Front Phrases

It isn’t what we say; it’s how we say it. Because language is symbolic, it lends itself to labels and sound bites, bits that represent so much more. Because language is metaphoric, it lends itself to misleading eloquence, phrasing that conjures appealing imagery. Appearance trumps significance almost every time. Most important about what we say is that it sounds good. We must therefore question everything we see and hear. We have iconized words to represent complex and widely varied philosophies or policies. We ride these banner words for reasons only loosely related to those words. We parade verbal icons before movements whose function and purpose are cynically disconnected from the originating reality, and sometimes fairly antithetical to the operation and even existence of institutions to which the words were initially connected, words subsequently employed to leverage change for obscure and sometimes Machiavellian ends.

What do these iconic phrases mean? Here begins the examination of one such verbal icon, Education Reform. A search of book titles related to “education reform” at Barnes and Noble online reveals 32,640 titles. We can only guess what range of thought this encompasses. Even if the ideas enfolded in the pages of these books are repeated on average a thousand times, it chokes thought to accept that the phrase, which drives billions of dollars and millions of votes, can probably be safely construed only to mean ‘changing something that will affect school age children.’ Of course, it can be pretty certain that it will fuel a great deal of media-fanned political heat. In the end, what is likely to get changed is the flow of money, which generally moves away from schools and often into profit margins and dividends.

Look at the words according to Merriam-Webster’s 11th Collegiate Dictionary (electronic).

Education:

noun :

1 a : the action or process of educating or of being educated; also : a stage of such a process b : the knowledge and development resulting from an educational process <a person of little education>
2 : the field of study that deals mainly with methods of teaching and learning in schools

Reform:

noun :

1 : amendment of what is defective, vicious, corrupt, or depraved
2 : a removal or correction of an abuse, a wrong, or errors

Let us assume that “the field of study that deals mainly with methods of teaching and learning in schools,” and “a removal or correction of an abuse, a wrong, or errors,” are pretty good indicators of what is suggested by the Education Reform advocates. At least something about what happens to school aged children is impacted by “methods of teaching.” It is certainly impacted by methods of learning too, but the field of educational psychology seldom enters the Education Reform discourse. The simplified findings of brain research are sometimes forced into that discourse. Unfortunately, modern brain research is more about what happens in the brain when one learns, but not so much about how one learns.

Memorizing Cassius’ appeal to Brutus probably looks the same as memorizing the opening lines of the Declaration of Independence in terms of brain activity. So how do we memorize better? Should we even be memorizing? Is that “learning,” and if not, what is? And what do we memorize? Our definition of education doesn’t touch on the processes or content we teach and learn. We can fault Merriam-Webster for the shortcoming in its definition of education, but how can we change the rules mid-game? That’s the definition we had going on. And that’s the danger of defining; defining attempts to fix the temporal into the perpetual. The practical reality of teaching and learning is something more and different from “the field of study that deals mainly with methods of teaching and learning in schools.”

If teaching and learning has to do with building society, and it probably does, then social policy probably should specify some of what we are taught. If part of our society, however, wishes to have its members learn, say, music, should society at large have the right, because it has the power, to deprive it of that area of learning? Well, we can’t manage the issue of rights and power here. In practice, our working definition of education deals with methods of learning, how we learn, and public policy doesn’t actually try to legislate that. At the same time, our definition doesn’t deal with what we learn or why, while public policy does put considerable energy into what we learn and in an off-handed way, why we learn it. The latter is not often stated, as it happens, but since the testing that matters is a measure of economic potential, we may extrapolate an economic motive in the prescribed content of education. Not a necessarily bad thing, though a bit flat given the depths of which societies and cultures are capable.

How we learn, returning to our line of argument, likely is affected by “methods of teaching.” At first glance, this seems like the place to effect change to reform this broken world; it looks “manageable,” and in need of repair. If the advocates of Education Reform are to be believed, they may provide the best evidence that past practices in teaching were indeed flawed.  These advocates were either well educated and are deceiving us, or they were poorly educated and shouldn’t be making education policy decisions. One questions whether the policy makers themselves know the answer to that one.

