Rhinosplode

First Part of September

The first couple of cycles of the school year are going to be about setting up processes, procedures, and habits of mind.  Things going through my mind right now (and which I really have to commit to TODAY, like maybe on my drive up to WCSU for my first night of Critical Theory class):

How to handle reading in my English 212 class: I’m inspired by Doug Noon’s experiences with Free and Voluntary Reading.

This year, everyone in the class reads what they want to read, and they read without interruption for 30-40 minutes each day. They tell me about their books when I go around the room asking how it’s going. I write down what we talk about. They read short passages quietly to me. They write in journals about their books. They meet with partners or in small groups, and they give oral “book reports” written on sticky notes. They make book recommendations to each other. They read at home and before school without being told to, and they tell me they love to read. I even saw one of my students reading a book walking down the hall the other day. It’s going viral.

And here are Stephen Krashen’s research-based 88 Generalizations about Free and Voluntary Reading, for further edification/research/justification.

Getting through the core texts for 212 is going to be a challenge, and one which I’m not going to dig in to until the classroom culture of actual reading takes hold.  I’m planning to start my sophomores with various short texts–poems, essays, magazine articles, short stories, etc–to read on their own and then respond to in their journals. 

I kind of like this structure for our 58 minute blocks:

~15 mins–Poem du jour

~30 mins–Reading time (with me circulating to discuss reading w/ students, check on progress, etc)

~10 mins–Writing/journaling

When a particular class is interrupted by 3rd lunch, which will happen every day to one class, I’ll just do the poem du jour when we get back from lunch.  No worries.

Then there’s the issue of writing.  A couple of weeks ago, I wrote that I would “[i]ntroduce [a] year-long writing project about identifying and analyzing authorial voice/style/intent.”  I’m not entirely convinced that that’s the way to go, especially in the first couple of weeks of school.  I am, however, totally sold on the idea of having the students write to a prompt for 15 minutes a night.

Filed under: Matters Educational, Matters Literary

The great disconnect

The writer behind Post-Punk Nerd once described a big problem.  His/her writing had become terrible.  It was

usually short, no more than a few paragraphs…and add[ed] very little to the public discourse. I have, once, tried to write a piece deeper than the typical blog fare, but in review I find the results to be poor: the language struggles, the sentences enjamb unnaturally and it reads as if I were a mumbling street preacher. What I am trying to say is important, I don’t doubt that, but I lack the skills to say it.

I bookmarked that post and have come back to it time and again.  It almost always leaves me feeling a little empty–not because it doesn’t say anything, but because the solution it poses is simultaneously elegant and impossible in my line of work.  Post-Punk Blogger has decided that rather than write a whole lot of short blog posts, s/he will now focus on writing longer, deeper, harder-hitting pieces.  They will be published less often, but will be of a higher quality than the typical blog writing one often sees around the Internets.

This is a great idea.  Twitter and whatnot have their places, I’m sure (though I still can’t figure out why I’d want to limit myself to 140 characters about a sandwich), but my professional concern is with writing.  Real writing.  The kind of writing that examines and develops and spreads ideas.  The kind of writing against which current school practices seem almost diametrically opposed.

Let’s take timed, in-class writing assignments as a particularly easy example.  And let’s ask a very simple question: What’s the point?  What is the possible educational merit behind having a roomful of students write something until the bell rings, something that will be assessed as evidence of skill at writing, or formulating ideas, or something like that? 

I guess you could make the argument that it’s the kind of writing students have to do on standardized tests like CAPT or the SAT.  Fine.  Respect.  But what else is it for?  Aside from exams (in college, perhaps, or in civil service or the military), when will students have to do this kind of writing?

I know, I know, the tests exist.  But where is the movement to change the tests?  Rather than bitch and moan about having to prep the kids for various state exams, college entrance exams, &c., why not push for tools that actually assess skills that students will need when they enter higher education or the workforce? 

