Getting meta on finals week

It's the last week of classes, which means that I've spent a lot of time standing or sitting in the midst of young people and telling them that everything is going to be ok, that no stressful final exam ever actually killed anyone. Of course, no one seems relieved.

Yesterday, in my freshman comp class, I (more or less) said this:

"I know you've been doing nothing for the past two days but revising your final paper, because, clearly, you don't have anything else to do. You have no other classes. No ginormously daunting precalculus or biology or western civilization exams looming like metal-teethed Molochs above the salt mines of your daily lives. I know you've been sleeping eight hours a night, soundly, drinking 8 oz of orange juice every morning. I know that there is no way that stress has taken its tole on you physically, that it's zapped your will to even comb your hair in the morning."

Most students giggle; they get that I'm being sarcastic. I don't need to introduce metacommentary to explain that what I'm doing is sympathizing with them, that I'm satirizing the short-sighted, authoritarian college professor.

Even though I'm pretty sure they know that's what I'm doing, I follow the satire with metacommentary. I say: "That was me sympathizing with you in a playful manner, trying to inject levity into your otherwise stressful week."

I am addicted to metacommentary. What is metacommentary, you ask?

It's a fancy word for sentences that (in Gerald Graff's words) “tell readers how—and how not—to think about” assertions you make as you write (or talk). In other words, metacommentary keeps you from provoking reactions that you don't intend. It lets you clarify and elaborate on crazy claims before readers get the wrong idea.

I tell students that the day I discovered metacommentary was the day I began to love writing. 


I loved it because it allowed me to say things that sounded like I was saying something illogical and then demonstrate how I wasn't being illogical at all. It's a fun rhetorical gymnastic. 

It allows you to be both playful and professional at the same time. Graff uses the analogy of the conjoined twin: When you're writing, you are two people, one who just wants to be heard and another who wants to be careful. Kind of like Greg Kinnear and Matt Damon in Stuck on You.  

One of you gets to say something that gets people's attention; the other gets to clarify and elaborate immediately after attention is grabbed. 

This works well in intro paragraphs. For instance, my freshman writers are working on proposals to solve problems that face some profession of their choice. I'm also writing such a proposal. (Why shoudl students have all the fun.) The profession I chose was trim carpentry (my brother and dad's profession). The problem they're facing is the fact that suburban homes (which is what they trim) are less popular than they used to be. My solution is for my brother to convert his basement utility room into a workshop and to build cabinets for a new market. 

The first sentence of my proposal is this: 

"Throw your elliptical machine out the window." 

By starting with a jolting, crazy command, I force myself to explain immediately what I mean and what I don't mean: 

"It's not that your cardiovascular health is unimportant but that you could use your home as a business resource. Here's how:" 

The fun part is saying the outlandish thing. The hard part is dialing it back--making sure readers get prompted to alertness without also getting the wrong idea. A good writer, and a good speaker, does both.

Because, you know what they say: "It's all fun and games until you don't follow up your outlandish assertion with clarifying metacommentary." (That's what they say, right?)

Motorcycle Diaries Diary

Last week, an RA at a Rockhurst dorm asked me to come talk to his residents about "leadership." He was starting a new extracurricular program that featured movies about leadership, and he'd heard that I taught film.

I liked the idea and agreed to come by and introduce a movie. I suggested Walter Salles's The Motorcycle Diaries.

I warned the RA that the movie is in Spanish. I asked for assurances that students wouldn't hate me for invading their lobby with a movie that forced them to read subtitles. The RA assured me that, as far as he knew, there were no illiterate residents of Xavier-Loyola Hall.

I felt bad asking about the subtitles, but I've been burnt on that point before. At a previous school, I taught a summer course on "Road Movies," in which I showed The Motorcycle Diaries. After the movie was over, I turned the house lights up, tears of inspiration still in my eyes, and was met with this question: "Do we have to watch any more movies that aren't in English?" That one still hurts.

Armed with this past experience, a handout to accompany my introduction, and trepidation-bordering-on-paralysis about seeking entry to a dorm lobby at night, I walked to XL. It was cold and I couldn't put my right hand in my pocket because a knuckle was still bleeding from a recent ginger-peeling accident (I had to start marinading the chicken before I returned to school).

