cost – not because they are martyrs, but because extravagant giving and receiving is in fact the real economy of love, one that results in there always being plenty to go around?

*                               *                               *

I am going to stop before enumerating the ways in which the path our public education system is currently on fails to make the truths I have affirmed here a priority. Even a casual student of contemporary american education reform can list some of the ways that teachers are, in fact, having the definition of their work constrained even as it needs to be growing; having their autonomy removed even as it needs to be enlarged. Can see how challenging, even impossible, it is for a contemporary public school teacher to find and strengthen her relation to her content, and to herself, that such a teaching requires, when so much of her energy is consumed by administrative overload and quantification of that which cannot be quantified. When the value of her work is increasingly reduced to a value-added test score that is taken to indicate whether or not she has exceeded, met, or failed to meet expectations. As I have heard said, you can’t fatten a pig by building a more expensive scale. Never could.

Rather, I want to thank and honor the teachers who pull off such remarkable moments: peak experiences where the students and those fortunate enough to witness them know that their work has transcended school, even as it makes school so much better than it “has to be.” I am so grateful I’ve been able to teach with such extraordinary colleagues, and been part of the journey of so many wonderful students so far. It’s such an honor and a privilege to have more to do.

Image taken backstage in 1997, closing night of The Field School’s production of Little Shop of Horrors. Shing-a-ling, what a creepy thing to be happening! I love you guys.

Why Teach the Humanities in Education?

I’ve been invited to participate on a university panel today entitled “Why Teach the Humanities?,” and this is what I’ve prepared to share. It’s a bit of a jeremiad, for sure – but it’s what I am seeing right now, and some of what I am doing about it in my teaching.

I have been on paternity leave this semester, and blogging energy has mostly been spent on our adorable baby boy! I hope to be posting more regularly soon. Thanks for your interest, gentle reader.

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I am going to assume that most of you already understand the value of the humanities to scholarship, and of humanistic values, generally, in learning. Since you are already convinced, I am going to use my time to let you in on what it means to make such a case right now in my field: education.

In education, we love to say that teaching is an “art and a science.” And we usually put big air quotes around both words as we state this, then lean back with a satisfied look, as if we have “really said something there.”

This makes me nuts, because it seems we are saying very little, and not what we think we are saying. What I think we are trying to convey when we say that teaching is ”an art and a science” is that there are elements of teaching that are serious, data-driven best practices, but that there are also elements of teaching that are personal, high-touch, affective, and beautiful. What we are really doing is trying to make sure you understand that we are both serious and sensitive: that we are to be respected, not to be trifled with, but that we also don’t care about esteem and prestige if it gets in the way of connection with young people. (You’ll note that, like most psychological complexes, what we are saying isn’t really about you at all – it’s about our own insecurities, in the academy and in the culture generally.)

But the truth is that, even as we say “art” and “science,” and lean back, etc., we increasingly don’t really believe our own cant. The truth is that we are far more on the “science” side of things right now. As a discipline, we have believed the politically-driven fiction that student success is completely about individual teacher effectiveness, not poverty, and have dutifully applied ourself to making sure that everything we do can be demonstrated to those who audit our work incessantly as data-driven, committed to accountability, and deadly serious.

This data-fetish, of course, is also a fiction (and a reductive version of “science,” to boot, for which I apologize to my friends in the sciences). Teaching and learning are immensely complex, even alchemical acts, and our insistence on reducing their results to quantifiable, rubrick-ed outcomes, which in turn can be benchmarked based on previous performance, strains credulity. Most of the rest of the developed world scratches its head at our national educational folly right now, before in large part adopting it as the new order.

But the emperor has no clothes. And I wonder sometimes, my colleagues, if your concerns about the undergrads you presently teach – that they are only focused on grades; that they throw your syllabi back at you as accountability weapons to keep you from expecting more of them than you said you would; that they exhibit rampant incuriosity, even as the world’s knowledge sits waiting in their smartphones – are not really the chickens coming home to roost. They are only managing learning they way we taught them to, after all, way before they ever met you.

The humanistic side of education – the part that concerns itself seriously with exploring complex and ambiguous issues, learning from the past, and admitting the whole range of human experience and sense in the quest to prepare people to live a life, not just find a job – well, we haven’t seen that part for a while in K-12 education. We are buried under administrative oversight and accountability expectations, hog-tied by impoverished notions of workplace readiness and economic panic. Accountability is our favorite word, really: that pale shadow of responsibility that is left over when autonomy and passion have been elided.