I don’t know a single instance in my professional life when I’ve achieved more with the very first rough draft version of something I’ve written or created than something I’ve labored over.  From budget-nag emails in my first job out of college to software manuals I’ve written to lesson/unit plans to grad school admissions essays to songs, the experience has been the same.  Pushing something out for the sake of pushing it out leads to, at best, mediocre work.  If we’re about teaching students that it’s better to hand in some kind of crap rather than nothing at all, we deserve what we get.

This week, my colleagues have been into talking about Turnitin.com, a very expensive subscription website that schools use to make sure their students aren’t cheating when they write papers.  And fine, whatever, I have no problem with teachers who want to use it.  I won’t go near Turnitin, though.  The one semester I did have my students was a psychological hellride–rather than spending my time getting to know my students’ writing, I found myself hunting down every single highlighted passage in their work, rubbing my hands together with glee when I discovered an unattributed source.

If writing, especially school writing, is about playing gotcha with students, I need a new job.  I don’t have the temperament for that kind of work; if I did, I’d be a detective, which would at least get me out of having to go to faculty meetings.  But is it possible that there’s a way to rethink student writing, even at the high-school level, that increases students’ ability to write clearly and stylishly and makes it far less likely that they’ll cheat?

Filed under: Matters Educational, Matters Literary, Matters Political, Matters Technological

Updike at Rest

John Updike is dead. The news came to me via a text message from Peter, who described the author as “the last strand of spaghetti.”

As a tribute, here’s the final paper from the Updike/Roth seminar I took ten years ago, when I was a senior at Franklin & Marshall College.

“Accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone”:  The Plight of the Aging Athlete and the “Dirty Realist” Tradition in Updike and Roth

Both John Updike and Philip Roth have explored the fate of the high-school athletic star, tracing the decline of adolescent glory into middle-aged malaise.  In this paper, I intend to compare Updike’s Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom with Roth’s Seymour “the Swede” Levov and discuss the manifold ways in which they are similar.  In addition, I will address Linden Peach’s assertion that American Pastoral is a piece of “dirty fiction” and will determine whether the same is true for Updike’s Rabbit tetralogy.
Rabbit and the Swede were, in their adolescences, the heroes of their communities.  Throughout the Rabbit books, Updike mentions Rabbit’s fame as a high-school basketball star.  When Rabbit takes over the daily management of Springer Motors from his father-in-law, he puts framed copies of the newspaper articles written about him in his heyday on the walls of his office.  In fact, one of the main ideas of the Rabbit tetralogy is that high-school glory only gets you so far in life.  After high school, Rabbit stayed in the Brewer (Reading, PA) area, married a department store clerk, Janice, who grew up to be an alcoholic, had two children, one of whom drowned and the other became a cocaine addict.  Rabbit’s despair, which permeates the four books, is because his perfection in high-school, as expressed on the basketball court, has given way to the dysfunction of his family and personal life.
In Rabbit, Run especially, Rabbit’s thoughts of the past are his comfort.  When, in the beginning of the novel, he takes shelter with Tothero, his high-school basketball coach, and goes to dinner with Tothero and two prostitutes, Rabbit’s contributions to the conversation all seem in some way to refer to his basketball days.  The women do not care about Rabbit’s ball-playing days.  Even Tothero has forgotten.  Rabbit tells a story about a game against a rural school, Oriole High, whose coach served all of the players cider after the game.  Rabbit is surprised that Tothero does not remember this episode, which has taken on mythic importance in Rabbit’s mind, and “[i]t puzzles him, yet makes him want to laugh, that he can’t make the others feel what was so special” .  Tothero does not even recall, at first, that Harry Angstrom was known to his friends and teammates as “Rabbit.”  It just does make sense to Rabbit that he, to whom all of his high school, including Coach Tothero,  looked to win basketball games, could have faded into obscurity so quickly.