I was met at the door by the RA--a very cool guy. The screening was to happen in the lobby, on a TV that is way nicer than the one I own. There were two bags of tortilla chips and a big ol' box of fruit treats. "Who's going to lead the way into those chips?" I asked, breaking the ice and setting up the theme of leadership.

Most of the students already knew who Che Guevara was, so I didn't have to go into the whole thing about how he's a pivotal, controversial revolutionary leader in South America and beyond, with perhaps the most t-shirted face in all of the first world.

Instead of this thorny, ironically-consumerist legacy, I focused my introduction on the fact that The Motorcycle Diaries is a movie about the preliminary moments in the life of a leader; it's about the life experience that motivated one young man's extreme commitment to social justice. Ernesto ("Fuser") Guevara is a normal college student who, when exposed to the landscape of poverty and injustice that exists just beyond his sheltered middle-class life, responds to an impulse to redress this injustice.

I left before my favorite scene; had to get home and broil that chicken. It's probably best. I never quite make it through without getting a little choked up.

The Recycle Bin of History

As part of its effort to design a new academic building for Rockhurst (which we lovingly refer to as "NAB"), the architecture firm of Gould Evans came up with this idea: Hand out cameras to various profs and students and have them complete "photo surveys," wherein we took pictures of such things as "The place, space or thing that best describes Rockhurst to you," "A place, space or thing at Rockhurst you would show a new faculty member," "Your favorite place to work," and "The place you most often meet your colleagues." 

Under the category "Something you notice that you think others don’t notice," I placed this photo of a statue of a male youth resting behind a couple of recycle bins. 

This scene, which appears at the foot of the stairs in the main entry of Sedgwick Hall, both cracks me up and disturbs me. The statue (there are two actually--a discus thrower, not pictured) is such a part of the environment that it gets eclipsed by trash bins. 

I recently brought this quandary up to the students of my "Journeys, Voyages, Quests" class. We'd just finished reading two classic journey epics: Homer's The Odyssey and the Chinese folk novel Monkey (aka, Journey to the West). For their final papers, students will identify a key difference between these two classic conceptions of the journey motif (the first Western and the second Eastern) and then demonstrate how a modern novel synthesizes this difference.

For example, a student might focus on the way that The Odyssey represents physical strength and prowess as a virtue and how Monkey represents these same qualities as liabilities. Or, a student might (as many have) notice how important animal sacrifice is to the Greeks and how important rituals of nonviolence are to the pilgrims of Monkey. You'd never catch Tripitaka burning marrow bones (or anything bloodier than an incense stick) when giving props to Buddha. 

While discussing these differences, we got on the subject of the Greek fascination with the human body--the ritualized celebration of the body's potential in such Greek-engineered traditions as the Olympic games, which (in 2008) had been held in Beijing, and which had been advertised (in Europe) thusly: 

The animals (and the singing bodhisattva) of this TV ad are characters straight out of Monkey. It's not often that pop culture offers me such a perfect synergy of a world lit class's themes, which is why I reproduce it here. 

Anyway, while talking about the Greek fascination with the body and all the different things that this fascination has produced, like the Olympics, and the whole idea of the perfectibility of man from Da Vinci to Da Situation ... 

... I brought up the Sedgwick statues. Students didn't notice anything odd. 

So I asked: "What does the fact that we place recycling bins in front of statues of Greek men say about our values here at Rockhurst?" 

[crickets.] 

I tried again: "Does the arrangement of the foyer of this building say anything about what we value?"

Some students said stuff about how recycling is good. Then someone said that the bins represented a nonviolent effort to integrate contemporary ideals of conservation and environmental stewardship with the somewhat dusty Western ideals of beauty and perfection. The bins weren't replacing the statues. They were simply added to the scene. Peaceful coexistence at its best. 

However, just last week, some campus group inadvertently broke the peace when it placed a non-Student-Activities-Board-approved flier somewhere suspect. 

The fight for managerial control of public space never ends.

My Journal Problem

I'm a board member and liaison for Rockhurst's Advanced College Credit Program (ACCP). If you're reading this blog and are among its target audience--prospective RU students--there's a chance you've heard of ACCP. It's a program wherein RU courses get taught in local high schools. If you're lucky, you've taken one such course. If you're really lucky, you've taken College Composition at Liberty North High School with Mrs. Kimberly Brownlee.

(go Eagles!)