Yes, things are all “science” over here right now. We are filled with fear, and in fear, we grasp for things that we can know, and show we know. A very short list of things.

All this is why the humanities remain an essential part of my practice right now, even more urgently than they were when I came to Appalachian five years ago.

I teach future teachers about the impact of social realities on school, and I use fiction, poetry, and memoir to help them develop the empathy for those not like them that is an essential precondition for actually knowing what to do with difference in the classroom.

We read Charles Baxter’s perfect short story “Gryphon” as a way into discussing the social expectations made of the teacher and the risks and payoffs of pushing against the lines.

We read Howard Nemerov’s stunning poem “September, The First Day of School” as a way to begin to grasp the enormity of school’s role in our culture, the endless cycle in which we participate as we take our place in maintaining an apparent banality that, nonetheless, forms and determines lives.

We read Dinaw Mengestu’s gorgeous “The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears” – not a school novel, but a novel about precious interactions between older and younger humans, the needs and abundances shared both ways between us as we all try to navigate a culture that is always, to some extent, foreign.

In my education classes, literature helps find the space in-between the ideas and the lived realities we incessantly hammer home. It’s the air that lets my students breathe – not by giving them a pleasant break from all that policy talk, but rather by engaging their whole subjectivities in a renewed engagement with this social practice of school, the institution that they thought they knew so well as to not need to really look at it ever again.

This year, I’m reworking my entire course to build around Dana Goldstein’s unprecedented new retrospective of American education, “The Teacher Wars.” I am committing to approaching the study of teaching historically, as anodyne to a policy world that would have us believe education is ahistorical; that ours are the first leaders to suggest that merit pay, or redistricting, or eliminating teacher tenure are ways to approach the intractable social issues that always seem to end up at the schoolhouse door first. I am convinced that a disciplined engagement with where we have been will help us grok more fully where we might go; that reading ourselves into what is past will help us place ourselves into what we shall now do.

I use literature elsewhere as well, most notably in my honors seminar on sustainable practice for caring professionals, where we gather future doctors, social workers, dentists, therapists, teachers and nurses to explore the common dilemmas of rendering effective care in underresourced, high-pressure environments. We seek to learn how to thrive in these professions, not just survive them – and, no surprise, we find that humanistic practices of making and receiving stories are essential to the development of an empathy that will sustain through a long career.

But it’s the relevance of humanities to the preparation of future teachers that burns brightest to me today. As I said, over in the College of Ed, we are losing not just our humane-ness, but our humanity itself, as the new common sense about teaching becomes all science and no art.

So I teach the humanities in education because education is perhaps the most humanistic endeavor we can pursue, save only the making of other humans. And I believe that, as the widening gyre finally tightens – as it will eventually, I hope and trust – my field will come again to understand their power, and the ultimate purpose of our work. Thank you.

Image from Brick Row Book Shop.

wake up

I gave this little paper at a conference in fall 2013 and don’t think I’ll do more with it right now, at least not in its present form. Though the ideas at its core remain some of the most vital I know for putting education on a profoundly different path than the one we’re on. The beauty part is that the change it implies isn’t institutional, but individual. Institutions are never good at something this radical, and this subtle. You need teachers.

The New Year always brings to mind a great 1988 Mecano song, in part:

Y aunque para las uvas hay algunos nuevos
a los que ya no están echaremos de menos
y a ver si espabilamos los que estamos vivos
y en el año que viene nos reímos.

Which I’ll give roughly as:

Even though there are some new folks here for the grapes this year,

And we miss those who have left us,

Let’s see if we can wake ourselves up, all of us who ARE here!

And in the next year, laugh a little more.

The Spanish eat grapes at midnight tonight, one for each bong of the clock, which makes for a full mouth and an appropriately silly way to get a new year underway. Worthy sentiments for a new beginning: fullness, silliness, a willingness to “espabilarse” however you can. I wish them to all of you. Happy New Year.

I’m helpless before the Arctic Monkeys’ tune “Fake Tales of San Francisco“: I can’t stop thinking about it, suspecting it has something urgent to teach me about pleasure in pedagogy, and the cultural moment I share with my students on their path to becoming teachers.

