http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2007/10/19/entertainment/e190351D69.DTL
I just read this article in the SF Chronicle. At a lecture/reading, JK Rowling outed Albus Dumbledore. While I have yet to read the final book and, therefore, don't know about the character she is talking about, I am very excited to see that this great literary character is all the more real and complex. Really, I am glad because this is another way that acceptance and respect will become part of the cultural discourse.
While there is still a long way to go in the fight to bring the rights of gays, lesbians, and transgendered people to where they should be---the same level as us straight folks---I think the public view of homosexuality is improving. I have noticed that since pop culture has embraced gay characters (Northern Exposure, Ellen, Will and Grace, Ugly Betty, etc), there has been a marked shift in norms. This is especially apparent at the high school, where there are quite a few openly gay kids. When I went to the high school, it was an unwelcoming place for gay students. While "gay" is still used as a derogatory statement, as in, "That movie was so gay!" meaning "That movie was so bad," kids are much more accepting and willing to befriend other kids of other sexual orientations.
This move by Rowling will help that much more. Yet another generation will see a strong, good, loving gay character with whom they can relate, as opposed to the over-the-top stereotypes of the past. Of course, this will give the radical Christian right one more reason to not like the book, as the article states, but, really, who cares? They are becoming increasing irrelevant with every passing day. They can't stop change. They aren't magic, after all...
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I shouldn't be writing now
I am swamped! I am going crazy! My students have let me down! I am not happy! I am far too busy to write...
But here I am. For some reason, I decided that right now I needed to return to blogging, that nothing mattered more to me than writing. I don't know why. I don't even have anything to say. Perhaps I just needed a little pontification to clear my mind...
At the English department meeting today, one of my colleagues related a story of a workshop on adapting lessons to fit the needs of English language learners at which the presenter told the group that language isn't necessary for thought. On hearing this, Mark left the meeting. (This act of defiance could have put him into some hot water, but he felt he had to leave in the face of such idiocy.) Her statement has made me wonder.
Language is so ingrained into us that I cannot conceive of the world with out. Literally. Of course, it is possible to see mental pictures, but I defy most people to shift complete away from the mental electricity of language. It is what we run on; our synapses firing would be little more than a jump start without the words to run the vehicle. Or would our lives be that dim without language?
As an English teacher, I have been conditioned to think that words our necessary to life. Perhaps they are. Perhaps not. They are for me. I am a word-lover. Learning new words thrills me. I like word games. I am especially crazy about etymology, which must drive my students crazy because I kind of force it down their throats. I often catch myself thinking deeply, perhaps a little too deeply, about a certain phrase or word, dwelling on them. Beyond all of my fancy for words is the necessity of words. They are our thoughts. As often as I can, I belabor a point Margaret Atwood made: writing is telepathy. In other words, the only way to get the contents of my mind to that of my audience is through these crazy sounds (or, in the case of writing, this arbitrary squiggles that stand for sounds), and, indeed, that is really how I access my information when it is inside of my head.
But I have begun to wonder about all of this. Is it true?
A few years ago (before I went to Japan?), I watched a program about a woman who works with cattle. She is a scientist who designs more humane ways to herd and slaughter animals. While I may take issue with the slaughter, I applaud her efforts to make them more humane. Anyway, her particular talent for this pursuit comes from the fact that as an autistic person, she claims to see in pictures. Lately, I stumbled upon her work again in the Ukiahi library. Her name is Dr. Temple Grandin. She says that her memories, her mind are not made up of words, but rather pictures that constantly run (and can be rerun) like a movie. This allows her to "replay" her thoughts and reexamine them from the cow's point of view. I am sure I am grossly understating this seemingly fantastic ability, but it is very intriguing to me.
I have no way of knowing if it is true. How could we? No one can go into another's mind, and precisely because of this, I can't even conceive of what Dr. Grandin means. My world is so bound and tied with words that thinking only (or mostly) in pictures is unfathomable to me. Surely we all have visual memory, but to have it dominate would represent a bold difference in my life. I am going to have to check out Dr. Grandin's book Thinking in Pictures.