In American Pastoral, Roth’s character Nathan Zuckerman recalls, in his advanced middle age, the athlete revered by his Newark Jewish neighborhood.  The kid’s name was Seymour “the Swede” Levov, and to Zuckerman, he represents the hopes of second-generation immigrant Jews to be a part of WASP society:

The Swede starred as end in football, center in basketball, and first basement in baseball.  Only the basketball team was every any good…but as long as the Swede excelled, the fate of our sports teams didn’t matter much to a student body whose elders, largely undereducated and overburdened, venerated academic achievement above all else…Nonetheless, through the Swede, the neighborhood entered into a fantasy about itself and about the world, the fantasy of sports fans everywhere: almost like Gentiles (as they imagined Gentiles), our families could forget the way things actually work  and make an athletic performance the repository of all their hopes. Primarily, they could forget the war.

Zuckerman recognizes that the Swede was, during the second world war, a symbol of Jewish assimilation.  The Swede was a way for Jewish boys to be a part of the larger Gentile society.  He proved that Jewish kids could play sports, and play them well.  Even though nobody else at Weequahic High came close to matching the Swede’s athletic prowess, they all shared in his victories.  American Pastoral is the Swede’s story as imagined by a star-struck Zuckerman.
Rabbit and the Swede.  Two high school athletic stars, each the best athlete to come out of their respective schools thus far.  During high school sports careers, each idolized by their peers, their schoolmates, their communities.  For Rabbit, however, to play basketball as a Pennsylvania Lutheran against teams of Pennsylvania Lutherans did not have the same symbolic importance as the Swede, an Ashkenazic Jew playing baseball, football, basketball against teams of Irish, Italian, or Polish Catholics, or suburban WASPs.  Rabbit, though the best basketball player his high school had ever seen, was not the hero that Swede was to his high school.  That, I believe, is why while Rabbit’s achievements are pretty much gone from the collective memory of his community by the time Rabbit, Run begins, the Swede is still known as the best athlete the Weequahic section of Newark ever produced.  The Swede’s fame endures long after Rabbit’s has faded.  Rabbit is replaced by other players, some of them just as good or better than he is, while the Swede’s legend and records endure.
Even high school athletes grow up and get married.  This in itself is not remarkable.  Many people get married.  Another common thread between Rabbit and the Swede, however, is the infidelity of their wives with men of whom they, the men, are a bit jealous.  Rabbit Redux finds Rabbit dealing with Janice’s affair with Charlie Stavros, a younger, left-leaning man who works at Springer Motors.  Rabbit is envious of Charlie’s smoothness.  When the Angstroms — Rabbit, Janice and Nelson — go to dinner at a Greek restaurant and Charlie is there alone, Janice invites him to join them.  Charlie’s presence makes Janice happy, which makes Rabbit uncomfortable, so he picks a fight about patriotism:

[Janice] tells Stavros, “If you hadn’t shown up we would have starved.”
“No,” he says, a reassuring factual man. “They would have taken care of you.  These are nice people.”
“These  two,” she says, “are so American, they’re helpless.”
“Yeah,” Stavros says to Rabbit, “I see the decal you put on your old Falcon.”
“I told Charlie,” Janice tells Rabbit, “I  certainly didn’t put it there.”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asks them both. “It’s our flag, isn’t it?”
“It’s somebody’s flag,” Stavros says, not liking this trend and softly bouncing his fingertips together under his sheltered bad eyes.

Rabbit is understandably upset to discover that his wife is cheating on him and lashes out in the only way he knows how: to attack Charlie’s ethnicity by making verbal jabs at “people who come over here to make a fat buck…and then knock the fucking flag…like it’s some piece of toilet paper”   even though he knows full well that Charlie’s family has been in the United States for several generations.
Of course, Harry Angstrom has several lovers of his own throughout the Rabbit tetralogy.  Ruth, Jill, Peggy, Thelma, Pru — all women that Rabbit is not married to.  Some of them are married themselves.  That Rabbit gets upset at his wife’s affair is evidence of one of his unlikable characteristics, to be sure.  Rabbit is never sexually or emotionally fulfilled.  This incompleteness in conjunction with his attempts to hold on to his youth, are what makes the Rabbit tetralogy so sad.
The Swede’s wife, the former Miss New Jersey Dawn Dwyer, has an affair, too.  Hers is with Bill Orcutt, the Swede’s friend in the WASP suburb of Old Rimrock.  Orcutt takes the Swede out on driving tours of Morris County, showing him the places where George Washington had headquarters and where the various ancestral Orcutts who were close friends of governors and presidents and other celebrities lived.  The Swede eventually discovers at a barbecue at the Levov’s house that Dawn’s professed dislike of Orcutt is an act:

According to the Swede’s interpretation, all of the guy’s effervescence seemed rather to go into wearing those shirts…Well, perhaps not all, the Swede discovered as he stood peering in through the kitchen door from the big granite step outside. Why he hadn’t just opened the door and gone straight ahead into his own kitchen to say that Jessie was in serious need of her husband was because of the way Orcutt was leaning over Dawn while Dawn was leaning over the sink, shucking the corn.  In the first instant it looked to the Swede—despite the fact that Dawn needed no such instruction—as though Orcutt were showing Dawn how  to shuck corn, bending over her from behind and, with his hands on hers, helping her get the knack of cleanly removing the husk and the silk.  But if he was only helping her learn to shuck corn, why, beneath the florid expanse of Hawaiian shirt, were his hips and his buttocks moving like that.  Why was his cheek pressed up against hers like that?  And why was Dawn saying—if the Swede was correctly reading her lips—“Not here, not here. . .”?  Why not  shuck the corn here? The kitchen was as good a place as any.

The Swede has been usurped as husband and lover to his former Miss New Jersey, usurped by Orcutt, who symbolizes the landed WASP gentry amongst whom the Levovs have been trying to live.  Perhaps Roth is saying that the only way for the Jewish grandson of a glovemaking immigrant and his Irish Catholic wife to live in a place like Old Rimrock is to sleep with its Protestant inhabitants.
The Swede, of course, has an affair of his own, with Sheila Salzman, his daughter Merry’s speech therapist.  Zuckerman says that having a “mistress” like Sheila “does not quite make sense in the untarnished context of that life—and yet, for the four months after Merry disappeared, that is what Sheila was to him”  .  The Swede was Weequahic’s golden boy, the one who could do no wrong, and yet he took for himself another man’s wife as a lover.  Zuckerman has trouble with the very idea of it.  The Swede too has trouble with it, refusing to talk to Sheila alone after the barbecue.  Rabbit’s affairs are “in character” for him because of his inability to be fulfilled and his innate restlessness.  American Pastoral,  however, portrays the Swede as a man who has found happiness and settled down with a beautiful wife in a nice suburb, the picture of the American Dream.  Except, that is, for his daughter, the bomber.
Meredith “Merry” Levov is a girl who grew up with newfound wealth.  The Swede is the one who makes his family business, Newark Maid Gloves, really profitable.  Merry lives her life without knowing the poverty that her grandfather knew growing up the son of a poor uneducated immigrant.  She is raised in a wealthy suburb, unlike her father, who grew up in Newark.  Merry eventually decides that the Vietnam War is an unjust war and dedicates herself to getting the United States out of it.  However, she believes that the way to do so is to bomb the general store in Old Rimrock, killing a local doctor.  She later bombs other buildings in the American west.  The death toll from her activities reaches four before she decides to abandon violence and become a Jain.
Merry is the one major problem in the Swede’s life.  American Pastoral asks what happens when a man thinks he has found his ideal life only to have it turned upside-down by the violent acts of someone close to him.  Merry’s bombings seem to hurt the Swede more than they hurt even those that she kills.  The Swede can not understand why his daughter would want to live underground, in abject poverty, running away from the comfortable home that he has spent his life earning the money to buy.   Merry, on the other hand, wishes to rebel against capitalism, which her father embodies.  The epigram to Roth’s novel Letting Go —“The Son / And the father alike and equally are spent, / Each one, by the necessity of being / Himself” —is appropriate for American Pastoral as well.  The Swede is burnt out by dealing with Merry, by thinking about her, by coming to terms with his daughter as a mass murderer and domestic terrorist.  Merry, too, is burnt out, living an ascetic life in inner-city Newark, hardly eating, sickly.  What the Swede worked so hard for, the health and happiness of his family, is negated by the bomb blast that Merry sets off in the Old Rimrock general store.
