Self-Reflective Letter for English 201 (Really, This Is College Today.)

Dear Professor E–:

I’ve been thinking about our relationship a lot lately.  Do you remember how we first met?  You, the professor–the gatekeeper; me, the seeker?  I remember it like it was yesterday.  You lectured me on the importance of listening.  Always the professional, you wouldn’t fudge my grade just because I made really good arguments why I didn’t turn in my work on time.  Didn’t you understand that I was just coming out of another relationship and didn’t have time for you yet?

Without you, I would’ve never experienced growth.  Of course, I’m referring to how you led me from veritable darkness to light in the areas of critical reading, argument analysis, and revision.

Like a dream, you asked me to explore anything I wanted.  You challenged me to research a body of work in a way I never before had.  You even allowed me to use webpages.  More than that, you loosed the first-person-perspective that I had bottled up inside for all these years.  Specifically, I told you I wanted to go to Mars.  Like a good friend, you encouraged this dream, while subtly encouraging me to do a little research before packing.  Now, neither of us were greenhorns when we met, but it is because of your relentless attention that I discovered how to improve my ability to read for understanding and then communicate my findings via the written word.  The only pity is that, according to my research, there is a great chance that after I’m selected to move to Mars, our relationship will be forced to end.  I hope you’ll write.

Next, I wanted to thank you for the invaluable lessons in argument analysis.  Before we met, I always thought I won my arguments using “the right way.”  Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to learn that I could be right using several different methods of argumentation.  Formal logic is difficult to defeat, but with your help I learned that it isn’t the only kind.  You taught me The Toulmin Model, which comes in most handy when reading an argument that is so shameful that the writer hides what they really have to say.  Just the same, I want to be good at everything, so learning how to be forgiving during a debate proved invaluable.  And then, do you remember how you kept me up late reading about Rogerian analysis?  You know, when you apply the time-tested art of flattery to win over dissenters?  The whole, “Let me outline your argument for you, praise it, but then subtly recommend that my way is still better.”  It’s really touching how it works.  If you ever get sick of me, I just may use it to win you back—watch out!

Finally, and really through everything—thick and thin—you taught me how to keep an every-watchful eye on my own writing.  Revise, revise, revise.  Over the last several months, you asked me to do a lot of things.  Sometimes I was uncomfortable, yet you always required that I take it a step at a time.  It was here where I learned that the process is as important as the product.

So here we sit—you and me—in this crazy, crazy world.  Who can know what the future holds?  All I can hope is that you’ll stay in mine.  It’s been wonderful thus far Professor E–.  You’re the best.

Yours sincerely,

//signed//

Pete, Favorite Student

Review of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami

Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World continues the post-modernistic tradition that aware readers have come to love.  Upon completing the second chapter, it is clear that something different, something unfamiliar is occurring.  The story is rife with metaphors and characters that work enough to keep us engaged, but it is really the storytelling’s style itself that causes our fingers to seek an instantaneous transition from one page to the next.

The story’s feint is that it’s about a detective.  Of course, no tale worth its salt is ever about what it portends.  Some authors make their points directly.  For Murakami, who convincingly communicates that he is well-read, however, it is simply no longer interesting to tell the reader what to think.

As with other post-modern and fabulistic works, this book is a reaction.  It is a plea to cause readers to never forget that no one should be taken for granted.  In using these artistic movements, Murakami firmly plants his feet and announces to the world that he is not to be trifled with.

In the end, there is certainly nothing new under the sun.  Yet Murakami has found a way to take his readers on a journey that is fun, difficult to predict, challenging and finally, rewarding.  If you’ve been in a reading rut and need a book to shake things up, you’ll be pleasantly surprised to discover that you can’t put this one down.

****

Murakami, Haruki. Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: A Novel. New York: Vintage, 1991. Print.

Review of The Canterbury Tales, by Geoffrey Chaucer

Like the British accent today, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales charms at first, but in the end sounds ridiculous.  Buh-dumh-ching!  Really, though, the book is just too old.  Reading it under the tutelage of a doctoral professor of Middle Earth (or is it middle-English?) is the only way to do it, and even then it is slow going at best.

After finding out that the rape that appalled you was supposed to be funny, you’ll find yourself being chided for laughing at the next rape–because that one was not funny.  The entire collection is a roller-coaster of meanings and double meanings, which all need to be explained step by step.  They need to be explained not because they were written in another language, no, middle-English is actually the first version of English we are told; the reason they need to be explained is because life was so very different back in the 14th century.  Well, no, that’s not right either.  Or is it?  Wait, what’s going on?