This all brings me to wonder what my job is really about. Indeed, most humans are language-based thinkers, so my charge is to teach the young people of my community how best to use this vital tool. However, I wonder how much is necessary? How much is too much? Not that I want to change it, but could we change this language-heavy paradigm which very literally dominates our thinking, or is Dr. Grandin a reminder of some former epoch in human life when words were a smaller part of the thinking process? Clearly, if language is more socially created, as this question implies, it won out, probably, I would wager, due to its efficiency, but if language is/was social, could we go back (or, perhaps, more appropriately, switch our focus)? And if we could, would there be benefits from our changed perspective? Language, though, has components hardwired into the human psyche (as Chomsky & others), but, continuing the metaphor, when did that "upgrade" occur?
To get to the main question: why teach language if there are other thought processes out there that may (or may not) have important benefits. Do word lovers like me just push our language-centered world on others?
http://www.templegrandin.com/
But here I am. For some reason, I decided that right now I needed to return to blogging, that nothing mattered more to me than writing. I don't know why. I don't even have anything to say. Perhaps I just needed a little pontification to clear my mind...
At the English department meeting today, one of my colleagues related a story of a workshop on adapting lessons to fit the needs of English language learners at which the presenter told the group that language isn't necessary for thought. On hearing this, Mark left the meeting. (This act of defiance could have put him into some hot water, but he felt he had to leave in the face of such idiocy.) Her statement has made me wonder.
Language is so ingrained into us that I cannot conceive of the world with out. Literally. Of course, it is possible to see mental pictures, but I defy most people to shift complete away from the mental electricity of language. It is what we run on; our synapses firing would be little more than a jump start without the words to run the vehicle. Or would our lives be that dim without language?
As an English teacher, I have been conditioned to think that words our necessary to life. Perhaps they are. Perhaps not. They are for me. I am a word-lover. Learning new words thrills me. I like word games. I am especially crazy about etymology, which must drive my students crazy because I kind of force it down their throats. I often catch myself thinking deeply, perhaps a little too deeply, about a certain phrase or word, dwelling on them. Beyond all of my fancy for words is the necessity of words. They are our thoughts. As often as I can, I belabor a point Margaret Atwood made: writing is telepathy. In other words, the only way to get the contents of my mind to that of my audience is through these crazy sounds (or, in the case of writing, this arbitrary squiggles that stand for sounds), and, indeed, that is really how I access my information when it is inside of my head.
But I have begun to wonder about all of this. Is it true?
A few years ago (before I went to Japan?), I watched a program about a woman who works with cattle. She is a scientist who designs more humane ways to herd and slaughter animals. While I may take issue with the slaughter, I applaud her efforts to make them more humane. Anyway, her particular talent for this pursuit comes from the fact that as an autistic person, she claims to see in pictures. Lately, I stumbled upon her work again in the Ukiahi library. Her name is Dr. Temple Grandin. She says that her memories, her mind are not made up of words, but rather pictures that constantly run (and can be rerun) like a movie. This allows her to "replay" her thoughts and reexamine them from the cow's point of view. I am sure I am grossly understating this seemingly fantastic ability, but it is very intriguing to me.
I have no way of knowing if it is true. How could we? No one can go into another's mind, and precisely because of this, I can't even conceive of what Dr. Grandin means. My world is so bound and tied with words that thinking only (or mostly) in pictures is unfathomable to me. Surely we all have visual memory, but to have it dominate would represent a bold difference in my life. I am going to have to check out Dr. Grandin's book Thinking in Pictures.
This all brings me to wonder what my job is really about. Indeed, most humans are language-based thinkers, so my charge is to teach the young people of my community how best to use this vital tool. However, I wonder how much is necessary? How much is too much? Not that I want to change it, but could we change this language-heavy paradigm which very literally dominates our thinking, or is Dr. Grandin a reminder of some former epoch in human life when words were a smaller part of the thinking process? Clearly, if language is more socially created, as this question implies, it won out, probably, I would wager, due to its efficiency, but if language is/was social, could we go back (or, perhaps, more appropriately, switch our focus)? And if we could, would there be benefits from our changed perspective? Language, though, has components hardwired into the human psyche (as Chomsky & others), but, continuing the metaphor, when did that "upgrade" occur?