Nelson Angstrom, who readers watch grow up and become a father himself in the course of the Rabbit tetralogy, is also a destructive force.  By the last book, Rabbit at Rest,  Nelson has seen his parents’ dysfunctional marriage, has witnessed the death of Jill, an older-sister figure, and has harbored huge grudges against Janice and Rabbit.  Rabbit at Rest, which takes place in the late 1980s, sees Nelson become a cocaine and crack addict whose drug habit destroys Springer Motors, the Angstroms’ Toyota and used-car dealership.  Nelson’s lack of self-control is the opposite of Merry’s political dedication and adherence to Jainism.  However, both wind up tearing their families apart.
The Swede and Rabbit embody traditional American values.  Each rises from lower-middle class urban existence (Rabbit’s father was a printer) to suburban affluence.  Neither really understands the malaise expressed by young people in the 1960s: the Swede is completely confused by Merry’s sudden dedication to the tenets of the Weathermen and Rabbit’s relationship with Skeeter, the self-proclaimed “Black Jesus” in Rabbit Redux is one of fear at best.  These two old-fashioned fathers watch their carefully built worlds fall apart under the influence of social changes, although the Angstroms’ dysfunction is also partly because of Rabbit’s restlessness and Janice’s alcoholism.  In his book The Fiction of Philip Roth and John Updike, George J. Searles discusses this idea at length.  “[P]ractically all of Updike’s protagonists, like Roth’s,” he writes, “are locked into extremely complex, psychologically demanding family relationships that in many cases become Updike’s principle subject”  .  Family relationships are difficult at best, Searles continues, because these families exist “in a period of shifting values and changing assumptions” .  There is more to the troubles of the Angstrom and Levov families than the behavior of their individual members.  The real problem lies in the confluence of these people and their personal character issues with the turbulent social change of the mid-twentieth century.
Updike and Roth both write in a style that can be described as “dirty realism.”     American editor Bill Buford defines “dirty realism” as “realism…stylized and particularized…informed by a discomforting and sometimes elusive irony” .  Linden Peach’s Critical Survey article “ ‘K-Marts and Lost Parents’: ‘Dirty Realism’ in Contemporary American and Irish Fiction” compares American Pastoral   to Irish author Roddy Doyle’s Barrytown trilogy, which consists of The Commitments, The Snapper, and The Van.  These novels, and the “dirty realist” approach in general,  Peach says, were “developed more with a British than an American readership in mind at a time when British fiction was essentially middle class in its range and subject matter and intended to reawaken British interest in contemporary American fiction by appealing to memories of 1960s working-class fiction” .  “Dirty realist” pieces, Peach later writes, looks at consumer culture and the “common ephemera which constitute the self at the convergence of small-town and postmodern culture” .
Peach makes a strong argument for describing American Pastoral as influenced by “dirty realism.”  The Swede sees his old home, Newark, become the car-theft capital of the world, his old Weequahic neighborhood a dangerous and run-down place far removed from what it was like in his youth.  When he goes into Newark to see Merry for the first time since the Old Rimrock bombing, even the Swede stops romanticizing his boyhood and sees what happened to Newark for himself:
Merry’s street was just a couple of hundred feet long, squeezed into the triangle between McCarter—where, as always, the heavy truck traffic barreled by night and day—and the ruins of Mulberry Street.  Mulberry the Swede could recall as a Chinatown slum as long ago as the 1930s, back when the Newark Levovs, Jerry, Seymour, Momma, Poppa, used to file up the narrow stairwell to one of the family restaurants for a chow mein dinner on a Sunday afternoon and, later, driving home to Keer Avenue, his father would tell the boys unbelievable stories about the Mulberry Street “tong wars” of old.

Of old. Stories of old.  There were no longer stories of old. There was nothing.  There was a mattress, discolored and waterlogged, like a cartoon-strip drunk slumped against a pole.  The pole still held up a sign telling you what corner you were on.  And that’s all there was.