I visited Mrs. Brownlee's class the day her students had just finished a unit on the college application essay and were moving on into a unit on "Culture and Ethnicity."

If you ask me, such units are hard to start, especially in a classroom of mostly white, suburban Midwesterners. Growing up more or less all three of those things, I always assumed I had no "culture," that culture was the very thing that got left behind when the various people who became my grandparents and great-grandparents passed through Ellis Island. The soundtrack of my daily life was not cultural but consumer, not the tin-whistled and bodráned but bleached and Muzaked®.

To dispel that myth of culturelessness, Mrs. Brownlee had her students (and me!) journal about "culture."

Now, I have to admit that, as shocking as it may sound to hear an English prof say it, I dislike journal writing. I don't keep a journal myself and cannot, with a straight face, use the word "journal" as a verb. I have no problem, on the other hand, using the word "workshop" as a verb and here's why:

When one "journals," one removes herself from the public sphere. She interacts in private with her impressions about a topic. When one "workshops," on the other hand, she confers with peers. She doesn't retreat from public interaction. My journal aversion stems from my commitment to the idea that the most valuable kind of academic writing is that which anticipates exchange with a reader--that which interacts with a complexly-conceived audience. In short, good writing is a palpable kind of social engagement, not a substitution or replacement for such engagement. With such a philosophy, it's been easy for me to (over the years) demote journal writing, to do away with it altogether. Journaling, I came to believe, consigns an already alarmingly self-centered demographic (teenagers) to the clammy cellar of egocentrism.

And I was wrong. When Mrs. Brownlee had us journal about culture, our knee-jerk reactions to the topic--reactions along the "white-people-don't-have-culture" lines--slowly melted away. By the third cycle of responding to prompts like "What do you say when you greet people?," "What customs do you follow when you eat meals?," "Did your family inherit its customs or make them up?," "Do any of these customs cause problems?," "Does anyone make fun of your family customs?," students had real purchase on the topic. They understood its weight and consequences. Stuff got real. One student talked about how the structurelessness of his home life was becoming a problem now that he wanted to bring a girlfriend home to dinner, another talked about the ripple effects of her family's no-coddling sensibility.

Journaling did not invite students into a private relationship with the topic. It did not endorse the "no one understands me" ethos of young people's self-perception. It compelled students into very real, very public conversations about issues central to both to their personal lives and to American life in general.

It converted me.

Now, to some of my students' horror, I've started applying this conversion to my own teaching. When I explained to my Literature and Cinema class that, owing to my conversion on journaling, we would conclude each film screening with a journaling exercise, Kenshasha rolled her eyes and said, "You shouldn't be allowed to go back to high school."

"Journal about it," I said.

Quicksanded

How does one backdate a blog post?

If I knew the answer to that question, I would live in less daily fear that I will receive an angry email from someone in Admissions (or is it PR/Marketing?) at Rockhurst reminding me of the dereliction of my blogging duties. Such a colossal chunk of time has passed since my last post that I may have to forfeit my blog stipend for this semester.

Why ain't I been posting? Swamped! Actually, "quicksanded" is the more accurate metaphor for my relationship to the surrounding conditions of my professional life this semester.

Ok, and I've been carving pumpkins.

That's mine on the right. Its "mouth" is the letters "S" and "J"
(My wife and my first initials, as printed on our wedding invitations.) 

Time Mgmt

This week, in my First-Year Seminar, I taught a subject I've never taught before: Time Management. 

I am fairly incapable of faking expertise in a subject (I'm downright hostile to the idea), and time management is a proficiency that I have definitely not mastered. I'm not bad. I'm never late (chronically early, actually) and I don't miss deadlines. But I have no coherent system for time management. What's worse, I tend to wax poetic about stuff, especially banal stuff like keeping to-do lists and writing in planners. I probably spent too much time marveling over the good time management strategies my students shared and not enough time offering any of my own wisdom about time management. 

But students do some smart stuff. Claire keeps all her academic deadlines/appointments in a planner and all her social reminders on her phone. Nice compartmentalization tactic. Ariana texts herself to remind herself of important, pending deadlines. Chelse is all about the Outlook reminders. 

Me, I put my pocket planner under the document camera to demonstrate the pleasure I take in crossing things off my daily to-do list. I also had to explain my unorthodox phonetic spelling of the word "students" (as "stoontz"). It's a spelling a friend of mine used once a long time ago in an email and it made me laugh. 

