Monday, December 26, 2011

Yelling Over the Christmas Table

Hey all, happy holidays~

So, Christmas, for me, has always meant two things: optimism and fighting. Both of which will be the subject of this blog. Having spent the day at a holiday family reunion type event, I had my share of arguments with my extended family (if this isn't a holiday tradition for you too, then please let me know how you get around it). Needless to say, the stuff we argued over wasn't really worth arguing in the first place. But that didn't stop us from turning red. There's also been some argumentation going around the AFLM blogs in this most joyous of occasions, so I felt the need to examine just how we argue, and particularly how close friends argue.

Most of us know the three elements that make up rhetoric: ethos, pathos, and logos. Each has its place in argument. In today's academia we like to look down on pathos (emotion) in argumentation in favor of logos (logic). This is because pathos is so contingent on the individual, while logos is meant to be universal. So why don't we just eradicate pathos from the rhetorical arena? Simple, because it works. And that's okay.

Since before Plato started spouting off about rhetoric, rhetoricians tried to see just how to get their listeners emotionally involved. If you're passionate about a subject or ideal, then you should be just that; passionate. However, problems occur when pathos runs rampant. I think you'll find, if you look closely enough (or honestly at just a glance), that today's political arena is based highly on pathos. Politicians prey on the convictions of their audience, adamantly guarding a set group of ideals that are seemingly inherently better than that of their opponents. The other side doesn't deserve a second look. What's the result? People yell, insults are thrown around, and Bush is elected president.

So what about ethos? Well, I think that you'll find when your arguments are with someone close to you (girlfriends, boyfriends, family, etc etc) that pathos seems to fly off the handle. It seems that the fights with the people closest to you are the ones that last the longest. I think this stems from the fact that a relationship has already been established between the arguers. One party can feel violated by the opinion of someone they thought they knew so well, or one party may need to hold their own in the eyes of their opponent just to prove themselves. Either way, these situations can cut pretty deep, much deeper than an argument with someone you've never met before. But the cool thing about these arguments is that usually both parties decide to put these differences aside, chill out, and simply stop fighting.

Now, I don't recommend that people simply stop arguing because they're close. I would suggest some sort of combination of the two types of arguments I've talked about. Yelling is fine, anger is natural, and an intellectual argument is even better. But at the end of the day, I think that both parties should shake hands and agree to aim for the other's jugular the next day. Ad hominem really should not be condoned, because the idea, the very heart of the argument, won't advance in the presence of insults.

As for the optimism, well, it seems that the blogoshpere has cooled off and everyone has chilled out for the quickly approaching new year. Our little magazine is quickly growing, issue 3 just dropped digitally, and print copies are on their way. I look forward to the growth of our readership and the continual involvement of our longtime readers (if you could classify AFLM as having been around a long time).

So here's to lookin forward to the new year, a time when we can happily scream at one another and then settle down for a drink,
-Rainamoinen

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Holy Shit Guys! Merry Whatever!

Okay dudes, it's like this - we've got a store now, it pretty much rules (I think) and we won't be offering the full magazines as free PDF downloads anymore. What we WILL offer for free are samples of each issue in order to tempt you into buying a PDF or print copy - either would be awesome - and we've decided that the first issue will be free forever, 'cause we understand that newbies will want to know what they're getting into.

So to see a copy of the sample Vol.1 Iss. 2 (Emily Dickinson - out for print in January) click *here* and to see the sample of Vol.1 Iss. 3 (Ginsberg - released for sale on the store now) click *here*.

To go to our store and buy a PDF download of either issue or a print pre-order of Vol.1 Iss. 2, you'll want to go to the SUPER AWESOME NEW STORE.

SPECIAL NOTE: If you order your PDF of Issue 3 before midnight on Christmas, because you're one of those glorious bastards who checks Literary Magazine websites on Chrismas, you'll be able to purchase the PDF for the low, low price of ONE FUCKING DOLLAR. Because we love you like that.

PDFs purchased through the store will be sent to customers within 48 hours of purchase, shiny and new just for you.