In reality, teaching and learning are complex interpersonal activities, much as parenting and (he improvises) childing. They are reciprocal processes, highly individualized and adaptive, deeply steeped in personal, sometimes sectarian morality, and served with a degree of social propriety and responsibility. Where do we draw the lines around these domains? The beliefs of which institution, family, religion, heritage, state, define those lines? How do we make the right things happen and keep the wrong things from happening when we can’t always agree on what those things are? Still, without having any clear idea what we are referring to, we will leave “methods of teaching” in our Education Reform policy, and move on to the “removal or correction of an abuse, a wrong, or errors,” because the reform part of our policy may resolve this methods conundrum.

Assuredly, if there is something abusive, wrong or in error about the methods of teaching they should be corrected or simply removed. To say there may be something abusive, wrong or in error about the methods of learning challenges reason, and further justifies leaving the learning aspect out of this discussion. We can agree that we want to avoid anything that is “abusive, wrong or in error.” Fair enough, as long as we can agree on that which is constructive, right and correct. Ah. That points to the soft-spoken or unspoken but hard sought goals of the Education Reform movement. Does constructive mean building a sound, secure society or a productive, profitable work force? Does right mean, among other things of course, all for one or everyone for himself.[*] And does correct mean there is only one right answer? We would have good cause to distrust anyone who even attempted to answer these questions. If they are still being asked after millennia of contemplation, one ought to consider the possibility that their irresolvability is their answer. The conundrum not only persists, it seems to loom over this Education Reform policy.

A year ago, I visited the Cathedral in Ely, East Cambridgeshire, England. I was of course impressed by the age, the history, the grandeur, but I was most impressed by what the Reformation had accomplished at Ely, and across England. Under the reign of the deeply religious, nine year old King Edward VI and his Lord Protector, Edward Seymour, 1st Duke of Somerset,

The 1547 Injunctions against images were a more tightly drawn version of those of 1538 but they were more fiercely enforced, at first informally, and then by instruction. All images in churches were to be dismantled; stained glass, shrines, and statues were defaced or destroyed; roods and often their lofts and screens were cut down; bells were taken down; vestments were prohibited and either burned or sold; church plate was to be melted down or sold.

(taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Reformation, 06 Aug 12)

Standing, as I did, among the destruction of nearly an acre of Norman stained glass, scores of friezes of angels’ faces, dozens of religious statues and more, some over 500 years old at the time, and the destruction of the original Saxon remains including the seventh century tomb of the founding nun, Etheldreda, was a profoundly numbing experience. This was a compounded crime against heritage. Local lords and their knights paid the Crown for the privilege of wreaking this destruction.

I became acutely sensitive to the potential for loss of roots, the loss of heritage and the consequential loss of identity inherent in reform. Were the Tudor Protestants about reforming what was an abuse, a wrong, or errors in the Roman Catholic Church in England? No. We know it was about diverting the wealth and power of the Church to the Crown. I make no defense of the Church, but ask who paid the price over time. It turns out that all across England, Victorian wealth replaced much of the lost glass and statuary and even rebuilt many churches, and I’m glad they did. But where did that wealth come from? That which made Great Britain great, the factory workers of the great industrial revolution and the exploited lands and people of the British Empire paid for the sins of fathers not their own. Reform appears to be the great change that never changes.

So, where does that leave us, and how is it that we hear this term and others similarly devised so often? They are front phrases of modern policy. Front phrases are façades raised to make actions and even words appear “pretty.” They are spins on the truth, euphemisms of reality, dust thrown into credulous eyes. Not only do front phrases mean whatever the speakers or writers want them to mean, they give vice the visage of virtue, and pledge solidarity with disparate purveyors of fraud. You see, it isn’t what we say; it’s how we say it.

Assume nothing. Question everything. Look for evidence. All arguments are logical, but not all logics are reasonable. Humans are capable of reasoning. They are also capable of obfuscating, and lying with the appearance of reasonableness. Education Reform sounds like a good thing, but what does it mean? And above what army does it rise as a standard?

Now should we try “Restore American Values?”



[*] I am aware of the gender exclusion here. It is intentional.