To get to the main question: why teach language if there are other thought processes out there that may (or may not) have important benefits. Do word lovers like me just push our language-centered world on others?
http://www.templegrandin.com/
Friday, June 22, 2007
Yann Martel VS Stephen Harper: The Battle for the North American Mind
For the past 8 weeks or so I have been following writer Yann Martel's (The Life of Pi) subtle, sarcastic and scrumptious toying with Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper. You can learn about this battle royale at Martel's site ( ) for yourself, but here is a quick summary. A few months ago, Martel and 49 other Canadian artists and recipients of arts grants helped celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Canadian Council for the Arts. Well, as it turned out the celebration was not so celebratory; for his description of the event, it seemed more perfunctory. The biggest slap in the face was the seeming disinterested to the Dubya of the North, Mr. Harper, who didn't even pay attention, much less speak at the ceremony.
Yann Martel is now set on proving a point. To draw attention to the lack of funding for, interest in, and passion for the Arts in North America, he has faced off against the inattentive PM by sending him a notable piece of writing every second Monday. So far, he has sent Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych, Orwell's Animal Farm, Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Smart's By Grand Central Station I sat Down and Wept, and, most recently, the Indian holy text, The Bhagavad Gita. Martel has chosen this list of 5 books because they engender a sense of "stillness." I'm not sure exactly why he thinks these 5 seemingly disconnected lot hold the essence of stillness, but, instead, it seems he is saying ANY type of book, or, more generally, any type of art makes the consumer be still. To appreciate Art, we need to stand (or sit) back and let it flow over us. (Most television, however, doesn't seem to create stillness though because of its crazy-making pace and its connection to the advertisement and selling products.) A book, a paint, a symphonic piece requires the consumer to focus while simultaneously letting go.
Martel's gentle prodding at the Western mind by way of his famous target is reminiscent of another event a few weeks ago in which a small Mom-and-Pop used bookshop owner burned a warehouse full of books because no one would take them. The owner had too many books for his store, so he kept them in a large warehouse. Because book sales were going down, though, he was forced to get rid of some inventory. He tried to give the perfectly good used books to various agencies, charities and schools, but no one would take them. The bookseller decided to get a little Fehrenheit 451 and make a statement by destroying the books to point out just how little American (and, evidently, Canadian) culture cares for the Arts and for stillness.
It is sad that fewer people read for fun. Fewer people appreciate the Arts, which are now more accessible to the populace than ever. It makes me see that my job is that much more important, and as time wears on and the television drains its viewers minds, I have to make a special effort to help my kids see that Art--including books--is just as exciting, sexy, fun as TV but with something more...the still and beauty that Martel is trying to get Harper, and all of us, to see.
As a postscript; Harper has gotten back to Martel (3 or 4 weeks later) through his secretary. He (or rather she) sent a brief and insincere (?) thank you to the writer. The wording goes well with Harper's smug smile on the front page of Martel's site.
http://whatisstephenharperreading.ca/
Yann Martel is now set on proving a point. To draw attention to the lack of funding for, interest in, and passion for the Arts in North America, he has faced off against the inattentive PM by sending him a notable piece of writing every second Monday. So far, he has sent Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych, Orwell's Animal Farm, Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Smart's By Grand Central Station I sat Down and Wept, and, most recently, the Indian holy text, The Bhagavad Gita. Martel has chosen this list of 5 books because they engender a sense of "stillness." I'm not sure exactly why he thinks these 5 seemingly disconnected lot hold the essence of stillness, but, instead, it seems he is saying ANY type of book, or, more generally, any type of art makes the consumer be still. To appreciate Art, we need to stand (or sit) back and let it flow over us. (Most television, however, doesn't seem to create stillness though because of its crazy-making pace and its connection to the advertisement and selling products.) A book, a paint, a symphonic piece requires the consumer to focus while simultaneously letting go.
Martel's gentle prodding at the Western mind by way of his famous target is reminiscent of another event a few weeks ago in which a small Mom-and-Pop used bookshop owner burned a warehouse full of books because no one would take them. The owner had too many books for his store, so he kept them in a large warehouse. Because book sales were going down, though, he was forced to get rid of some inventory. He tried to give the perfectly good used books to various agencies, charities and schools, but no one would take them. The bookseller decided to get a little Fehrenheit 451 and make a statement by destroying the books to point out just how little American (and, evidently, Canadian) culture cares for the Arts and for stillness.
