Grammarians Unite!

This guy is on a mission from God:

Mr. Vincent felt a burst of relief that soon gave way to trepidation after he caught sight of a sign. “No standing,” it read, “April to October.”

Mr. Vincent wondered what exactly that “to” meant, dithered for a bit, and then decided that it meant no parking until October began, which meant that that day, Oct. 2, was fair game. 

Of course he got a ticket anyway.  (Ask me sometime about the time a police office misinterpreted a sign when my Mom was trying to park in Wall Street.)  But he has appealed it twice and is looking to go on to the State Supreme Court:

“Every accepted printed dictionary supports my grammatical interpretation of the parking sign,” he wrote. “To: Up to but not including. Through: To and including.”

And, in a further display of logic-defying brazenness, the city has effectively proved him correct:

In the meantime, a new sign has appeared in the old one’s stead. “No Standing,” it reads, “April 1-Sept. 30.”

What a world we live in.  Mr. Vincent, I’m behind you all the way.

The Last Test

Mr Bean sets an exam for which he doesnt know how to answer a single question.

In order to qualify for state certification in Maryland, prospective teachers must pass a series of tests called the PRAXIS exams.  They are loads of fun, as you might imagine.  The first one, a general-knowledge test, was embarassingly easy and I regretted every minute of studying; afterward, I was miffed to learn that I actually could have submitted my SAT scores instead.  The second, a content-area knowledge test, was more challenging but still easier than I’d thought it would be, and again I studied much too long and hard: it was a 2-hour exam and I finished in about 45 minutes.  (This wouldn’t have been so bad except that it was about fifty degrees in the exam room; I was dressed appropriately for the July weather.  The proctor said that if I left before the test was over, my score would be canceled, so I tucked all four limbs into my T-shirt and huddled in the corner for another hour, taking breaks to go outside and warm up every so often.)

This last exam was based on pedagogy.  From what I could gather online, in one hour I had to answer two multi-part questions: the first about a work of literature and how I would go about teaching it, and the other in response to a piece of student writing.  Although I thought I could probably pass without studying, I had an added incentive in that the system itself was changing; if I failed this one, I would have to conform to Maryland’s new state requirements, which would mean a different test that combined pedagogy with content knowledge.  So I dutifully reviewed, compiling a list of seven works I thought were likely to be on the list and main features of each one.

Because I had registered late, all the testing centers in Maryland were booked solid, so I registered for Howard University in DC, consoling myself with the fact that a good friend lives nearby and we’ll have lunch afterwards.  The rest of the story is most effective with a timeline format:

9:15 Leave home half an hour early just in case of traffic.

10:15 Arrive half an hour early.

10:16 Slight panic about the lack of change for parking meters.  Resolve this by paying remotely with my cell phone (score one for technology!) and then leave it in the car, heeding the warning on my ticket.

10:20 Enter the testing center.  No discernible order, proctor or instructions anywhere, just a crowd of college kids scarfing down bagels and texting.  Wonder whether they are stupid or smart for ignoring the warning.

10:45 Test time comes and goes.  Nothing.

10:55 Woman in sweats and a T-shirt enters the lobby and assigns groups of students to different testing rooms.

11:00 My group arrives at its room.  The proctor is at the door, checking IDs and assigning seats.

11:05 Chatting in line with another student, I hear that the format of the test is completely different as of December (she failed the last one and is hoping for better luck on the new test.)  Different how?  All multiple choice, with a lot of questions about psychology, she says.

11:06 Blind panic.  Well, it’s too late to do anything now.

11:10 I am seated.  The proctor reads instructions in a heavily island-accented voice that would be charming if my own pulse would quiet down.  I can’t understand her pronunciation of “pedagogy,” which she says “ped-DA-go-JI.”

11:15 Tests are distributed. I ask casually when we’ll begin.  “Around 11:30.”  I really, really regret my obedience to the cell phone rule, since no one else’s has been confiscated and I’d like to let my friend know I’ll be almost an hour late.  Also, I’m wondering if I have any chance of passing this new test.

11:30 We begin filling out all the paperwork associated with the test.  Student ID number, Social Security number, zip code, test center code, university code, linkage number, serial number and probably more I’ve blocked from my memory.

11:45 Everyone finally finishes the paperwork and the test begins at exactly the time I thought we would be finishing up.

11:46 I look at the first question and know my hapless new friend was wrong.  The format is unchanged, and what’s more, two of the seven works I prepared are on the list.  I choose Hamlet and prepare to wow the graders with my extensive mental catalogue of quotes (I watched the Kenneth Branagh version on a continuous loop for most of 11th grade.)