Fake Tales of San Francisco
Echo through the room
More point to a wedding disco
Without a bride or groom

There’s a super cool band yeah
With their trilbies and their glasses of white wine
And all the weekend rock stars in the toilets
Practicing their lines

I don’t want to hear you (Kick me out, kick me out)
I don’t want to hear you no (Kick me out, kick me out)
I don’t want to hear you no (Kick me out, kick me out)
I don’t want to hear you
I don’t want to hear you

Fake Tales of San Francisco
Echo through the air
And there’s a few bored faces in the back
All wishing they weren’t there

And as the microphone squeaks
A young girl’s telephone beeps
Yeah she’s dashing for the exit
Oh, she’s running to the streets outside
“Oh you’ve saved me,” she screams down the line
“The band were fucking wank
And I’m not having a nice time”

I don’t want to hear you (Kick me out, kick me out)
I don’t want to hear you no (Kick me out, kick me out)
Yeah but his bird thinks it’s amazing, though
So all that’s left
Is the proof that love’s not only blind but deaf

He talks of San Francisco, he’s from Hunter’s Bar
I don’t quite know the distance
But I’m sure that’s far
Yeah, I’m sure that’s pretty far

Yeah, I’d love to tell you all my problem
You’re not from New York City, you’re from Rotherham
So get off the bandwagon, and put down the handbook
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

It’s certainly a more urgent text than several I have picked up and explored for a foothold in this issue. Happily, I am empowered by Greil Marcus and Dave Hickey to assert that sometimes a pop song is the clearest window you can look through; by Suzanne Langer and Elliot Eisner that there is irreducible meaning in aesthetic expression that cannot be accessed through other media (i.e., dry philosophy of ed conference papers); by my colleague Alecia Jackson, who affirms, after Rosi Braidotti, that “plugging” one text into another, however disparate their sources, invites a process of assemblage, a making and unmaking of a thing, a revealing of more to see.

So here I will plug this tasty pop song into my daily text of working with students as their paidagogos: their fellow traveler pointing out what to attend to and how, registering the interest and quality of engagement as I work my daily sleight-of-hand of trying to pass off the curriculum of what they should be interested in as something they are actually interested in. I’ll explore how the lens of “Fake Tales of San Francisco” shows me the role of pleasure in pedagogy – especially that unaccountable genus of pleasure that Lacan stylized as jouissance. And I’ll end with three specific aspects of pedagogy that we might foreground and valorize if we are intent upon bringing the power of pleasure to our work with students.

So: I characterized pedagogy as sleight-of-hand back there. Dissimulation, like my Mom sneaking zucchini into the spaghetti sauce because it was good for me and I wouldn’t eat it otherwise. That seems an uncharitable characterization of what we do, doesn’t it? Twisting Dewey, a little – his assertion that experience must pervade curriculum if relevance is to ensue. But for me, Dewey is in turn haunted by Marshall McLuhan, claiming that “anyone who makes a distinction between education and entertainment doesn’t know the first thing about either.” A provocateur, was McLuhan, always – here daring us to admit the relation between what we want to do and what we have to, and how “good teachers” work in the seam between the two. Dewey says that if what we bring as curriculum is authentically connected to student experience, then the struggle for relevance in the eyes of our students will no long be a struggle. And McLuhan asks us, really? Are you ready to go there? To admit the necessity, then, of acknowledging student and our own pleasure in curriculum; admit – meaning “to let in” – the power of pleasure to the classroom, in all its possible unruliness and unpredictability?

For I wish to suggest here that pedagogical pleasure is unruly by nature, and is best conceived thus. One of the insights Lacan offers in his distinction between plaisir and jouissance is that the former is the pleasure of satisfaction and meeting expectations, the latter that of excess, overflow, risk. We acknowledge and cultivate plaisir in pedagogy as a matter of course, I posit – certainly since Dewey, or Rousseau and Pestalozzi before him, all champions of a pedagogy that seeks to develop students who acknowledge the pleasures of their real lives and find a role for the energy of those pleasures to come to school. In well-tempered and regulated ways, we should note: pleasure always in service of curriculum. Remember it’s Dewey who writes a corrective book several years into the progressive revolution, asking teachers to cease the excesses of child-centered curriculum they were championing in his name, fearing the miseducative sequelae of too much enjoyment:

An experience may be immediately enjoyable and yet promote the formation of a slack and careless attitude; this attitude then operates to modify the quality of subsequent experiences so as to prevent a person from getting out of them what they have to give…experiences may be so disconnected from one another that, while each is agreeable or even exciting in itself, they are not linked cumulatively to each other. Energy is then dissipated and a person becomes scatter-brained. Each experience may be lively, vivid, and “interesting,” and yet their disconnectedness may generate dispersive, disintegrated, centrifugal habits.