Friday, December 23, 2011

My Christmas in 2011

I’m gonna keep this one short and sweet..

My father has been out of work for 13 months now. Like so many others this year, my family will be celebrating Christmas without the commercialized traditions that society has conditioned us to love. In our America, where Christmas has become capitalism’s chance for yearly repentance, I have to say that I am thankful for this opportunity for so many of us to come together and see the true meaning of Christmas, to experience the comfort of human solidarity.

This 2011 Christmas has opened my eyes to the simple truth that, as humans, we are all the same – with or without money. More so than ever before, I can see now that we are really all one; there can be no difference between two men that is not forced on by social conditioning; the rich man only looks down on the poor man because his society taught him to. Beneath the mind that our surroundings have crafted for us, we all possess the same driving force to survive and perceive the beauty of the world – we are humans before we are social creatures, and Christmas, to me, is an escape from society and a return to our humanity. Let us return to one another this Christmas, and simply participate in the joyous occasion of being together.

I’d love to hear what Christmas means to you this year in the comments below.

Merry Christmas,

S.Pine

Thursday, December 22, 2011

A Few Lines Magazine Volume I Issue III

Folks,

The third issue of A Few Lines Magazine is coming out on Christmas Day, December 25th. We will post a link to our Rough Rider Publishing store where our issue will be available online.

We'll also be printing the second issue in the near future.

We hope you enjoy this next issue. It'll be nice for you too see the works our contributors again, rather than just our blog rants.

Take Care

JF

P.S. Please don't flame this post :)

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Please Hurt Me

Americans are offended by argument. Real argument. Real argument is not the attack on ethos; it is the intellectual back-and-forth of ideas sculpted by critical thinking. In America, when a person puts forth a strong opinion about a subject (any subject), he is consequently attacked and often called something along the lines of an "asshole." Some people take that cutesy expression, "opinions are like assholes," a little too literally. I think I've said this before: if having a strong, even slightly offensive, opinion makes me an asshole, then please count me in.

Why do I call out Americans in particular? (Because I'm secretly hoping for an enraged comment detailing the reasons I'm a judgmental and snobby bitch who should move to France). Because Americans are argumentative pussies. (And I used that terms in hopes of being attacked for my questionable word choice rather than for the thoughts behind it). Yes, "pussies." We are afraid of argument because we have grown up believing that it is the thing that our parents do late at night when they thought we couldn't hear them. And, with that in mind, when we do choose to engage in argument, we do so in the manner of our dissatisfied parents: we name call and we attack character and we don't hear a damn word that the other person says and anything of substance that we manage to say is lost in a sea of obliterating anger. And, the most egregious fail of all our argumentative gaffs is our end goal of threatening one another into silence. For evidence of this, take a look at any Fox News talk show. (Yes, that example will likely incite someone to haughtily point out my insane ability to over generalize, but I assume my readers are intelligent people and I don't have all day.)

Now, let's take a look at France. (Yup, I'm a Francophilic bitch, please take your time to say it once more in the comments below). In France- and, from what I hear, many parts of Europe- there is a culture of argument that is fostered even in the young. Families have arguments at the dinner table and everyone is encouraged to participate and sculpt their opinions to a sharp point. In France, if you attempt to get into a conversation with someone and you are not able to defend your position on matters of politics, history, literature, and Art in a critical fashion, you are virtually shunned. A person without strong viewpoints and without the ability to break down topics is not a person worth talking to. And, if you try to attack a person's character as a primary means of argument, that's a no-go. Because the French, for whatever reason (maybe because they care more about education- real education- or maybe because they actually learn critical thinking) are not easily offended and will find such a route of attack as one on ethos to be useless. As do I.