12:45 The exam finishes and we have to endure yet another set of instructions, this one about when we will receive our scores and how to cancel them if we want to.  I wonder idly if this couldn’t be accomplished some more efficient manner, perhaps by an instantaneous system of electronic communication in advance … 

12:55 I arrive back at my car, happy that I paid for the maximum number of hours, and call my friend.  Lunch with her and her adorable daughter, at this homey-chic pub, is perfect.

As the conclusion to my test-taking career, I’d like to offer this brief meditation, with which I now sympathize just a little more.  I think they concentrated on pedagogy LAHHHST year.

Moralistic Therapeutic Deism in the Classroom

One of the things I’ve been thinking about during my absence is something Rod comments on frequently: the modern phenomenon of “religulosity,” or quasi-religion, in the form of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism.  The Wikipedia link includes the following definition, culled from interviews of thousands of American teenagers:

A god exists who created and ordered the world and watches over human life on earth.

God wants people to be good, nice, and fair to each other, as taught in the Bible and by most world religions.

The central goal of life is to be happy and to feel good about oneself.

God does not need to be particularly involved in one’s life except when God is needed to resolve a problem.

Good people go to heaven when they die.

Why is this such a problem?  Rod points it out as an aside in this lengthy entry that’s actually about another topic:

This is why I’m always going on about the curse of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism. Whatever it is, it’s not authentic Christianity, not by the historical and doctrinal standards defining orthodox (small-o) Christian belief. If we Christians declare that tradition is not binding on us in any meaningful way, that we are free to believe about our faith whatever “works” for us, then we are theologically bankrupt. I find it easier in some ways to understand the atheist who believes it’s all nonsense than the self-described Christian who takes what he wants but ignores the rest, especially the hard stuff. To be clear, I don’t believe that only saints are authentically Christian. I sin. We all sin. I struggle to understand many of the teachings of the faith. But I don’t decide, on my own authority, that I don’t have to believe this thing or that thing, because it’s too difficult, or it doesn’t “work” for me. I am not a good Christian, but I can make that judgment because I have a clear standard of what a good Christian is — a standard that exists independent of my own preferences and moods.

Amen and amen. MTD is the Oprah of religions (this is part of what I loathe about Oprah.  She is NOT harmless; she advocates for a worldview in which the self is the measure of all things.)

Now, midway through Year 8 of teaching in classrooms at an extremely conservative Christian institution, I am shocked by how much of this mindset has crept into the thoughts and actions of my students.  Here are the biggest fallacies I’ve observed:

1. Effort = achievement.  Over and over, students argue that they deserve an A on a paper because they worked really hard.  Once, after I explained that part of the grade was creativity, several students turned in papers written in colored ink and plastered with stickers.  When I expressed disbelief, they countered that they were trying to be “creative.”  This was one moment in which I despaired of ever being a good teacher.
2. Prayer instead of effort.  We begin every class with prayer, and I am often touched by the number of students who remember the sick, the poor, the unborn and all who struggle.  But I also notice a growing number of students who pray almost as a substitute for their own efforts.  For instance, one of my students a number of years ago asked prayer for her grades at every single class, but almost never turned her work in on time.  Just about every student has prayed desperately for snow at some point in his life, but many of the students I encounter really seem to believe prayer is some sort of magic charm.
3. Prayer as a shopping list.  In seven and a half years in the classroom, the only prayer of thanksgiving I’ve ever heard is after the birth of a family member — maybe two or three a year.  Thinking back to my own experience at a Christian school growing up, the requests always outumbered the thanksgivings (we are humans, after all, selfish by nature, and God knows I understand this!) but there were things for which we were grateful: time with friends, deliverance from sickness, and occasionally even good grades. (Aside: Most of my students are Catholic and refer to prayer requests as “intentions,” so it could be that that term is specifically intercessory, and that’s why they so seldom give thanks.  I’m not sure.)
4. Struggle is bad.  Maybe this is an unfair expectation, since I only really learned to enjoy the struggle of learning in college (see any entry about Gussow!) But I do seem to remember understanding, as I wrestled with Geometry proofs or oil painting, that I might just have to accept that this was too difficult for me to fully understand right now. My students just can’t understand how struggling could be a good thing.  In their view, the best kind of assignment is easily completed and makes them feel good afterward — completely devoid of struggle — and the worst kind of assignment is one that requires wrestling and may not even result in a good grade (see “effort = achievement” above.)  Similarly, they argue increasingly that Hester Prynne was unfairly ostracized for her sin and had every right to abandon her life in Boston for a new one in which she could live unapologetically with a new husband and their illegitimate child.  They know premarital sex is a sin, but they have seen so much of it that they can’t see why it should have repercussions on the rest of an otherwise-virtuous life: “She’s a good person.  Who cares if she did one bad thing, especially if it was with someone she really loved?”
5. Stress is struggle.  I’m sure I complained, as a teenager, about my stress level.  I’m also sure it was far less than what my students juggle: they are so overextended in so many areas that I could write a separate essay on the evils of extracurricular activities. What I want to point out here is the most common excuse for almost any academic infraction, which is “I’m so stressed out right now.” Somehow they have taken the work of learning and replaced it with activity — which becomes an excuse for not completing required tasks.
6. It’s all about me.  My friend Terry, a journalist and educator, has been an unbelievable source of support in this area: students love to write about themselves, to the extent that they expect to use first-person narrative in most academic papers.  I had one student argue that she didn’t see how I could take points off her paper, since it was based on her opinion: “How can my opinion be wrong?”  Yeah.  It’s come to that. Curiously, they appear simultaneously self-conscious about their opinions: if I had a dollar for every time I’ve crossed out “I believe,” “I think,” or “I feel,” I would be writing this entry from French Polynesia.  They want to state their opinions and make sure you thow they’re their opinions.