This passage, reminiscent of the description of Tommy’s flat in Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting , one of the quintessential pieces of Scottish “dirty realism,” marks the first time that the Swede comes to grips with what used to be his home and now is a dangerous urban jungle.  Although the location of Merry’s apartment, near Mulberry Street, brings back fond memories of his youth, the Swede realizes that the neighborhood has changed with the times.
John Updike’s Rabbit books are themselves fine examples of “dirty realism.”  Concerned with the rise of the Angstrom family from urban lower-middle class life to suburban upper-middle class comfort, the four books show the reader Rabbit’s romantic memories of the Brewer area alongside the new reality of the declining city:

On his right, toward the mountain, Weiser stretches sallow under blue street lights.  The Pinnacle Hotel makes a tattered blur, the back of the Sunflower Beer clock shows yellow neon petals; otherwise the great street is dim.  He can remember when Weiser with its five movie marquees and its medley of neon outlines appeared as gaudy as a carnival midway.  People would stroll, children between them.  Now the downtown looks deserted, sucked dry by suburban shopping centers and haunted by rapists.

Brewer, the city of Rabbit’s youth, has become a dangerous place.  Updike’s blaming of “suburban shopping centers” fits well with the “dirty realist” archetype.  In the consumer-driven world of the second half of the twentieth century, cities, once thriving economic and commercial centers, have become places for poor people to live, the more prosperous residents having fled long ago to the suburbs.  In this way, both Roth’s Newark and Updike’s Reading have become menacing urban jungles.  I myself, who grew up walking around in New York City, still dread driving around Reading at night.
“Dirty realism” is in large part about the decay of urban centers and high culture and their replacement with tawdry consumerism and selfish goals.  This decline from greatness to something less than that is paralleled in John Updike’s Rabbit tetralogy and Philip Roth’s American Pastoral.  Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom and Seymour “the Swede” Levov, revered in high school because of their great athletic talents, see in their aging the disintegration of their dreams of idyllic American life.  Rabbit’s restlessness and inability to fully commit to his wife lead to tragedy; the Swede’s daughter, caught up in the idealism of the 1960s, becomes a terrorist and an ascetic.  The two men, whose lives seemed perfect in their youth, learn that things, as Chinua Achebe says, fall apart.

Filed under: Matters Literary

Thing of the Day: The End of Writing?

The Atlantic:

If you’re hearing few howls and seeing little rending of garments over the impending death of institutional, high-quality journalism, it’s because the public at large has been trained to undervalue journalists and journalism. The Internet has done much to encourage lazy news consumption, while virtually eradicating the meaningful distinctions among newspaper brands. The story from Beijing that pops up in my Google alert could have come from anywhere. As news resources are stretched and shared, it can often appear anywhere as well: a Los Angeles Times piece will show up in TheWashington Post, or vice versa.

An interesting article about the apparent near-future collapse of the New York Times has me thinking, once again, about writing, its role, and why teachers are to blame for the absolute dominance of crappy writing in the world today.

I’m a member of the Leadership Council of the Connecticut Writing Project at Fairfield University, which means that I spend about one Saturday per month in a room with about 15 other teachers from around the area, drinking really good coffee and lamenting the state of writing education in our public schools.  Our mission is to be the preeminent teacher training organization dealing with matters of writing and literacy, fueled by the belief that writing skills are essential to critical thinking and future success.  I’m honored to be a part of that conversation, and I tend to leave the meetings with a lot to think about and work through.  It’s great.

Not 48 hours after every CWP Leadership Council meeting, though, I’m back at my school beating my head against the wall.  I’m an English teacher; I believe that it is part of my job description to teach students more effective and appropriate ways to write for different audiences.  Unfortunately, I’m not supposed to work with my sophomores on the Writing sections of the CAPT Test; that’s the bailiwick of the Social Studies department, who, generally, blow departmental gaskets when students’ thesis statements are not the very last sentences of their introductory paragraphs.  You know, just like they are in the five-paragraph essays written by such eminent historians as Stephen Ambrose, Doris Kearns Goodwin, and Edward Gibbon.

Okay.  I need to count to ten.