So there could be too much experience in education, apparently: so much that order is disrupted, with “disintegrated” results. Seriously “centrifugal” endeavors like Summerhill and other authentic efforts to follow the child are still taught in our teacher ed programs, but as oddities, “limit cases” of orthodox constructivism which prove the rule of the hybrid we tend to prefer.

But what might a pedagogy of jouissance look like? Peter Taubman gives us a few indications in his wonderful theorization of spontaneous, collective disobedience in early grades classrooms. He notes that jouissance is sometimes pleasant, sometimes not so much. This ambivalence – good fun or scary fun, or just plain scary – is at the core of the distinction.

Taubman works out no fewer than six definitions of Lacan’s formulation, with implications far beyond the psychological:

  1. It’s a kind of ecstasy tied to loss of control and rational consciousness, a sublime that stops language and desire;
  2. It’s the paradoxical satisfaction from pursuing an eternally unsatisfied desire, or a pleasure of repetition;
  3. It’s the pleasure that results from a transgressive act because of its transgressiveness, pleasure in proportion to the consequence one must suffer because of it;
  4. It’s a realm where the normal or reasonable calculations of pleasure and pain are disregarded, and unsatisfied desire is pursued without regard for one’s own safety (Antigone being the cardinal example);
  5. It’s an enjoyment immune to analysis, eternally resistant to rationality even when desired to be rationalized, because one is so pleased that she will subconsciously subvert attempts to trap and domesticate her pleasure objectively;
  6. Finally, it’s an experience that is intrinsically embodied – a facet that seems rooted in its imperviousness to analysis, its ultimate radical subjectivity and, therefore, unknowability.

This is a powerful stuff, this jouissance. For me it adumbrates the depth and intensity of experience we humans are capable of, in all its risk and vulnerability. It helps me see that, if I am to become open to the possibilities of bringing authentic pleasure into my classroom, I need to get comfortable with content and energies and ideas and reactions that are a lot farther afield than what we might consider teacherly. It means that sometimes things are going to blow up and spin out of control: we might transgress some of the analyzable, cognizable, boundaried experience that we have understood the classroom to represent.

But we cannot understand a respect for cultivation of jouissant experience as license to release ourselves and our students from the entire habitus of schooling, can we? Developmentally, we need structure: we need roles, however open to student experience we may be. Roles are how we know who we are, after all, as we discursively form each other through reflection to each other of our rightness of fit within our culture, a concept beautifully formulated by Ray McDermott and Herve Varenne as “hammering each other into shape with the well structured tools already available.” Inasmuch as classrooms must perform socialization roles, they can never be fully jouissant.

It’s a paradoxical task, then, inviting and nurturing jouissant experience within – or even despite – school structures.

How to do that? Three possibilities emerge from my engagement with my chosen text today.

The first has to do with authenticity. The Arctic Monkeys’ song “Fake Tales of San Francisco” names the adolescent desire for someone to be what they are, and a bottomless contempt for those who are not. From James Dean on, the social construction of adolescence has included a desire for real-ness. Even notions of “cool,” etymologically, seem to stem from a stated desire to be contrary to the fray of dissimulation and posing, connected to something more genuine. The song is a sneer at an English band that pretends to cosmopolitan influences – to know more than it knows, to be something other than it is – and nothing here is more deserving of scorn. “Put down the handbook,” it implores: Stop pretending to be what a cool band is supposed to be. Be what you are.