It's always important to make yourself laugh, I said. (Here's the great wisdom I offered.) The best thing you can do for the version of yourself who is going to read whatever note-to-self you write is to make sure that that future you knows that the past you, the one who wrote the note, had a sense of humor and that that past you loves the future you and knows that everything will be ok, despite the fact that that future you has to actually do the thing that the past you wrote down.

I also shared this: 

After class, I couldn't help but ask myself: Does the fact that I showed students that instead of teaching them how to make an Excel spreadsheet about their daily routines make me a good teacher or an awful teacher?

I posted this very question to my facebook profile and got nine "likes." We're all so crunched for time that all we can do for a "friend" experiencing self-doubt is offer a virtual thumb-up. 

Next week's FYS topic: Emotional Intelligence, wherein I probably fail to resist the urge to show this litmus test of late-adolescent angst. 

The Whole Thing?

I'm currently directing a senior thesis on Herman Melville's novel Moby-Dick (1851). Have you read it? The whole thing?

My uncle Steve thinks that anyone who says she's read the whole thing is lying. He doesn’t even believe me, and I've read the it twice: once last summer and once--in a real welcome-to-graduate-school experience--during a two-week span of time that also included my reading of Dickens's 900-page novel Bleak House and most of Nietzsche's The Birth of Tragedy. Needless to say, I skipped a lot during those two weeks. 

In fact, it's during those two weeks that my friend Steve (yes, uncle Steve and now friend Steve) and I had a serious talk, at a place called the Rose and Crown (Omaha, Nebraska’s version of Melville's Spouter Inn) about whether it mattered if one read "the whole thing" or not. I was anxious about the habit I was developing of skipping while reading, a habit I developed as a response to the insane demands of grad school.

Though it's been twelve years since Steve and I had that conversation, I still remember what he said:

(1) "Reading the whole thing is overrated" and

(2) "So let's say you read all of Moby-Dick; hell, let's say you write Moby-Dick. Then what? There’s still Jupiter and it’s still bigger than anything you've got."

Now, Steve was likely three sheets to the wind when he said that second thing. (That’s right. I just used a euphemism for drunkenness that originates in nineteenth-century nautical terminology. That was for you, Melville.) I’ll translate. Here’s what Steve actually said:

(1) “The point of reading is not simply to consume a book. One must interact with it, respond to it. And one can genuinely respond to a book even if he hasn't read the whole thing. Furthermore, reading the whole thing does not automatically entitle one to claim that he has had a meaningful experience with a book.”

This first point prompted me to forward Steve this now classic bit of fake journalism.

(2) "What kind of accomplishment is it to have read (or even written) a great novel, when that accomplishment is placed in a context of creation that includes such unthinkable wonders as the planet Jupiter?" 

Now that question knocked me out. It still does.

In the intervening years, I’ve become an avid read-the-whole-thinger. I kind of always was one, but I also always knew that reading the whole thing is never enough, and that those who think it is enough are either smug or callow. They either think (a) reading is way more like bird watching than it actually is or (b) reading the whole thing is as valuable an activity as having a genuine interaction with the text.

Maybe what we call “literacy” is really just pre-literacy. Maybe reading a book is the least thing that we can do with the book, not the only thing. Maybe literate individuals read because they have to, because reading is the prerequisite to doing the thing that they really want to do, which is create, interact, comingle their ideas with those of the author.

For me, reading has always been means to an end, never an end in itself. Books are the things I go through to get to people. 

Reading in public

My new favorite blog is Underground New York Public Library. It's a lot like my wife's favorite blog, Sartorialist, but instead of being about people wearing stylish clothes, it's about people reading books in public.

Here's a typical example from each:


Sometimes, it's hard to tell which blog is which ...
 

... especially when everyone's reading. 

Is there some correlation between stylish people and people who read? Maybe.

But I think the more important correlation is that both kinds of people are interesting in some way--both kinds stick out in a crowd, both invite (intentionally or not) the kind of attention that earns them a place on someone's flickr feed. Both kinds of people are assertively themselves, wholly contextualized into their environments (i.e., looking natural) while at the same time doing their own thing. That's pretty cool. In fact, it might be a useable definition of that illusive trait of "cool."