It is sad that fewer people read for fun. Fewer people appreciate the Arts, which are now more accessible to the populace than ever. It makes me see that my job is that much more important, and as time wears on and the television drains its viewers minds, I have to make a special effort to help my kids see that Art--including books--is just as exciting, sexy, fun as TV but with something more...the still and beauty that Martel is trying to get Harper, and all of us, to see.
As a postscript; Harper has gotten back to Martel (3 or 4 weeks later) through his secretary. He (or rather she) sent a brief and insincere (?) thank you to the writer. The wording goes well with Harper's smug smile on the front page of Martel's site.
http://whatisstephenharperreading.ca/
Finally some time...
After more than a month away from writing here, I have finally found some time to get back to it. I am glad to be back. Please look for more posts in the near future.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Who am I?
It is a strange feeling having multiple identities.
I am not me, of course. The way I see myself is, most definitely, not what most people see. I will never really know what it is like to know myself from the outside; no can. The tiny universe I hold within my bubble of perception is only mine. The "me's" outside of me belong to the group that define them.
I have, at least, four "me's" outside my own private Me.
I was first "Christopher," the family me. This is the person defined, mostly by my parents and sister. This is the one know to my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and people known through my family. I feel comfortable with me, especially around my most immediate family. It is the me I have been for the longest. The one most clearly defined. A few friends also know this me, but not many. People who know me through my parents or sister or, even, my extended family know me as "Christopher."
I was, next, the friend and student, "Chris." My mom, I have been told, tried to kill this me when he first raised his head in Kindergarten. My teacher called me "Chris" on the first day of school, but my mom said, "His name is Christopher." But the family Christopher my mom tried to import into this setting couldn't last long in that alien environment. A new me, the one Mr. Zensen helped into life with his naming, was necessary and important. I am comfortable as "Chris," too. He is my main face. When I introduce myself, it is with this name. It is funny that when my family calls me by this name, by body physically reacts. I think, "I am not Chris to you..."
Of course, we all go through this process of the expanding self. We are all many people. We are all different in different situations, but my job has opened a new and strange facet of my person: Mr Douthit.
My students all know my first name, but they don't call me that. I am not just another guy to them; they have conferred on me some kind of respect. I don't know how I feel about this. The fact that I am their "Mr. Douthit," who they depend on for knowledge and, in a certain respect, protection is disconcerting. I am their model for a responsible adult, how to act and what to do. Being called "Mr. Douthit" has forced me to realize how separate my persons are.
I am both raunchy, joking "Chris," but I am also, much to my surprise even though I knew it was coming, "Mr. Douthit," with all that means. I am an adult, a respected adult, AND, at the same time, the boy that I will never stop being.
Strange. I know that "Christopher," "Chris," and "Mr. Douthit" will all live and thrive as long as there are people who call me these names, and I also know that I will also be new names someday: Dad, Grandpa....
I am not me, of course. The way I see myself is, most definitely, not what most people see. I will never really know what it is like to know myself from the outside; no can. The tiny universe I hold within my bubble of perception is only mine. The "me's" outside of me belong to the group that define them.
I have, at least, four "me's" outside my own private Me.
I was first "Christopher," the family me. This is the person defined, mostly by my parents and sister. This is the one know to my grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and people known through my family. I feel comfortable with me, especially around my most immediate family. It is the me I have been for the longest. The one most clearly defined. A few friends also know this me, but not many. People who know me through my parents or sister or, even, my extended family know me as "Christopher."
I was, next, the friend and student, "Chris." My mom, I have been told, tried to kill this me when he first raised his head in Kindergarten. My teacher called me "Chris" on the first day of school, but my mom said, "His name is Christopher." But the family Christopher my mom tried to import into this setting couldn't last long in that alien environment. A new me, the one Mr. Zensen helped into life with his naming, was necessary and important. I am comfortable as "Chris," too. He is my main face. When I introduce myself, it is with this name. It is funny that when my family calls me by this name, by body physically reacts. I think, "I am not Chris to you..."
Of course, we all go through this process of the expanding self. We are all many people. We are all different in different situations, but my job has opened a new and strange facet of my person: Mr Douthit.