Since some of you are probably wondering what the hell crawled up my ass and died tonight, I'll explain where my thoughts are coming from. My ideas in this blog are shaped by two things that happened today: my friend who is visiting from Ireland informed me that my boyfriend and I should move to Europe because we are too smart and too opinionated to live in America (oh what a pretentious jerk I am for repeating this, I know, I know- spare me), and then I came home and read the responses to Jack's recent blog. The latter made me realize that my friend is right. This is no country for real debate and now I am falling prey to all of it by even writing this blog and by even letting my thoughts dwell for so long on this irritating issue. So, I'm going to go absorb my brain in some Kenneth Burke and try to cleanse it of all of this nonsense (how very snooty- please proceed to disregard all points that I have made as a result of my horrifyingly bitchy tone).

Merci,
Leena

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

What is Art? Audience, Don't Hurt Me.

I'm going to keep this short, folks, as I want this to be more of a discussion rather than a post about what I think. I've seen a lot of comments about art and what art is. Most of the comments about the definition of art kind of disturb me, so this is what I hope we can all have a chat about.

Art is one of those things that's pretty damn hard to define. And let's not kid ourselves, people, there is no one way to define art. It is a concept which is, to a large extent anyway, highly subjective; however, I do believe that there are several elements a piece of "art" must have in order to be deemed as such.

But let's get one thing out of the way. Art is not simply a person pouring their heart and soul into something, nor is it someone just venting or showing their emotions; teen angst poetry is not art for a reason. No one wants to hear about how shitty your life is or how your boyfriend is an asshole. No one cares about your emotions, and they certainly aren't special. Wordsworth talks about emotions recollected in tranquility. Wordsworth's theory of "emotional-based poetry" is different from the whole pouring-one's-heart-out-onto-a-canvas thing because his type of poetry is a series of reflections on the implications of one's emotions in the context of a circumstance. Emotions are vehicles to understand the meaning behind a certain context; however, they should not be -- especially in an extremely personal and raw form -- the subject matter of one's "poetry" or "art."

One more thing I want to bring forth before I open up the forum to you guys. I believe there is "art" and I believe there is "Art." There is a big difference between the two -- not just the capital, of course -- and one of the obvious differences is that not everyone creates "Art." Not everything I have written creatively is "Art." If there wasn’t an inherent difference between "art" and "Art," then Eric Strege's world would be meaningless because Snookie would be just as much of a part of the literary canon as Joyce.

So, talk about art in the comments. I'll be interested in what you have to say.

JF

Monday, December 19, 2011

Fantasy, Literature, Fairies

So I had a conversation with my mother-in-law the other day that made me really sad. Somehow we got onto the topic of allegory and she said something like this: “I never really liked C.S. Lewis or any of that allegorical stuff. I don’t like Harry Potter and I don’t understand Lord of the Rings; writing has to be realistic in order to mean anything – fantasy is just kid’s stuff and it’s not important.”


I nodded politely along then headed out to the garage so I could sit by myself with my LOTR tattoo and Neal Gaiman short story collection and wonder what’s wrong with this crazy family I married into.


My husband doesn’t read fiction, which was a hard hurdle for us to get over but which I eventually understood was related to his ADD so I see it more as a minor disability than as a personal flaw – he doesn’t read history or nonfiction either, only books about mechanics and chemical formulas, or as he puts it “Books I can use.”


My father-, brother-, and mother-in-laws don’t read fiction either, though, so I’m coming to see this as a nurture-more-than-nature issue.


When I was a kid my parents and grandparents read to and with me all the time. My grandmother would sit down and draw mermaids with my sister and I and we would make up stories about how they lived; my father read The Hobbit to me when I was only five years old and it made me look forward to bedtime every night because I wanted to see what Bilbo was up to next; my mother started a reading circle with my sister and I when I was 12, in which we would sit down and read whole novels to one another; I will admit that I can’t remember my grandfather reading me any books, but he was a magician (literally – check out http://kirkkirkham.blogspot.com/ - my dad’s blog about his dad) and so the fantastic was part of everyday life when he was around. I was raised to adore fantasy, to believe in the power of the imagination and the possibility of magic, of the strength of hope and wonder.