Anyway, this interest in photos of people reading in public carries over into the classroom. In my Literature and Cinema class, the first film we watched this semester was Adaptation, a movie about one screenwriter's near failed attempt to adapt Susan Orlean's The Orchid Thief. 

The movie's about how hard it is to make something as public as a movie out of something as private experience of reading a beautiful book about flowers.

I started the semester with this movie because it's a way of starting a conversation about what it means to write and read stories. Writing a story involves deciding how to translate an experience into a coherent narrative, with a beginning, middle, and end. And reading a story involves interacting with those decisions, projecting in your mind the world, people, and actions that the writer's decisions convey in her story.

Adaptation includes a lot of scenes of people reading:

Susan Orlean (played by Meryl Streep) reading about Orchids.

Susan Orlean having a sublime experience while reading. 

Notice the private setting--the home office--and the private rapture.

Compare that to this:

Screenwriter Charlie Kaufman (Nicholas Cage) reading Orlean's book. 

Kaufman is digging into the text not for pleasure but because he has to make something out of it. Specifically, he has to make a movie. He starts obsession over the book, specifically over its unadaptability. Can one make a page of beautiful words into a screen of entertaining sights and sounds? That is a question I will be asking my students a lot this semester.

Kaufman fails to interact with Orlean's text. He simply loves her book. (He may even love Orlean.) But he can't offer either thing anything in return.

In other words, Charlie is bad at being in public. At a diner, when a nice server shows some interest in the book he's reading and in doing the job of being a nice server ...

Charlie "misreads" her kindness and (very awkwardly) asks her out. 

She gets scared and tells her boss. The message: Reading less dangerous than socializing, and the former is likely to make the latter more difficult.

Now, cognitive scientists have discovered that the opposite is the case, that reading--especially reading literature--enhances one's ability to navigate the complexities of social interaction, to more fully inhabit the moments in which they interact with other people.

And that's a long-term hope of mine: That the stereotype of the socially-awkward bookworm will die out and be replaced by, well, this guy.

The quote-unquote "College Experience"

So I volunteered to teach a section of "first-year seminar," which is a one-credit hour course that first-semester Rockhurst students take.

One of the goals of the course is to acclimate students to university culture at Rockhurst. Tomorrow is our first day. Well, it's our first day in the classroom. I met my section last week. We had lunch. I learned a lot about each of the students, like how Logan has 14 chickens (13, actually; one just died) and can name each of them, and how Claire really likes giraffes, and how one student ain't afraid of receding hairlines.

But, tomorrow, I get to the serious work of acclimating these students to the college experience, which is why I'm starting with the "quote-unquote 'college experience'"--the fantasy of college life that is peddled by Hollywood movies.

My plan is to take students on a jaunt through popular campus movies of the late twentieth century, ask them how popular representations of campuses have changed in the twenty-first century, and then ask them how their actual first week on campus compares to their expectations of week one.

Starting with the 1970s:

Animal House (1978)

This is a good place to start, I think, not only because of Animal House is THE iconic campus film, but also because it's likely to be a film that is equally alienating to me and my students. I've never admitted this to anyone, but I do not get John Belushi. He's never seemed even remotely funny to me. Tomorrow's my chance to see if ol' Bluto means as little to my students as he did to me. 

The 80s!

Real Genius (1985)

There are so many great things about this movie. As a kid, it convinced me that college was this magical place where eccentrics ran amok and created exploding apples for their teachers and mini ice ages in their dorm halls. It was were mysterious, bearded men lived in underground lairs behind trapdoors in dorm closets and cracked the codes of corporate sweepstakes. It was were you became friends with the kinds of people you never knew existed and, with that friendship, foiled your evil professor's plan to sell laser technology to the U.S. military. This movie convinced me to go to college and stay there.  

The dream of the 90s is alive in PCU

PCU (1994)

I was doing some serious mental preparation for college when I first saw this 1990s homage to the fratty hijinks of Animal House. I never bought this film's message, which is basically that all that alienated, angsty Gen-Xers need to be happy is a healthy dose of 1970s kegger nihilism. But I did aspire to the cool comprehension of college displayed by Jeremy Piven's character. Plus, I was still recovering from having had my heart broken by the movie, Rudy (1993), and I liked seeing John Favreau again (even if in dreds). 