My students all know my first name, but they don't call me that. I am not just another guy to them; they have conferred on me some kind of respect. I don't know how I feel about this. The fact that I am their "Mr. Douthit," who they depend on for knowledge and, in a certain respect, protection is disconcerting. I am their model for a responsible adult, how to act and what to do. Being called "Mr. Douthit" has forced me to realize how separate my persons are.
I am both raunchy, joking "Chris," but I am also, much to my surprise even though I knew it was coming, "Mr. Douthit," with all that means. I am an adult, a respected adult, AND, at the same time, the boy that I will never stop being.
Strange. I know that "Christopher," "Chris," and "Mr. Douthit" will all live and thrive as long as there are people who call me these names, and I also know that I will also be new names someday: Dad, Grandpa....
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
An Exciting Day for a Nerd
Yesterday was a good day. The new Michael Chabon book, The Yiddish Policmen's Union, came out, and, being the nerd that I am, I reserved my copy (after checking various bookstores for the release date) and got it as soon as I possibly could.
I have only read a bit of it, but so far so good. I can't wait to have a little time to read some more.
After looking at it for a bit (and missing it a couple of times), I found that the book is a special signed copy. Cool! Now I have three signed books by Mr. Chabon...
I said I was a nerd, didn't I?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Feeling Sorry for the Dead
A few days ago, my wife told me, for the millionth time, how strange I am. What prompted her to again reiterate my uniqueness was that I said I felt sorry for Robert Louis Stevenson.
Robert Louis Stevenson is, as you may know, the famous author of such stories as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and a small library of others. What many don't know about the man was that he spent nearly his entire life searching for a place where he could have good health. He was born sickly, as many people in the late 19th century were, and suffered, scholars think, from pneumonia and tuberculosis until his death in 1894. He was 44. (While they may have weakened him and led, indirectly, to his death, he did not die of these diseases. He died after straining to open a bottle of wine, which caused, most probably, a cerebral hemorrhage.)
I feel for him in his illness and how it drove him from his home. He loved Scotland very much, I have read, and he longed to go back to it as he neared death. It was the seat of his heart. I feel for how his illness confined him to a bed for a large percentage of his life. I see paintings and photographs of him. He looks so thin and fragile. I think, no one deserves such a life, such a sickness.
My wife says I am strange because, she claims, I often feel bad for people so distant from me.
I don't think that is why my sympathy for Stevenson makes me weird. My sympathy seems completely natural to me because I feel sadness about his illness. The thing that makes me weird, in this case, is that, really, he is everything I want to be despite his illness...
Robert Louis Stevenson was a writer, not only of renown but of great skill. He was not merely a romance writer, as many believe, but a man of sincere dedication to his craft and a keen observer of the everyday, especially in his later work. He was a world traveller, who chased his dreams and his desire to know, see, and experience life--even while being pursued by his illness and death. He focused his life on what was important to him and poured himself into his art. He stood up for what he thought was right and did his best to see that it happened.
I have traveled. I have written. I have, on occasion, stood up for what is right and good. But I have not dedicated my life to any of these things. I want to. I fear I never will. So, my desire to emulate Stevenson and embrace his romantic, lusty way of living perverts itself in my mind, and I fumble into the safest alternative emotion: sympathy.
I don't want to deny the feelings I have about Master Stevenson's illness, plight, and premature death; they are true and good. I also recognize, though, that they are linked to something deeper in myself: a drive wishing to be realized and acted upon in my life. A drive to dedicate myself to something I may never be great at, but that I love. A drive to leave caution behind and drive into the exotic parts of the world and my mind. A desire to leave fear behind.
My feelings about this topic have been complicated as tonight I looked over the myspace sites of some old friends and acquaintances who seem to be living their dreams, who have become moderately famous, who have become skilled craftspeople and artists. I feel that while I have done what some find impossible and reached many of my dreams, I am still struggling to find myself in the midst of my life. I am still swimming against the current as a writer who never writes, a teacher who is unsure of himself and his knowledge, and a man whose daily actions are at odds with the deepest desires of his heart and soul.
Someday I might learn what I really need to do to accomplish my next set of dreams. Or, more accurately, maybe someday I will find the courage to do what I already know I need to do, but am too scared/weak/unable to do. Maybe someday I will stop feeling sorry for the dead and myself, and I will actually move forward.
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