Saturday, January 19, 2013

Seriously Funny


For their first paper of the semester, students in my American Literature Since 1945 class have to treat an intensely funny novel as though it might be dead serious.
This is the kind of novel whose main character is so impossibly hilarious that the filmmakers who have tried (and failed) to make movie version of him can only think of top-brass funnymen to fill the role: Harold Ramis chose John Belushi in the 1980s, in the 90s the names were John Candy and Chris Farley, in the early 00s David Gordon Green picked Will Farrell. Now it’s The Muppets James Bobin in the director’s chair and (drumroll) Zach Galifianakis in the role Ignatius J. Reilly.
Galifianakis is the right man for the job. He is funny in a way that scares me a little, that inspires equal parts pathos and schadenfreude.

Students have to answer the question of whether A Confederacy of Dunces is a “Civil Rights novel” or not. By “Civil Rights Novel,” I mean a novel that is committed to solving such big American problems as racial segregation, to doing something more than turning such problems into a literary enterprise.

Confederacy is a good candidate for this kind of investigation. Like Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Confederacy is a novel whose light-hearted fun masks a more complex statement about race relations in America. Critics have long disagreed about what effect Twain’s book has on race relations, and on whether the author had any philanthropic motivations at all. This edition of Huck Finn collects all the relevant essays of that critical controversy. 

One of the things students have to do is track the novel’s representation of political activism, as such scenes can offer insight into the author’s impressions of the civil disobedience happening in the American South at the time he wrote the novel.

To that end, and in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I offer this very brief roll call of early Civil Rights-era actions:

In 1955, there is a bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, wherein African American citizens of Montgomery refused to ride city busses, thus reminding the city how much it depends on the revenue of citizens it forces to the backs of its busses. The boycott is lifted a year later, after the U.S. Supreme Court declares Alabama’s bus segregation policy unconstitutional.
In February of 1960, four black college students in Greensboro, North Carolina, sit down at a “whites only” lunch counter and order coffee. When refused service, they refuse to leave. Thus the “sit-in” is born in the American South. Many restaurants are desegregated as a result.
Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) was also founded in 1960.
In 1961, organizers in the North stage “Freedom Rides,” in which college students travel South in buses to test the effectiveness of a U.S. Supreme Court decision that desegregated interstate bus stations. When the Freedom Riders reach Alabama, violence erupts.
In 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr. leads antisegregation marches in Birmingham, Alabama. Police attack demonstrators with dogs, and firefighters turn high-pressure water hoses on them. Television broadcasts of the violence shocked the nation, increasing support for civil rights.
Later that year, national civil rights leaders stage a “March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom,” at which King delivers his “I Have a Dream” speech to an audience of more than 200,000.
In 1964, the SNCC recruits Northern college students to help register voters in Mississippi. The project received national attention when three participants were murdered.

In 1965, at an SNCC protest in Selma, Alabama, police beat and tear-gas marchers. Televised scenes of the event shock create broad support for a law to protect African Americans in the South who want to exercise their right to vote.
In 1968, King is assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

13

I've heard that 13 is an unlucky number. But I'm not convinced.

Thirteen is the number of ways one can look at a blackbird:
It's a number of ways to look at a novel:
It's the number of days it took Kennedy to avert the greatest crisis of the nuclear age:
It's the number of the day I was born. Friday the 13th, no less.

Needless to say, I am not superstitious about the number 13.

But I do find heartening the convention of not including 13th floors in buildings and foregoing 13th rows in airplanes. The fact that such sober citizens as whatever kind of engineers it takes to design elevators or the interiors of commercial jets comply on some level with the least logical among us gives me hope.

I don't know where our collective fear of the number 13 came from, and I'm not going to google it. One resolution I have for 2013 is to learn things in more meaningful ways, if only to cut deeper grooves into my memory. I think that sounds old-fashioned, but I don't think I care. I'm kind of fed up the access model of education--with the idea that being informed has something to do with knowing how to access the technology that retains information. The sum of human knowledge is floating in "the cloud" (that awful neologism).

To paraphrase a line from a 13th Floor Elevators, we're going to look around in our minds and find that knowledge gone:
Thanks to said cloud, human brains are now free to do things other than be a repositories of information. I joke sometimes about what we might do with our brains now that they no longer need to be receptacles of knowledge.

That joke got a little more serious this Christmas, when my wife gave me an iPad that had this inscription on the back of it: "Saber es acordarse. Aristoteles" My first challenge: Do I plug that phrase into a translation app or do I work it out on my own? I tried to work it out, but the "se" on "acordarse" threw me. Plus, thanks to years of google answering my every query, I have no patience. So I looked it up.

"Saber es acordarse." / "To know is to remember."

To place that sentence as the inscription on an information Pad (that's what the "i" in Apple products stands for, right?) is to compel its user to pause, to commit at least a brief stretch of time to the slow business of thinking, before summoning the awful beauty of big brother tablet and admitting your ignorance.

Which is to say that I might have the only iPad that is also a lesson in humility.