A pedagogy that courts jouissant experience, then, acknowledges and invites sincerity, calls us all out when we are either asking for or rendering only that which the institution of school demands of us. So many contemporary thinkers are bringing our focus to the outmoded nature of our educational institutions. Ken Robinson, Daniel Pink, Jal Mehta, John Taylor Gatto, Seth Godin – all begin their critiques with the factory-based model of schooling we inherited from a time when socialization of the sprawling urban slums and Americanization of the hordes of immigrants paired with nascent psychometric hubris to form the primary organizing principles of school. How ill-fit these values are to our current needs – not just for economic viability in the global economy, but also for an expanded sense of self that could, if we really followed its implications with integrity, finally make good on the hollow promises of meritocracy we have mouthed for decades. Parker Palmer states that the functions of a profession are not necessarily those of the institutional structures that house it. Commitment to jouissance means willingness to defy those traditions of our institutions that limit our conceptualizations of what school can be.

The second calls us to a new openness to other texts. My texts must admit my students’, and I must find connections between the texts that authentically speak their lives back to them and the texts of my curriculum, which do the same for me. I have opened my pedagogy this year, asking my students to prepare “Signs of Life” for sharing and assessment. These are responses to our shared texts that might include traditional papers, but might also include mix tapes, student-recorded songs, collage, painting, poetry. So many students bring me examples of what they really listen to, inscriptions of what they really think, as sound and word and color. The authenticity overwhelms, sometimes. Such connection and relevance is only possible if I open my conception of text worthy of shared regard to include their real stuff. The record I am writing about here didn’t come into my life from a student – but the Arctic Monkeys’ next album did, as did The Roots collection of protest songs, and The Roots in general, and the Beastie Boys game-changing Paul’s Boutique back in 1994. I demurred when my high school student presented me with the bootleg cassette after class. “No, really,” he said – “it’s not what you think it is.” And he was right.

And the third requires of us a vulnerability to aesthetic experience. By now we must see that jouissance finds us through myriad forms of representation, as Eisner has declaimed during his forty-year career. Meaning is inseparable from the medium that conveys it. When the bottom drops out of this song in the second bridge – when the buzz saw guitars kick in, and the entire band lays back luxuriating in the great slab of sound that only a wide-open rock band can provide – I am always overwhelmed, “blissed out” (the original media-coined term, incidentally, for what came to be called “grunge,” named for the visceral response perhaps we all can have to such gorgeous sonic overwhelm). I must open my pedagogy to the aesthetic. Only by doing so have my students this semester been empowered to bring their real texts into our shared space, thereby inviting peripheral glimpses of jouissant experience with all its vigor and potential.

In closing: Martha Graham offers this:

There is a vitality, a life-force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost.

To sit with the implications of this observation – to square it with arguments that our economic engine is driven by innovation, not rule-following; by exceeding expectations, not meeting them – is to conclude that we must open our conceptualization of pedagogy to admit pleasure of an unbounded, even frightening sort. Only thereby will we incorporate the real forces that drive us into our work with our students – and really bring their true energies to pedagogy. And that’s our challenge – jouissant in itself in its unpredictability, its lived-ness, and its ultimate unmanageability.

souvenirs of perfect doom

Two observations:

1. My iPod Classic is broken. Kaput. All I wanted to do was put the latest Donald Fagen on it. But My MacBook Pro updated iTunes on the down low last week. And after several cycles of reformatting and shocking claims of “corruption,” it now insists, with an almost audible sigh, that the poor device “cannot be read or written to.” Let us mourn. I know it was a few years old, recently retired from the stable, its click wheel redolent of a time when a free U2 album meant more than fearing you had accidentally picked up your parents’ phone.* But I appreciated its single use utility, its massive memory – and above all, not needing a new one for my treadmill exertions. No matter. Planned obsolescence is the Apple-est thing in the world, and I am now on its pointy end.

2. My two month-old son sees angels – in the wallpaper, hovering in the air behind me. Maybe his grandmas, what we like to think, making themselves known to him for a few more weeks. Maybe someone or something else, impossibly new, unimaginable. Some will doubt. But his eyes have just learned to focus, and its the most human thing in the world to notice and look at something, so intently that I follow his gaze every time over my shoulder, up to the ceiling. He is completely absorbed when it happens, silent, locked in. Nothing there that I can see. Then again, I am looking though such smarter and surer eyes.