What does all this mean for teachers?  I’m not sure yet.  For now, I’m just aware (and wary) of this philosophy’s pervasiveness.

People

My best ideas often come when I’m supposed to be doing something else.  This morning I was presentable and out of the house early: I drove into town and did a few errands, then settled in upstairs at the divine Atwater’s, where I can breathe in gingersnap steam and stare out at the bleak December sky.

And, supposedly, grade exams.  But instead I’m thinking about people.

Because I’m helpless / hopeless to improve the kitchen situation (and, in fact, the more hours I spend at home greatly increases the probability of a huge fight with my husband — two spouses, three opinions) I did the only thing I could think that might be useful later: gathered samples for a new wall covering that will complement the finishes we’ve chosen.

The cabinets and counter are neutral — sand, beige, warm beech — so I was thinking green for the slivers of exposed wall that run around them: a large, leafy pattern with maybe a few flecks of red to compliment the bevy of red appliances we already own. But once I was walking the floor of the funny old wallpaper store in downtown Catonsville, I settled on half a dozen patterns that were nothing like that: wide stripes, Provencal olives, and a Far East-influenced paisley in rust and blue that’s secretly my favorite.  (I’m a sucker for blue anything.)  I was really starting to enjoy myself, considering the possibility of a border paired with solid paint, relishing the first step of a design process in which nothing is certain and everything is on the table.

Then I remembered, abruptly, what jerks the store employees are.

I say this, honestly, with love.  My grandfather had a soft spot for surly waitresses, and I am frankly tickled by the way these acerbic ladies treat their customers with such disdain.  I overheard a conversation today  in which a novice customer questioned a price, and the door had hardly closed behind her before they whooped it up at her expense.  “Can you imagine?!  She didn’t know that a double roll meant double the price!”

Years ago they worked on commission, and every single sample had to be signed and numbered by a specific, pushy saleswoman.  The woman who helped me today didn’t do that, but I did get a stony glare each time I brought her a roll to request a sample (God forbid I tear it myself!)  Then she told me to put the rolls back while she read the paper. When I asked for help reaching a high shelf, citing the sign on the ladder to ask for assistance, she rolled her eyes and said, “I guess you can get it yourself.”  

I was, again, too amused to be offended, especially at the end when she asked me, “What are you doing with all these, anyway?!”  I said that I was choosing a pattern for my kitchen, and she eyed the samples, gave me the world’s most condescending grimace of a smile, and responded, “Oooookay.”  I explained that my husband, a designer, liked to have a variety of choices.  “Well, you should have brought him with you,” she snapped.  I politely responded that he was busy installing the cabinets, thanked her for her time, and left.

What makes people like this?  Does she hate her job?  Does she resent giving out free samples, even if it results in subsequent business?  Does she not see what a miracle it is that a dumpy, drafty old-lady shop is still afloat in these economically troubled times?

And, further: what would make her happy?  Would she be genuinely grateful for a customer who dropped hundreds of dollars on the first thing he saw, without requesting a single sample — or would he receive the same contempt for disturbing the silence behind the counter? What about at the end of the day — does she relax a little during dinner with friends, or is she just as scornful when the waitress is late with her martini?