After three months of reading and studying, I am still not convinced why I should value so highly a work that requires so much explanation.  Does the Mona Lisa require explanation?  The pyramids of Giza?  Plus, the apparent result of fully investing oneself in Chaucer’s genius leads only to wanting to sleep with the man.  While intriguing to some, I can’t get there from here.

This review might have become more a review of the course or the way the Tales were presented than the Tales themselves.  Oh well.  While there were enjoyable moments, for any reader that hasn’t skipped reading books written in the last 700 years since the Tales, there was nothing new.

In the end, The Canterbury Tales may have been new in their day, but the serious reader need not feel guilty for skipping this seminal work.

How To Get A Raise

(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions).

In the classic western Tombstone the new actress in town is awestruck by who-she-doesn’t-yet-know-is Wyatt Earp.  The actress’s friend says to her, “My dear, you’ve set your gaze upon the quintessential frontier type.  Note the lean silhouette…eyes closed by the sun, though sharp as a hawk.”

For some reason that quote sprung to his mind when he thought of describing his new boss.  Standing a lean 6 feet, the man’s movements signaled to all–customers and staff–that he was in charge.  But that’s not the extraordinary thing.  What’s extraordinary is his oneness with the job.

It’s retail.  Business can be slow or fast.  Apart from the length of the line, anyone wanting to know how busy it is need simply look at the man.  When business is slow, he focuses on the numbers and keeps everyone ready for it to pick up.  When business is fast, his smile beams an uncommon love of the job.  The line of customers can be out the door, and he just smiles and smiles.  Where some would be stressed, he handles the situation with exceptional grace.  This grace stems from a certain pride in knowing that he is doing his job well.  In response to “man, you should see your face.  How are you so happy?”, he clarifies “It’s not that we’re busy, it’s that we’re so busy and things are running so smoothly.”  His smile betrays his joy.  It is a joy founded on purity.  And that is why he is the boss.

Instructions for How To Get A Raise

Step 1 — FLATTER your boss endlessly.

Step 2 — REPEAT Step 1.

Lights Out

Here’s the preamble: I once read a story about a Coast Guard rescue swimmer who was being lowered onto a ship to rescue the crew.  The rescue swimmer was being lowered from a helicopter and the sea was angry.  Next thing the guy knows, it is pitch black and very hot.  He recalls that he thought maybe he had died and gone to hell.  He was joking of course.  Turns out they lowered him directly into a smokestack on accident.  Very funny.  Now that you know this story is forever in my head, we can continue.

So there I was–pulling cars out of the wash tunnel and driving them into the dry/vac stations as if I was Jeff Gordon pulling into the pits.  It shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that I drive with precision.  Back wheel at the vacuum every time.

Then I run back to the tunnel, not quite a full sprint–though faster than I ever thought I’d have to move on the clock–and wait for the next car to make it past the blowers so I can climb in.  Over and over again.  Then it happened.  (Oh, here you should know that I get my kicks out of trying to time pulling open the driver’s door precisely with the door clearing the last blower).  I think the particular vehicle in this case was a Land Rover.  I pull the handle and jump in.  Darkness.  Lights out.  I can still hear, but I can’t see shit.  What the hell?

Of course, my first thought is a reassuring one.  I immediately think of the rescue swimmer being lowered into the hot darkness.  That calms me as, like it turned out for him, I seriously doubt that the lack of light means I died.  Near simultaneous to realizing what happened, a second–more pressing–thought develops: “Is anybody watching me?”

You see, I wear a stocking cap.  (First, its winter.  Second, I lost my hair in the war and don’t want skin cancer).  It isn’t the beanie kind that when pulled on requires no fold, but the kind that when pulled all the way on almost covers your whole face.  To remedy this problem, you fold a couple inches of it up.  As it turns out, there is no longer any doubt that the blower is strong enough to blow the folded part of a stocking cap down.  Please, really, just picture the scene.  Don’t stop with picturing a grown-ass man sitting in the driver’s seat of a vehicle with a stocking cap covering his entire face.  Actually attempt to see through the fabric and picture my face.  The confused look.  Then, pure unadulterated joy.  I’m still grinning ear-to-ear now.  I can’t even remember anything else that happened after that.

There’s Got To Be A Word For It

There’s got to be a word for it.  You know what I’m talking about.  You’re talking to a friend, and then they pull out their phone.  They peek at it, and then something on the screen captures their attention.  You keep talking, hoping they aren’t actually more involved with their phone than with you.  Then something in your voice triggers something in their brain to command their head to turn your direction.  The look they give next is what I’m thinking has to have a word.  The look which says, “Uh huh.  Yep, I’m listening.  I know you think I was looking at my phone instead of you, but you’re mistaken.  I was listening and can still listen even as I return to looking at my phone.  Promise.”