*                            *                            *

Seeing more can make you see less. This should be a minor truth for someone like me, if it is true at all. It’s really more like blasphemy than insight, to an educator: we are in the business of piling up things to see, making curriculum that tries to show you the right things first so you can better understand and file away what follows. As from the alphabet comes Shakespeare’s plays, from the integers come Euler’s Law. Seeing a lot is the whole point: helping the student fill a well-stocked lumber room from which to build and extrapolate and conjure from here on out. Seeing more is better, and I am here to show it to you. You’re welcome.

But it seems pretty majorly true to me right now – the more-is-less thing. I am beginning to wonder at the capacity of our first thoughts to form our reactions to everything that comes after, or even blind us to seeing anything else. This phenomenon has psychological applications: the homes we come from bend us for good or ill, of course, and as we get older we all become more amazed at how the “juice we were cooked in” leaves its aftertaste, whatever else we choose to eat. Our experiences can’t be unexperienced, and some of the most useful approaches to helping trauma survivors heal come from understanding how we hold on to the primal defensive reactions that trauma creates deep in our subconscious nervous systems, priming us to flee or fight decades after the threat has passed.

But maybe another reason we cling so hard to our first thoughts is that they give us something to say back to whatever thoughts might follow. Even if what we say creates more heat than light, it’s better than being quiet. Here I’m thinking about how hard my own ideological and political inclinations were set early in life, by college for sure. And I am despairing some at how a local school controversy last year about whether or not a book was appropriate for the 10th grade curriculum settled so quickly into a for/against, good guys/bad guys shouting match, where everyone involved was mostly interested in reiterating their own points long after no one not already converted had stopped listening.

As a community, we showed ourselves unable to have a new thought, or even brook someone else’s – our hard drives were already overwritten. The result: school board elections last week where everyone put the candidate most completely of their own stripe in office, presumably to be sure their corner was well-defended next time something comes up. We are as polarized as ever up here on the mountain, spending Sunday mornings (and most other mornings too) surrounded by people who affirm how right we are, and wondering at what crazy stuff they must be saying down the hill and down the way and everywhere else at that same hour, every week.

My computer said my iPod was corrupted. That was the word –  biblical, moth and rust inevitably befalling those who treasure up the wrong stuff. But how could it be? If there’s a closed system in computing, it was my iPod Classic. No online bugs or unorthodox software could have crept in: the thing needed a wire to update, for crying out loud, connected to a USB port (laugh politely into your hand). Far as I can grok, the thing got zonked out by that very closedness: copying my same file library over and over again to successive computers and drives, making pictures of itself that got blurrier and blurrier with every print.

I know that’s not really how 1s and 0s work, tech friends – calm down. They are supposedly frictionless. But there are ghosts in our machines. Why else do I need to occasionally check Word for Mac for “permission errors” when it slows down, like I did last week? And find hundreds of lines of code that detail bumps and jolts from inconsistencies that the thing did to itself, its own cost of doing business barnacled all over its digital hull? Orthodoxy – monoculture, the closed box – is no guarantee against corruption. In fact, from where I sit, it might cause it. (Or maybe a little built-in friction is better at keeping things running smoothly than none at all.)

I started with a thesis: did it show up, eventually? Perhaps best that the iPod has died, choked on its own intentions to only listen to itself again. Maybe time for a new device, or at least some new tunes. Maybe time for all of us to watch for angels in the architecture, to look less to recognize what we already know, and more to see.

Donald Fagen got me into this; I’ll let him take me out with his typically hermetic take on saving the wrong things, getting blinded by what we store up.

Have you seen the memorabilia?
The dusty old memorabilia?
Souvenirs of perfect doom,
In the back of Louis Dakine’s back room.

*Jimmy Fallon’s joke, not mine.

And Sometimes It’s Not Even Funny

127135aMy blog space is becoming sort of maudlin, isn’t it, with all these elegies: my beloved professor earlier this year, and my perseverations on Dave Wallace that have preceded the class I’ll begin next week on him.

Maybe something brighter can come of remembering Robin Williams, even as news of his death is still settling in. I like to think he’d prefer that.

There was an unexpected treat in the (unremarked but still pretty wonderful) 2009 Kevin Spacey vehicle Shrink. Robin, uncredited, plays “Holden,” a thinly veiled version of himself who’s a client of Spacey’s celebrity therapist. Holden crosses one of Spacey’s pro bono clients in the lobby, the hard-as-nails Jemma, played by Keke Palmer, with eyes as old as the wide wide sea. She fixes him with a hard stare, and they have an exchange I remember like this:

Jemma: Aren’t you…?