There are many stunning scenes in the movie Crash, but one of my favorites comes toward the end when the gangster-turned-noble shakes his head and laughs, “People, man.  People.”  It’s all the more fitting that this remark precipitates a misunderstanding that leads to his tragic and undeserved end.  Our inner workings are, and always will be, a mystery.  The group of loudly-cackling women who has commandeered the upper floor of the coffee shop, punctuating each five-minute interval with a deafening burst of laughter; the college boy who, glued to his Kindle, passes an hour in blissful ignorance of his surroundings; the mom who presents three toddlers with full glasses of milk and then is shocked and exasperated when one of them spills.

And the girl in the corner, who came here to work but has done nothing but sip coffee and blog since she came in.  She’s a mystery too.  But she’d better get cracking on those exams now.

They Said It

My crammed week led to a crammed weekend; I will have barely had a moment to breathe between Thursday and tomorrow. So, for now, enjoy these quips from student papers that made me smile:

• Heroes are people who go through monstrumental challenges to protect others.
• To revise my paper, I plan to go through and put in more comas.
• When someone is a hero, you want to fallow in her footsteps and be a more kind, thoughtful person.
• While still a young girl, her sister left to become a Caramel nun.
• Hearing about his heroic deeds, she got all chocked up.

Oh, how I wish someone had saved all my mistakes as a student.  I’m sure they were much worse!

A Certain Kind of Laughter

In his Preface to “The Order of Things,” Foucault writes of his laughter upon reading about something at once disturbing and hilarious: a Chinese encyclopedia that categorizes animals into (among others) “those that belong to the Emperor,” “those that tremble as if they were mad,” and “those drawn with a very fine camelhair brush.”

This laughter eventually inspires his own seminal work, “The Order of Things,” in which he attempts to make a little more sense of the science of taxonomy. It is the laughter, though, that I will always remember. His laughter expresses bitterness, insecurity, even horror, and helps him find control over a situation that seems ridiculous and inescapable.

It is for this reason that, in the wake of the recently-discovered child abuse tragedy in State College, I turn to The Onion:

After former Penn State defensive coach Jerry Sandusky was charged Saturday with multiple counts of involuntary deviate sexual intercourse, corruption of minors, indecent assault, and unlawful contact with minors, the national sports media sought out his victims this week to ask if they were worried about Joe Paterno’s legacy and how their molestations might affect the recently fired head coach’s place in the history books.

[Later]

“The victim I spoke to, who was 12 years old when Sandusky first took advantage of him, looked very upset throughout the entire interview,” Sports Illustrated writer Stewart Mandel said. “And when I asked whether he was concerned not just for how Joe Paterno would be remembered, but also for the football program’s ability to recover, he told me the interview was over and I should get out of his house.”

“Can you blame him, though?” Mandel added. “A coaching legend’s reputation hangs in the balance. I’m just as hurt and frustrated as he is.”

A more serious and logical summary of my personal opinion can be found in John Scalzi’s scathing and (justifiably) profane invective, certainly, but somehow I find The Onion’s story more compelling. Probably because it reassures me that there is a perverse humor in the reactions of the college community that have rendered me speechless with incredulity.

There is a certain kind of laughter that says, “This is funny precisely because it is not.” The Onion clearly established its ability to inspire that laughter with its first issue after the September 11 attacks: the three-word headline was succinct and incisive, echoing the thoughts of most of us. Holy ——ing ——.

I have heard many enlightened people say that sarcasm is poisonous, an unacceptable response in any situation; and indeed, its literal translation is “tearing of the flesh.” This is why I think it is perfectly appropriate for a situation this dark and ugly. At the very least, it could save you from tearing your own.

Upside Down

It’s the mid-semester slump: “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”  Every thought feels poisonous.  Every conversation turns into a squabble.  Every day there is less sunshine, fewer steps toward progress or moments of joy.  Life itself seems stagnant.  My wheels are spinning. When will I start to accomplish something?

The mere thought of exercise makes me even grumpier, but I know I need it.  So I venture out in the morning to a yoga class — perhaps the only form of physical activity I find challenging and enjoyable. I think it’s the dichotomy of stillness and flexibility, control and freedom, that nourishes my soul; the focus on spiritual awareness (which is empty, but can easily be filled with prayer) is good for me, too.

I’m both a first-timer and late, but I am able to enter quietly and settle in among the other three students. The instructor introduces herself and the intention for the practice: Surrender.

I have to smile, because that’s one thing I have never been able to learn.  I would be trapped right alongside a group of monkeys with my hand in a jar, unable to let go of the argument or the banana even as the men in white coats approached with tranquilizer guns.  Here is God smiling at my flaws, I think, and I smile back.