Putting Aside Woolf: Libertarian Suffering

In talking with my brother yesterday, I was trying to explain to him, a translator of German literature—some obscure 19th century romantic, in particular—why it is that I feel I can put a book aside without finishing it. I was perhaps preparing him for the possibility of not finishing his recent translation of Wilhem Rabbe’s “At the Sign of the Wild Man,” just in case. Putting aside a book seems one of those things that people either do, more or less frequently, or don’t do, shuddering with irreligiosity at the thought. And it is with some irony that I feel I may put a book aside or a short story or any other piece of writing, as I have put aside the very writer who gave me this permission on two occasions.

I put aside Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse, both by V. Woolf. I’m not saying I would never try Woolf again, but there are so many other things I would read in the stream of consciousness school of about the period. I have of enjoyed rather very more such alternatives—J. Joyce in fact. I have enjoyed The Dubliners, piecemeal and as a collection, and I am enjoying again Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man—my first reading 33 years ago I recall as enjoyable but I couldn’t say why or have recalled much about the book except that it took that very strong personal voice of narration. I bought my first copy of The Dubliners in Dublin in 1990, though I had read a couple of the stories long before, as have most English majors. And I enjoyed the study of the stories of the collection as a set in the lectures of Mark Sutton at Cambridge in 2011. Oddly and also perhaps ironically, while attending downstream at the colleges, I have twice had tea at the Orchard, the tea shop with tables, chairs and even stinging insects among the trees of an old apple orchard near Grantchester, Cambridgeshire, once a haunt of Rupert Brooke, Virginia Woolf, and others—and have come away from there enjoying much of Brooke’s works, though that liking became muted by a certain redundancy, but I have not felt the least inclined pick up Woolf again.

So why is it that I can so much enjoy one and dislike to the point of turning away the other of two of the greatest stream of consciousness writers of the English language? I wonder if it is the gender of the narrator. Yet if it were only the narrator’s gender and presumable my ability or inability to identify with it, then why would it be that I loathe, and do not finish, reading Henry James—I nearly gagged on the first half of The Portrait of a Lady before quitting it—and quite enjoy Edith Wharton? No, it is more than just gender. I wondered if it has to do with class. Yet my two all-time favorite writers are Thomas Hardy—well the classes are certainly in his novels, but in all their colors—and Jane Austin for whom class is not a factor, as anything in a lower class would, like a toilet, be well used but never mentioned, and anything in a higher class would have been—well—quite Olympian. No, the issue for my choosing not to finish a Woolf book is not one of social justice of gender or class.

I would, I believe, have to read a great deal of something that I don’t like to determine why I don’t like it. I might also have to read other writers I consistently disliked to see a common thorn. Suffering for the sake of analyzing that which makes me suffer? I think not. So I have taken Woolf’s advice, gotten I know not where, of putting aside a book I am truly not liking and moving on to something else. Yet here I am writing about this choice as if to justify it. Yes, there is a monitor in my reader’s heart that tells me to read on, finish what I’ve started. And I have. Reading The Last Temptation of Christ, for a class I imagine, was a nightmare. It was, all the same, the first book about which I could say, “I hated reading it, but I love having read it.” So, I will read on. Who knows but that I may discover a greatness in the last page, the last word. The very best things in life are those unlooked for, but not overlooked, after all. I’m just not looking for them in Woolf.

Summer

Summer slows mentality,
Slides a hand over the heart,
And saddens old sentimentality.

Marshy days ooze toward sodden ends.
Luminous dusks linger,
Resolving into shimmering specks,
While night weeps in the long grass,
And sleeplessness seeps toward dawn.

Vivum est iudicium sine iudicio.

Mike

My neighbor, Mike, inspires my gardening
By his example of helping things live and thrive.
He runs a sprout orphanage next to his garage.
He houses a seedling nursery on his patio table.
His elderly junipers overrun the front walk way.
Cutting it back hurts too much. He is its friend.

Legs moving like tree limbs in the wind,
He ambles from alley way to back door.
The wind has knocked things over.
He rescues a fallen, potted rhododendron.
It is waiting to be planted. It needs a friend.