Holden: Yes.

Jemma: (after long pause) You should make better movies.

Holden: (after slightest beat) Yes, I should.

It’s one of the sublimest little moments I remember of Late Robin: a willingness to take the air out of himself, as easily as he would do the same to you.

Not that I was much of a student of him, though he was unavoidable for most of my adult life. Some of his grown-up work really affected me. His part in the bewildering Terry Gilliam fever-dream The Fisher King, for sure – and of course Good Will Hunting, where he finally grounded the manic humanities-crossed savior of Dead Poet’s Society that showed me the teacher I wanted to be for the first five years or so. (No point linking any of those movies – they are ubiquitous, part of the culture.)

He did a lot of forgettable grown-up stuff, too, to my eyes, and a lot of humor too broad to be pardoned. We found the barely-middling Man of the Year in our rented beach house this summer and suffered through a lot of it. Especially his continued willingness to do ethnic and sexual stereotypes that really can’t be countenanced in 2014, when so many others have moved past him.

He seemed game throughout that turkey of a film, though, up for anything. I was touched by the extras feature that showed him working the crowd in the debate scene between takes, performing as his own warm-up man, apparently out of nothing other than the compulsive desire to complete himself through others’ laughter that seems to lie at the heart of so many durable comics’ drive. (Plenty of amateur psychiatric ink will be spilled on this point in the coming days, to be sure, so I’ll spare you any more.)

I can’t see him as a grown-up, though. I have to be the fan I was of him first. That is, he was – apart from Donny and Marie, obviously – probably the first famous person I was a true, fall-over fan of. And by “him,” of course I mean Mork.

Mork who I met when I was nine, the alien who talked like another nine year-old. So fast, so silly, apparently so tuned to nothing other than the rattling possibilities in his head and the response he was getting from the people around him of laughter but also shock, surprise, disbelief. I didn’t think you could do that on TV. I didn’t think anyone else talked like that except my friends and me in the back of the car coming home from church, revving through jokes and Muppet Show skits and – now – Mork and Mindy sketches, best as we could remember them pre-VHS, pre-anything. Mork gave us permission to be silly, over-the-top-hurts-to-laugh-anymore silly. And we were, to the dismay of all grown-ups who witnessed us. Way beyond what grown-ups could countenance as silly enough, loud enough, for long enough. Me and Brendan and Tim and Ian, terrorizing the world with our mouths and hands and our faces and our staggering capacity for uncut, industrial-strength silliness.

He blew my nine year-old mind. I had rainbow suspenders, just like him – even had the courage to wear them to school, once. My kids received a box set of the first season of M&M a few years ago, and it’s been in heavy rotation with them ever since. The show itself hasn’t worn well; the reliable 70s sitcom rhythms were pretty hard to slip, and are almost unwatchable post-Seinfeld and everything else. But there he is, doing the same thing he just did, and did, and did. The cast stands agape for many of his ad-libs. They must have become tiresome. Compulsively funny people are sometimes. Tiresome. Like nine year-olds.

I tried to find a clip of Robin and Jonathan Winters to post, but couldn’t find any that were consistently funny. Which seems to be, perhaps, one of Robin’s legacies: that comedy isn’t pretty, and sometimes it isn’t even funny. But there is much to be said for continuing to throw the spaghetti against the wall until something sticks, isn’t there. “You should make better movies.” True…and, sometimes, he did.

In lieu of that absent clip, I’ll link to Hyperbole and a Half’s perfect, agonizing take on depression, drawn by one who knows. May we finally get it through our collective heads that depression isn’t a character flaw, but a vicious, merciless disease that grinds down so many of the finest and fairest among us. May our culture learn at last to treat mental illness, its victims, and its survivors with respect and research and compassionate policy, and insurance to match. (Addiction too. That’s another post.)

So, what’s this all offer readers of an education blog? Maybe something about the power of connection to youth: a celebration of the call to openness and risk-taking that youth trades in and that adulthood, well, tries to stamp out too frequently (at least in school). Maybe gratitude for the invitation Robin left us to take risks, to be not funny sometimes in the name of doing what we have to in order to be there for when the funny shows up.

And when it showed up for him, it was dazzling. Thanks, Robin.

Image from TicketMaster.