And now for a very special episode of Generation X Goes to College: 

Higher Learning (1995)

Higher Learning kind of blew my mind. It was like that "very special episode" of your favorite sitcom (the "sitcom" in this analogy being campus movies) where some downright serious issues got addressed. This movie was a real introduction to identity politics and their stakes in young people's lives. It was also my introduction to John Singleton. 

If Val Kilmer in Real Genius taught me how to want to be a college student, Laurence Fishburne in Higher Learning taught me how to want to be a college professor. Minus the bowtie.  

Welcome 2.0

One of my very first blog posts was about how I'd recently learned a new technology--the animated movie-making software at xtranormal. It's been nearly eight months, and in that time, I have not advanced at all in my knowledge of that technology. In fact, looking over the new "Welcome" movie that I just made for my Literature and Cinema class, I notice how similar that "movie" is to my first effort:

In a half a year, all I have taught myself how to do is make bald men stand amid blank chroma key mattes and talk and gesture awkwardly. To boot, I apparently don't understanding continuity editing at all--I haven't seen that many alienating jump cuts in a single minute of film since that car scene from Breathless.

So I haven't grown as a filmmaker. This fact was clearest to me when I stumbled upon this short film made by a recent Rockhurst U graduate and soon-to-be super-famous person:

 

Both a brilliant film and a world-class morale boost, no?

Dear incoming and future freshperson, take my advice: Watch this film, a lot. Bookmark it and re-watch it whenever you feel the duress of demanding professors and the strain of your own lofty professional ambitions.

If I'd only seen such a film when I was a freshman, I'd have had fewer bouts of alienation, or I'd at least have been inspired to make better movies.

Happy fall!

Infrequently Asked Questions, 2

Steve got back to me. He answered his own questions. Then he asked me some more questions 


(Steve's words=serif; mine=sans-serif):


Do you think studying American lit is a way to understand America, Americans, and its/their place in the world historically, today, and in the future?


1. Yes.  I do.  When you read American literature, you can ask questions like the following:  What is America?  Where did it come from?  Who are Americans?  Who isn’t?  How does one become an American?  What does it mean to become an American?  What is America’s role in the World?  What purpose does it serve?  You can study American history, laws, art, artists, musicians, geography, philosophy, economics, political structure, etc. and ask the same questions…Nations as means of organizing people and thought and resources may be losing ground, but nation-states are not irrelevant in the world.


Take it away, Ned Beatty's character from Network (1976): 

2. And what's the use of understanding America/Americans?


Understanding the way Americans see themselves, the world, their place in the world, could help one understand why Americans do what they do.  If America is wrecking havoc in the world, it may have something to do with their world view, and to stop wrecking havoc may require a shift in worldview…to shift something, one must know what it is…


Amen. But I've been wondering lately whether one's own bellybutton is the best focal point through which to affect a shift in worldview. I've always thought so, at least ever since I read Allen Ginsberg's "America" (1956).


3. Would you say that America has a significant impact on the lives of many people the world over, for good or ill, and ultimately, people's lives could be better or worse based on the Actions/attitudes of America/Americans and studying them might reveal the good/evil that can befall the world?  (this one loses structural integrity, but i'm too tired to clean it up)


Yes.  The world could be a better place, not because of American Literature, but because studying American Literature, we might find out why America does what it does, and that might give us a clue as to how to redirect the nation’s energies.  Like therapy for a nation.  Who are we as a people?  What do we value?  What should we value?  America’s attitudes toward central and south American, Europe, Africa, Asia, Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, Communism, etc.…We might better understand it through the study of American Literature.  We might suggest alternatives.


Remember when we went to that Springsteen concert in 2000? We ate at Tanner's on Broadway and someone (it may have been you) ordered an "American Dog" hotdog and I said, "What makes it an American dog? Was it raised on promises?" When Sara and I started dating, I told her that story (as proof of my quick wit). No reaction. I told her I was riffing on lyrics from the Tom Petty song, "American Girl." Nothing. I played her the song. She shrugged. She said the problem with me and Tom Petty is that it never occurred to either of us that she, too, is an American girl.


Here’s another question…What about the study of American Literature pleases you?  What aspects of studying Am. Lit. give you pleasure?