The wind knocks things over that are not wary.
When Mike was a child, he lost one of his sisters.
I never had a sister. I can’t imagine losing one.
I didn’t know Mike back then. We didn’t live here.

Thirteen years ago, we moved in
Next door to Mike and his mother and father.
Theirs gave me hope for our dog-edged yard.
Mike’s mother died shortly after we moved in.
I wanted to say something about it to him.
I wanted to say the right thing, to say I was sorry.
I wanted to rescue him, to be his friend.

I guess Mike just wanted to cope with his pain.
I think he wanted to get back to gardening.
I don’t think he wanted to deal with his grief.
I don’t think he wanted to deal with his father’s grief.
I know Mike didn’t want to deal with his father.
I don’t think his father wanted to deal with his own grief.
Maybe they didn’t know how to grieve.
I know I didn’t know how to be his friend.

Three or four years ago, Mike’s father died.
Mike buried his pain. Mike’s family came to bury his father.
His father had been old, and too much and not enough in charge.
Mike said he struggled to live with his father.
He spent his time gardening, moving plants around.
He rescued alley furniture and rebuilt broken tables.
He had held yard sales of refurbished dressers. I had joined in.
I think maybe we had become friends.

Now one of Mike’s brothers is quite ill.
Mike takes his brother to the doctor sometimes.
His brother has been loud and quirky and kind.
Mike has made out that his brother is a pain.
Now Mike’s brother is in pain. He is dying.
Mike rescues upstart garden plants, ferns and flowers.
He puts them into plastic pots to sell at a yard sale.
I ask about his brother. I don’t join in on his plant sale.
I am glad Mike’s my friend.

April 2012

In the Spring

In my well planned garden in the spring,
A blowing rain ungrimes the moiling earth.
As hawk-winged sunshine stoops upon the soil,
Up poke the giggling prepubescent sprigs
That lagomorphic whiskers glibly nip.

In my well planned garden in the spring,
A warm wind sweeps across the land,
Awakening buds that burst from orchard twigs.
‘Til dark and still, in creeps the late night frost,
Whose pruinose talons coldly grip and kill.

The hungry rabbit and budding bloom
Do not know the hazards of the spring.
Such precious newness lacks immunity,
In my well planned garden in the spring.

February 2012

Jay Being Joyce Being Joyce

I have been reading the biography of James Joyce, My Brother’s Keeper, by his brother Stanislaus, whom I mistakenly named “Stanislav” in another place. In it was an excerpt from an early J. Joyce journal entry, in his early stream of consciousness, Dubliners‘ style. I thought I might try to emulate it here. Joyce was reflecting on his reading of Erckmann-Chatrian; I on Joyce’s brother Stanislaus.
———————————-
Retirement and recuperation mix sourly as I recover from a biking accident, still too much in pain to move around a great deal, but impatient to be doing so. The other is upstairs also recuperating from a cold, also impatient, also uncomfortable. The Sunday sounds of her decades old television programs mix with the pomposity of my Royal Concertgebouw radio program enshrouding me in a rough and remorseful reverie. The bright sun on yet another unseasonable day cheers the house plants more than me. I am reading to pass time. Reading Joyce’s early life through his brother’s eyes creates no deeper understanding of James or their father John or their mother Mary. To be born to Mary.
No, the book makes me think more about how children see their own history in retrospection from adulthood. Even with a purpose, we cannot bring up more from the depths of memory than the unbidden images that arise. And even those come with no sense that there was anything really significant behind them, only that we know there probably was something. The images are often the most disjointed where they should be the most influential to developing us as who we are. Yet taken all together, a different kind of mise-en-scène emerges, an history as a child saw it, but not the immediacy as a child experiences it. The child’s emotions stick the memories; the adult’s emotions interpret them. Like twice baked bread, it is the bread but yet quite different from the bread, and sweeter, usually.
How this can sweetens our aging! A reader and writer would know this, and immerse himself in the knowledge. A researcher, a scientist will push away all the color, the music of the memory, strip it of useless feelings, extrapolate and connect the dots of it, recreate what he asserts happened in black and white, a dry point. But it is no longer what happened. It happened and is happening no longer. We can recreate what happened into a new thing that is an interpretation of our history as our history has shaped us to interpret it: self-recreation. What’s happening now is the feeling of remembered feelings, the color of the memory of color, a wholly new color. Accuracy is impossible at best and misleading at worst.
S. Joyce did not ever get it wrong, but did he ever know he was getting it right. As he looked back, whatever love he had for his brother as he wrote certainly filtered and shaped how he remembered his brother some fifty or sixty years earlier. If he knew that, and he may well have, he was not just his brother’s keeper, he was his brother’s recreator.