We work; it is clear right away that the class is more advanced than I am, but I keep up as well as I can and concentrate on lengthening, balancing, opening — the words have an amazing power over my lazy bones. About halfway through, we take a new pose: fingers interlaced, heels of the hands planted firmly into the floor, crown of the head between them.  Toes inch closer, closer.  

“Has everyone here done inversions before?” asks the instructor.  I admit, shamefacedly, that I have not. “Would you like to try?” I would.  And two not-so-graceful kicks later, there I am, standing on my head.  The world is upside down.

I feel a rush of feverish adrenaline; it makes me laugh.  “Look, she loves it!” cheers the instructor from behind me.  I take a tentative breath, and then another.  Everything looks different from here.

Too soon, she calls us back to our mats.  I continue twisting and bending for half an hour, but with a fresh perspective.  Somehow, looking at the ceiling for just a few minutes, I see everything more clearly from the floor.

An Avid Indoorsman

Now there’s a phrase that describes me perfectly:

If black people and Hispanic people don’t want to go to national parks, so what? I’m as white as they come, and I don’t want to go to a national park. You’d have to drag me there. It’s hot, and that’s where mosquitoes and bears are, and besides, you can’t get ice to refresh your cocktail. I am an avid indoorsman. And yet, I am very pleased that my tax dollars support the national park system, because I think it’s a fine thing that we have them. Does Jon Jarvis really believe that people like me sit around saying, “Thank goodness that the national park system exists so white people have a place to go fart around with animals and breathe the clean air and eat trail mix and stuff”? Please.

This is why Rod is so great.  I was just thinking the other day that, to me, camping is one of the biggest mysteries of humanity.  I get “there’s no other way to see the natural wonder I want to see,” and I get “I can’t afford to stay in a hotel.”  I don’t get “let’s drive several hours to hang out in the woods.”  Even if you do love being outside (I’ll admit, it has its charms this time of year) why do you have to spend the night there? With the bugs, the damp and the pervasive smell of woodsmoke that’s much less romantic a week later when you want to wear that jacket again?

I’m just saying.  There’s something to be said for civilization.

Kitsch, Pornography and Other Evils

You can always count on a monastic to stir things up.  Recently at a professional development seminar, I heard a Dominican sister speak about liberal arts education: the “free arts,” by their more ancient name, are so called because their concern is with attaining knowledge for the betterment of the whole person and, through it, freedom for society as a whole.  By contrast, the “servile arts” create a utilitarian product that serves a purpose and, often, a person.  As one who attended a liberal arts high school and now teaches in one, I wholeheartedly support this approach, which is under attack at the moment by a depressed economy and a secular population that believes practical / monetary value to be the highest good.

As an example, Sister took us through a brief history of visual art, starting with the Classical and Renaissance Periods and continuing through the Impressionists and modern times.  In what has been called (by someone whose name I didn’t write down, of course) the “schizophrenic fragmentation of narrative,” modern forms of art have now imploded: in the absence of an expression of truth and a respect for the history of the discipline, we’re left with the empty shell of a thing — form but no substance.  Duchamp’s toilet bowl.  Mondrian’s blocks of color.  Pollock’s drips and splatters.

Consider the praise chorus, a shallow repetition of three chords and some non-rhyming phrases that, more often than not, center more on the worshipper than the Worshipped.  There’s nothing wrong with it, really, but without the benefit of the history of sacred music, it becomes a substitute that younger generations will begin to mistake for the real thing.  And it’s not.  Real worship is at once painful and enlightening.

Ultimately, Sister argued, we come to the most empty and dangerous forms of “art.”  One is pornography: a glorification of the sexual dimension of the human body without reference to soul or society.  The other is kitsch: garden gnomes, Barbie and Thomas Kinkade.  These, too, present a reality that is devoid of any substance, having been stripped of sacred values.  They’re “pretty” if you look only at the colors and designs, but they are not good, and they are certainly not liberating.

Not what I was expecting to hear from a lecture on the liberal arts.  But I think she’s right on the money.  And I’ll endorse the Thomas Kinkade Defamation League any chance I get. 

What's Wrong with the World?

One side of my husband’s conversation this afternoon:

Talk to someone.

Talk to a representative.

TALK TO A REPRESENTATIVE.

Well, that’s cause you’re an idiot.

I know you’re having trouble, idiot.

Why are YOU such an idiot?

(I’m pretty sure he was talking to a computer; I heard his tone abruptly shift a few moments later as he began, “Well, I’ve been better … “)