I'm going to resist the urge to say that pleasure is overrated, to mention the time my mom said she just wanted me to be happy and I said I'll settle for useful. Instead, I'll say that I'm not sure but that I never slept properly on Tuesday nights, after my Studies in the American Novel course let out at 8:40 PM. I'll say that I feel an absolute urgency to talk about whether U.S. fiction will continue to matter in the 21st century, about if anybody cares that no Pulitzer Prize for fiction was awarded in 2012. I'll say that those conversations I had on Tuesday nights sustained me, even if they also made that alarm bell of anxiety all the louder.


2. If Am Lit Courses were to go away, what would you replace it with?  World Literature?  American Studies?


"Literature of the Americas" has a nice ring. Such a rubric might also push me to actually, finally learn Spanish.


3. What does this mean? “This trend of insularity ends the minute American soil gets delocalized, the minute we dig for worms and find instead the cords of camaraderie.”


I don't know. That's why I pasted in that trailer to the documentary Vivan las Antipodes! That's how blog writing works. When you can't explain, deflect. I think I was trying to make some metaphor about global networks, about uncommon ties to what's not American.


I've been failing to make that metaphor for years now. 

You know it's grading season when ...

... you look at your blog and find that the most recent post is more than a week old and is basically just a photograph of a crossword puzzle.

More interesting posts anon.

Shoutout

Thanks, Erica Putze, for calling attention to the "Arthur" shoutout in this week's Sentinal!

Infrequently Asked Questions

Yesterday I got an email from a fellow English prof and bff-level broseph, Steve, and it said this: “i feel like i have no idea what you think about american lit.”

Yes, English profs don’t always capitalize their vertical pronouns. We have earned that right. 

Steve’s the guy who asks the questions that make you feel like a sweaty hamster who’s just been asked to think about the wheel he’s been sweating on.

Dig this litany of wheel-pondering questions:

1.     Do you think studying American lit is a way to understand America, Americans, and its/their place in the world historically, today, and in the future?

2.     And what's the use of understanding America/Americans? 

3.     Would you say that America has a significant impact on the lives of many people the world over, for good or ill, and ultimately, people's lives could be better or worse based on the Actions/attitudes of America/Americans and studying them might reveal the good/evil that can befall the world?  (this one loses structural integrity, but i'm too tired to clean it up)

Now, I hate these kinds of questions. If these questions were dressed in ties and jackets and ringing my doorbell, I would hide under my sofa all day before I showed the least sign of being home. These questions want to take their shoes off and sit in the lotus position and talk about harmony while I run global searches on my laptop for the most recent draft of that article I’ll never finish.

But Steve’s my friend, so here’s my answers:

1. To the extent that it is an adjective used to modify the word “literature,” “American” is going out of style.

The idea that the U.S. is an exemplary, exceptional nation is losing ground—and for good reason. We were kids in the 1980s and we watched a president wax poetic about “a shining city on a hill.” Then we grew up and read John Winthrop for ourselves, and we realized that that “city on a hill” Winthrop was talking about was not a metaphor about how America was a beacon of hope but a warning to the Massachusetts Bay Colony about just how exposed its fate was going to be to the rest of the world. Indeed, America has always been the world’s nation and we grew up thinking it was the other way around.

So I think that “American Literature” will remain a valid category of literature to the extent that it can function as a rubric through which to gauge the interrelationship between the global and the national.

2. America and Americans have a crazy relationship to place, one that bears some seriously useful fruit.

The category of literature known as “American” includes writing that happened in a world that was un-freaking-mapped. The narrative and descriptive strategies that grow from such a context of geographical uncertainty are super interesting. And they’re super relevant in an era wherein global communities and cosmopolitan sensibilities (not to mention multi-national corporations) are eroding the very claims of territorial authority upon which national sovereignty rests (i.e., right now).

As the technologies that make sense of the world evolve, the literature written in and about a world that lacks territorial integrity (i.e., the Americas) will remain instructive, if only to be cautionary.

            (Sorry about the academese of that answer.)

3. I have to say “no” to this question, because I came out against exceptionalism in answer 1 and it would be poor form to suggest here that U.S. lit might save the world.

Heck, I think that the fact that it’s been 20 years since an American writer has won the Nobel Prize for Literature is a sign that the world doesn’t give a fig about U.S. lit anymore. Horace Engdahl, the Nobel Academy’s permanent secretary, said that U.S. lit it is “too isolated, too insular” to matter on a global stage. This trend of insularity ends the minute American soil gets delocalized, the minute we dig for worms and find instead the cords of camaraderie.

Or at least our winsome antipode!