At the Farm in the Fall

A long straight rolling road

Brown between autumn fields

Late at night on the high plain

Comes a brilliant shooting star

Arcing through the twinkling black

Burning fiercely fast and bright

High across the inky starry night

Through thin and unsustaining air

Flaming hot and dying in a wink

Briefly seen alone that night

And now

Gone.

We reconvene at the car,

Loaded with our pumpkins.

We return to young lives,

Still burning bright.

December 2011

Now, Many Years Later…

Now, many years later… How many years? …

Even now, I feel the sight you in the dry August dawn,

Running, bounding fawn-like through the dry grass.

One, two, and then flight, arms rising, fingers spreading…

Wings, dispelling those unwary spirits caught basking in the early sun.

Four, five, and once more leaping, cervine, chin rising, eyes blazing…

Their enchanting fire snaring my unwary gaze in their net of golden flight.

 

And once again the feeling opens my heart,

And you leap in to take possession.

You wrap me around you in this unimaginable way,

Imprisoning me in your freedom.

You, leaping down the hillside, barefoot and laughing—

At me? behind the glass? looking out?

 

How many times has this scene shot my thoughts?

How many nights has this morning sun lit my dreams,

Drawing shadows around my heart? And I have said nothing.

And I say nothing now, years later when still I cannot part from you.

 

To you, the absent companion to everything in my life,

I said nothing.

When you, my heart’s enchanter, said that soon you’d have to die,

The words froze in my heart,

And stuffed my mouth with dumb confusion.

I could not say, “Let me go.”

 

And now, many years later still, I look into the void and see

The bounding, fawn-like boy floating away from me.

My heart imprisoned in his grip, my freedom in his eyes,

And even now beyond life,

He once more takes up residence in my enraptured heart,

And still, I cannot say the words, “Let me go.”

 

November 2011

My comment:

This is based on an event from 46 year ago in Evergreen, Colorado. The image lasted a few seconds, but struck me so strongly at the time that I have never forgotten it Nor have I been able to describe why I was so captured by this moment. The subject of the poem fell victim to AIDS in the 80’s, while living in California. He called me here in Minnesota shortly before that. The image of his running down the slope outside his mother’s house the morning after I met him returns to me like reminders of unpaid medical bills over the years, often in a dream. It is not the history I have tried to capture however, but the almost indescribable feeling that accompanied the moment and accompanies the recollections of it. Any comparison to Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique is coincidental, but serendipitous. I think a symphony could perhaps capture this better, but is certainly outside my scope.

2011 Graduation Address, Edison High School, Minneapolis, Minnesota

I want to thank you for asking me to speak tonight. "Oh, thank you," wasn’t the first thing I said, but I really am flattered. This is probably my last chance to speak at a graduation, of course. And it really is an honor. As most of you know, I’m retiring next week. Don’t misunderstand; I’m not disappearing. I’m not just going to do nothing. I may even be around Edison a little. I’ll do some of the things I couldn’t do while I was at school day after day after day. I’m retiring, not stopping.

I’ll work with new teachers, I’ll travel, I’ll ride my bikes, I’ll write and I’ll certainly continue to read and even reread some of the books I haven’t been able to get to. And I’m going to study abroad some more, at Cambridge this summer and perhaps other places around the world in years to come. So, I’ll be practicing what I’m preaching tonight. You see, I can’t stop being a teacher. A teacher after all is someone who thinks learning is just so darn much fun, everybody must want to be doing it, all the time. So as I said, I’ll be doing a lot of reading–in planes, on trains, in cars and at home.