But I really wonder about what we’re doing to our students.  We teach them to write in fairly awful (and completely uninteresting) ways.  The five-paragraph essay is but one example; adding a sixth “counter-argument” paragraph doesn’t make it any better.  Witness also the PowerPoint, the poster, the blog.

Yep, the blog.  I’m not convinced that a blog is the best way for our students to learn to write.  And I’m writing this as someone who has had a class of Honors students blogging, with pretty good success, all semester.  Blogs have huge advantages for teachers–rather than collecting every reading homework journal, for example, I can check my RSS reader daily and read everyone’s responses to The Spoon River Anthology instantly.  No paper, no mess, no added weight in my Guilt Bag.  Also, blogs let students (and others) comment directly on each other’s work, which is a big plus.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t really happen.  I’m concerned that most of my students aren’t writing much worth commenting on.  Instead of raising questions, their entries reek of the kind of adolescent certitude usually reserved for 31-year-old bearded English teachers.  Bloggers like them (and myself and too many of my edublogging colleagues) who think they know all the answers are just not doing it right.

When I started this Thing of the Day series so long ago (last week), I figured I’d want a way to force myself to write as often as possible.  Having the implied audience of a blog (as many people as are reading this, I guess) makes me think more carefully about what I’m writing, because I know it will be punished.  Still, though, I’m afraid that I’m contributing to the preponderance of crap that passes for writing on the Internet.

My challenge for myself in the coming semester is to build in more regular writing opportunities for all of my students, at every level.  Journals that become more polished pieces, reactions, letters, screenplays, etc–all are necessary to the development of student writing, and all are things for which I am going to have to make a lot of time.  I’m afraid it will meet with great resistance among my students, but since I’m paid to know what’s best for them, I don’t see any other alternative.

Filed under: Matters Educational, Matters Literary, Thing of the Day

You should be reading Ta-Nahisi Coates.

His blog is awesome:

Now, nihilism was always at work in The Wire, but at the end, I felt like it just became too much. It felt like a desire to show futility of systems became the author of plot, not character. I thought that the press angle was poorly done–and saying “Yeah well it’s reporters who are objecting” is a weak, ad-hominem defense.

The guy can write about about politics, race, pop culture, the NFL, and whatever else he wants.  Ne never writes too much or goes too far.  And he’s really funny.  We like that.

The comments are often even better.

Filed under: Matters Literary

More on Mumbai

Vikram Chandra, author of Sacred Games, on life imitating art.  Seriously, I heard this on my way to work this morning and, if I hadn’t been stuck in five minutes of traffic pulling into the parking lot, I would’ve just pulled over and listened to the rest of the segment anyway.

Filed under: Matters Literary

Making sense of nonsense

So a new paper comes out saying the novels are better than reports for helping people to understand problems in faraway places, etc. And I bookmark it, thinking that I’ll get around to reading it sooner or later.

I still haven’t read the thing yet, but it certainly has been on my mind since Thursday morning, when I woke up to the news of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai. I tried following the news via Twitter but gave up quickly, and since the initial news reports weren’t making too much sense, I just sort of tuned them all out.

Luckily for my understanding of the situation, I’ve been a huge fan of contemporary Indian literature since I took a class in college almost ten years ago. Immersing myself in the Mumbai of Salman Rushdie, Vikram Chandra, and others, I feel like I know a little bit more about the city than I would’ve otherwise. The Mumbai of my imagination is positively teeming with life, like New York City with fewer traffic laws.

Driving home from my parents’ house yesterday morning, I listened to the BBC World Service’s reportage from the coastal slums of Mumbai. A woman talked about seeing an inflatable boat with six men come ashore, and about them telling her not to tell anyone. A horrifying thing to hear about, indeed, and one that could come straight out of Sacred Games. I was disturbed to hear the story, but at the same time felt comfortable with the geographic and cultural references.

On MetaFilter, DaDaDaDave commented that

I haven’t read The Kite Runner, but it’s certainly possible for a novel to be hokey, melodramatic and simplistic while also contributing to readers’ sympathetic understanding of the world. No one (well, almost no one) would put Uncle Tom’s Cabin or The Jungle on a list of the world’s greatest novels, but on a list of novels with the greatest and most positive social impact they would rank pretty high.