Oh.  I know.  The word is disrespect.

We all do it.  Let’s all stop doing it.

The only way to get there is together.

Another Vote For Living In The Moment

“But!” he said, finger in the air, ready to make a point, “If Jesus and his message were so important, and God knew we’d invent video cameras eventually, why did God send him in a time period before technology could capture his life?  Heck, not only did he never write anything himself, he probably couldn’t write.  Isn’t that a strike against the whole thing?” he said, not wanting to offend him, but seriously wanting to discuss the issue.  “I mean, all of this could be settled by a single video of him, right?”

“You know, I thought things like that for a long time myself.  I would even go further than you just did and point out that precisely because there is no recording, the story’s fantastic nature was able to gain traction.  I really wanted to believe that Jesus was followed by people and gained notoriety because the people of that time were ignorant and looking for answers etc., etc.,” the man replied.  “But then a thought hit me–what if the timing of his life contained a truth in itself?  What if God purposefully sent Jesus to reveal the gospel at a time before wide-spread literacy, much less technology?

“Starting there, I found something striking.  If the general population Jesus lived among was illiterate and didn’t have TV, movies, or screens upon screens that prevented actual relationship from occurring, surely they had a more grounded existence.  Whether they did or not, Jesus would have had to actually meet and greet people.  Without sound amplification, his audiences would have been smaller.  Without DVR, his speech would have had to be simple and clear.  Without YouTube’s ‘I’ll record myself once and then put it out there for the world to see’, he would have been required to live with perfect integrity daily.

“For all technology’s benefit, we are clearly not reaching our potential as a group.

“Who would argue that talking on the phone is the same as in person?  Who would rather skype than eat a meal together?  And that isn’t even opening the door to the world of nothingness that is tweeting and texting.

“So, that’s what I tell myself to explain why God sent Jesus before things that would have helped ‘prove’ his divinity.  Maybe a video would have helped with the miracles, but I think a lot of his message would have been lost in the process.  As I understand this world and Jesus’ message to it, he was a man who wouldn’t want anything to come between him and us–including time and space.”

The Father of Second Base?

For all the information, misinformation, and controversy surrounding the origin of the game of baseball, one piece of trivia is rarely mentioned.  Whether Abner Doubleday or Alexander Cartwright should be credited as the father of America’s pastime, it seems to me that the more pressing question–the question that nobody is asking–is, “Where would the game of baseball be without second base?”

What you have to understand is baseball began as a competition, similar to cricket, which involved balls and bats and home plate and base.  Initially, there were not four bases, mind you, just one.  The player would hit the ball and run back and forth between two points in space–home plate and base.  What most people don’t bother wondering about is how home plate and this single base (just called ‘base’ as there wasn’t, at that time, another base which necessitated the distinctions “first” and “second”) multiplied into the modern baseball diamond comprised of home plate, first base, second base and third base.

As you are no doubt realizing, the addition of a second base was no trivial matter.  Without adding a second base, there would have never been a reason to add a third base, and without third base, there is no baseball diamond.  So, we must ask how second base came to be.  More to the point, we should want to know who to credit for the addition of a second base.  As fate would have it, it was none other than than “father of American music” himself–Stephen Foster.

Having recently penned such classics as “Oh, Susanna” and “Camptown Races”, Foster was a veritable celebrity.  He was the man of the hour in the mid-1800s.  And he happened to be a bit of a sports nut.  No one knows for certain how it happened, but after some light reflection it should be no surprise to anyone that Foster, who became known for writing songs with special emphasis on the refrain, was the man who suggested adding another base to the playing field.  After all, it was the addition of second base that gave baseball what some might call musicality.

Think about it.  A game where men simply run back and forth between two designated spots offers no real distinguishing excitement, no real flow.  But, as we all know and love, if a player makes it to second base on the diamond of today, he is in “scoring” position.  Reaching scoring position, then, is similar to the unique characteristic of Foster’s own music.  That being, the emphasis on the refrain.  As a verse of Foster’s music concludes, everyone knows the refrain is coming, and still everyone can’t wait for it to happen.  Regardless the amount of listeners singing the verses, everyone in earshot contributes their own voice to “Oh, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me!”  Is it not the same when the runner reaches second base?  Maybe the inning is dragging on, maybe it seems all hope is lost, maybe you are lost in thought trying to remember when they stop serving beer–it doesn’t matter.  The minute the runner makes it to second, he might score a run.  And if he does, his crossing home plate triggers another batter and extends the offensive strike; in other words, it acts as a refrain.  Is there anyone who would attempt to argue that there is any quantifiable difference between crowds cheering upon their team scoring a run and crowds singing “Oh, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me.  Well I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee”?