In the things I read, I sometimes find wise ideas, and new ways of seeing the world. When I read Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem "Ulysses" I connected with it right away. The original Ulysses epic is the story of a great general whose cleverness as much as his soldiering has saved him and his crew from many monstrous dangers. It is the story of a journey and a lesson in leadership, meant for future leaders, but in his poem, Tennyson takes up Ulysses at the end of his adventures, all his great accomplishments accomplished. In the poem, Ulysses is not satisfied with having achieved everything he has achieved, and he realizes that what made life worthwhile to him was the striving, the trying, not the success. Success is not an end, but a place to start again, to try something new, to go where he hasn’t yet been. He says:

 I am a part of all that I have met;
        Yet all experience is an arch, wherethro’
       
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margins fade
       
For ever and for ever as I move.

Now you know that as you move toward the horizon, it will simply move on away from you. But it isn’t just your moving forward that is important about this quotation; it’s about experience and what you can see in your future. Unlike Ulysses, you are still short in experience, but as you gain more experience, you will gain more height, more vision; your horizons, the margins of your world, will grow. You’ll see how big your “untravell’d world” is. You’ll never see all there is to see, do all there is to do, know all there is to know. And no matter how hard you try, you cannot reach the stars, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t reach. Reaching for the stars is about you, not about the stars.

When you’re down at ground level, you can’t see too far into the distance, but when you get up high, you can see much farther. Reaching, trying and getting experience is like getting up higher. Experience makes you taller in the world of opportunity, and allows you to see much more of the possibility that exists for you. Getting experience is learning: learning by studying, learning by doing and learning by talking with and listening to people. Learn through experience. Be a tall person. See what’s out there for you. No matter what you do in life: school, work, home-making, learn from and in whatever you do. It counts. Make your life count.

Those of you who go to college and other schools study many kinds of things. A liberal education gives you the power of adaptability. When someone tells you to specialize in some subject exclusively, remember that greatness has always been achieved by those who stepped out of their limits into the unknown. The more you know, the more you will come to understand how much there is to know and how little we know of it. It is your flexibility and confidence that will let you go into what you don’t know, and that will lead you to your greatness.

Those of you who go right to work continue to learn, study, experience other things. Learn the guitar or write or join the church choir or learn to fly. No matter what kind of work you do, up on a roof top or down a hole in the ground, alone in an office or on a crowded sales floor, the more you know and the more ready you are to learn, the better you will be in your work and more likely you will be to advance. And the happier you will be in your life which will feel more full and worth living.

And those of you who stay at home and raise children, you will  do the important job of modeling and valuing learning for those children, so that they will aspire and achieve in their lives too. So that they will continue learning in their turn. So they will be the next great generation of kids to graduate from Edison.

Think about this. If you stop learning, you’re dead. Your body may trudge on, but your spirit will have died, that inner light that I and your other teachers have loved about you, will have gone out. And that will be a shame, because that flame that shines in you can light the way to your greatness. That inner light of yours is why I am so thankful to have taught at Edison and to have been allowed to be part of your lives. Keep the flame alive.

Tennyson closes with, the words of an old general, but if old Ulysses could still kick it, I know you can. Ulysses was great not for what he did, which means nothing in the world today, but for how he did it. We can all live our lives as the great ones did by doing as they have done. The great deeds will follow or not, as they may. It isn’t the score; it is how you play the game. Live your life like Ulysses. Live your life greatly. 

I close with the closing line from Tennyson’s poem as my charge to you. I charge you "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Congratulations, Edison Class of 2011 and good luck.

Stopping

You ask me, “What will you miss?” and

I will tell you, “The pain of caring.”

You ask me, “Why did you do it?

When the effort is so much,

Why did you care?”

 

I cannot tell you.

I know I will miss this, but

I can never find the words to say

What it is that exists

          When my eye and

          Their eyes

          Meet.

When caring means something,

There are no words, and

If there were words,

They would be

          Your words and

          My words,

Because we have only

          Our eyes and not

          Their eyes.

 

There are no words,

          Only eyes.

 

February 2011