I’ve been reading some fairly crappy sentimental novels from the early 19th century for the class I’m taking, and every time I want to just give up–the writing is horrible! the characters are flat!–I have to remember that sometimes books don’t have to be aesthetically good or artistically awesome to have a point.

It seems obvious, I guess, but I think that the best we can do–”we,” of course, being English teachers, writers, and lovers of literature–is to spread the word that reading actually IS fundamental.  Even fluff like the Twilight series (I’m on book #3 and can feel my beard falling out and replacing itself with glitter) has something to say about how people work.  I’ve read a lot recently saying that the books are actually pro-abstinence fables, which may be true, though I certainly didn’t pick that up in the first couple of books.  Maybe I need to read my teen fiction a little more carefully.

Oh, and if you’re looking for something uplifting and fun for a late-November day, I finally got around to downloading and listening to the mixtape by The Very Best. Their remix of “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” almost makes me not hate myself for buying the Vampire Weekend CD.

Filed under: Matters Educational, Matters Literary, Matters Musical & Artistic

Let’s nerd out a bit, shall we?

So of course on the day when I show my students Star Wars, I come across a post by Ta-Nahesi Coates about race and Dungeons & Dragons:

It’s a funny thing to be a black kid into fantasy. Most of this stuff is ripped from Tolkien, and as much as I love LOTR, there is, indeed, something disquieting about the total whiteness of the movies.

Coates’s post doesn’t say much more than that, but the comments are pretty interesting.

Just when I think I can get away from it, my geek flag has to start flying again.

Filed under: Matters Literary, Matters Metaphysical & Philosophical

I did not win the spelling bee

IMG_4596, originally uploaded by jenniferdziura.

It was fun nonetheless.

Filed under: Matters Literary

I’m so in.

I support this with a fervor that equally matches my fervor for hating myFace (Thank you, Billy Bragg. Thank you.)

I need a good book. I’m re-re-re-reading “Motel Chronicles” by Sam Shepard. I just finished “The English Patient”–damn, you Ondaatje. But lest you think I’m smart, I also just finished reading the “Twilight” books (Sorry, Jeff, I know you’re around teen girls all day, so I’ll say no more.) So, let’s see–a weird, short literary book will be just right. Go.

And an except of “Motel”, that I just stole out of someone else’s blog. Heartbreaking.

They caught him with a stolen print of a cottonwood tree. He was in the parking lot cramming it into the bed of his pickup. When they asked him why, he told them he wasn’t sure why. He told them it gave him this feeling. 

He told them he saw himself inside this picture lying on his back underneath the cottonwood. He said he recognized the tree from an old dream and that the dream was based on a real tree he dimly remembered from a long time ago in his childhood. He remembered lying down underneath this tree and staring up through the silver leaves.

He remembered voices from those leaves but he couldn’t remember what the voices said of who they belong to.

He told them he was hoping the picture would bring the whole thing back.

Filed under: Matters Literary

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  • turkey for the girls, turkey for the boys.. November 24, 2009
    With all the craziness these past few weeks, I haven't been able to update on my favorite holiday: Thanksgiving. Our plans this year? Oh yeah, just hosting it for 15 of our relatives. No biggie.I'm honestly not too worried about it, my grandma is making the turkey, our moms are making a lot of the sides. I just wish I had more time to get stuff don […]
    Erica
  • busy bee November 17, 2009
    Just need to get through this week. Just need to get through this week. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Have you ever had those weeks where it feels like everything and anything is going on? All good stuff, but still totally consuming all my time. For all you local folk, come to the Stamford JCC on Thursday night if you're around. The *jewelry without jewels […]
    Erica
  • bermuda November 14, 2009
    Out the door--headed to the post office--getting a passport! I know, I know--26 years old, and no passport. I've lived a sheltered life ;) We're going to Bermuda in December, where we'll be ringing in 2010! Woohooo
    Erica

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