I don’t know why I feel its important to bring this to your attention.  Not forgetting the little man is just in my nature.  Blame my dad.  The point is, next time you’re feeling a profound love of the game, toss some of it to Stephen Foster; for who knows where America’s pastime would be if it wasn’t for the “father of American music.”

****

Happy Birthday Dad.  Thanks for the memories.

Candles, Flowers, Frustration

Sitting next to me at the table, her little body was shaking, arms bent at 90-degrees, fists clenched.  “You know daddy, when I get frustrated, I smell a floor and blo ow a cannel,” she says so fast I couldn’t quite translate the three-year old speak into English.

“What?” I respond laughing.  “You do what when you get frustrated?  Why are you getting frustrated?”

“You know,” she begins to shake again, “when I get frustrated, at school, Miss Jen says when I get frustrated I smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, thinking she made her point clearly.

“You smell a flower and blow out a candle?” I ask slowly, enunciating.

“Yeah.  At school when I get frustrated,” she reiterates, offering her wide open eyes and nodding head as evidence of her conviction.

“Who taught you this?  Your mother or school?” I ask, more curious to discover if I’ll believe she is telling the truth when she answers than what her answer is.

“Miss Jen said at school,” her arms assume the position, but no shaking this time, “when I get frustrated, I should smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, not showing any signs of actually becoming frustrated during my uncalled for inquisition.

“Smell a flower and blow out a candle, eh?” I mutter to myself, this time widening my eyes as I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth.  “Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes, smirking.  “What will they think up next?

Review of Mere Christianity, by C. S. Lewis

The back cover C. S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity has the word “Religion” printed in the upper left corner.  This should be the first clue as to who the publishers thought Lewis’ audience would be.  Mere Christianity, which is mostly the printed version of several radio talks Lewis gave, does little more than preach to the choir.  Granted, every writer or speaker must choose a target audience.  And in this book, Lewis chooses Christians.  Throughout the 192-page book, concepts familiar to Christians and lay-theologians abound.  Lewis’ voice is clear and his intent, noble.  When it comes to religion, though, results seem to be more important than intent, and here is where we begin to question Lewis’ work.

At every turn Lewis remarks, “If this is useful, use it.  If not, skip it.”  It’s all very heart-warming until we stop and consider the repercussions of failure.  As a Christian, Lewis relentlessly forces the reader to acknowledge the unpleasant parts of Christianity, most notably–though he never addresses it outright–an afterlife in hell.  We find it disconcerting that a book would be geared towards those who have already avoided this hell.  We can’t but think of Sunday school stories of Jesus seeking out the sinners, not the saints.  Instead of mirroring this trend, Mere Christianity decides to tackle such high-brow concepts as the nature of God, the Trinity, Jesus, predestination, usury and more.  In fact, he offers commentary on such a breadth of topics that it would be impossible for him to come out squeaky clean.  Take the following example.  At one point Lewis tries his hand at explaining why Christianity hasn’t fared better throughout history, assuming it is true.  He writes:

You will find this again and again about anything that is really Christian: everyone is attracted by bits of it and wants to pick out those bits and leave the rest.  That is why we do not get much further: and that is why people who are fighting for quite opposite things can both say they are fighting for Christianity (81).

With this assessment Lewis opens the door to debating why Christianity hasn’t/doesn’t/isn’t (fill in the blank).  Our own unending curiosity already led us to an answer that even Lewis can’t top.  To be specific, in his own attempt at clarity Tolstoy infects his readers with idea that Christianity has continually missed the mark because, as a religion, it harmonizes that which was never intended to be harmonized.

And herein lies our most pointed criticism of Lewis’ “beloved” classic.  Our problem with his enterprise comes after reading many of his eloquent metaphors which do kind of make sense.  A man of his skill should have recognized his limitations.  A man of his skill should have recognized the problem as it stood in front of him, and stands in front of us today.

C. S. Lewis can’t offer us salvation.

Christianity can’t offer us salvation.

There is only one man who can offer salvation–and his name is Jesus.

In the end, Mere Christianity is nothing more than another misguided, divisive attempt to unite a religion seemingly set on a path of unending fragmentation.

****

Lewis, C. S. Mere Christianity: Comprising The Case for Christianity, Christian Behaviour, and Beyond Personality. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996. Print.