What happens when you take that kind of magic away? I’m not sure that it ruins people. But I don’t think that it does them any good. I get frustrated with my husband sometimes because of it; he enjoys Science Fiction occasionally, but thinks that LOTR is boring and Harry Potter is dumb, he has no patience for fairy tales and no time for whimsy. I love him, but that’s just a little sad.


I’m fairly convinced that most English majors are raised in an environment conducive to crushed dreams and heartbreaking revelations; we probably believed in Santa long after all the other kids in our class did, and played with Barbies when we were much too old for them, and still think that maybe we might someday see a fairy or a dragon. Fantasy doesn’t lead to the most realistic adults, but in this world who wants to be a realist? I’ll take the idealism, hope, magic and whimsy of fantasy with me forever and I’ll try to someday pass it on to my kids too – and no matter that he missed out on it as a child, you better believe that my husband will participate in fostering magic in the lives of his children.


So where do you stand? Fantasy or Facts? Do you still believe in Santa Claus or do you think it’s cruel to lie to children about tooth fairies and Easter bunnies? Let me know in the comments.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Complaining in circles around The Band Perry

I feel like all I do nowadays is complain… maybe I’m just an old miserly soul, or maybe I’m a scrooge this holiday season because of all the stresses of finals. In any case, here I go again with another complaint, and this time it’s The Band Perry that has caught my attention. Well, The Band Perry really didn’t do anything but put out some pretty awesome music – I guess my complaint is geared more towards those listeners of The Band Perry who seem to be getting the wrong idea from one of their songs.

While surfing my news feed on Facebook about a week ago, I saw that a close friend of mine had posted a status with a quote from The Band Perry’s hit song, If I Die Young.

" ‘Funny when you’re dead, people start listening.’ "

Here’s a link to the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NJqUN9TClM

At that time, I really didn’t know the song well at all. I recognized the line, and I could hum the melody – I had heard my niece singing the song around the house – but I had no idea what the true context of the line was. I immediately thought that the song was trying to justify suicide, and I was pissed; I thought this song was reaching out to millions of impressionable teens and tweens (even my 9-year-old niece), telling them that it’s fine to take their own lives for the sake of getting others to understand them. I considered the influence of pop music, and I went into English major mode; it reminded me of what Samuel Johnson had to say about books almost 300 years ago:

“[books] are the entertainment of minds unfurnished with ideas, and therefore easily susceptible of impressions; not fixed by principles, and therefore easily following the current of fancy; not informed by experience, and consequently open to every false suggestion and partial account.”

I was upset at The Band Perry for putting out such a message to the masses, but I was jumping to way too many conclusions… I was wrong. I was doing exactly what my blog’s complaint is addressing: I was misinterpreting the song.

I read the lyrics a few times through, watched the music video, and did some research and found that the song is really an allusion to Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott. I can say now that I actually enjoy the song. It still refers to a suicide of sorts, but it’s a forced suicide brought on by a curse in a tower in Arthurian times, and it comments on the separation of the individual from society. It’s really a beautiful little gem about giving up on the idea of forever to fully experience life. At least that’s what I took from it – but I know that’s definitely not what my niece hears.

So then this is where my problem arises; I doubt that every listener of the song will research it like I did, and I know that very few people will understand the reference right away. As it is by itself, I think that the song can easily give the wrong idea to young listeners, even though it is really not promoting suicide. The Band Perry made a great song, and the problem is that that song is being played for an audience that lacks the capacity to really understand it. I’m still very afraid that, because of a misinterpretation, my niece might believe that her voice will be stronger in death than in life.

I guess I kinda lost myself in this blog. Who am I even complaining about now? It’s not The Band Perry’s fault, and it’s definitely not my niece’s fault. Who’s fault is it then? Popular cultures fault for enjoying a song without really understanding it? I think I’ll leave this blog open-ended. I really look forward to some of your thoughts on the song and on this seemingly unsolvable situation.

S. Pine

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Maybe there is a reason no man has ever gone there before . . .

Oh miserable man that I am! Why during this time of relaxation am I plagued with thoughts of feminism? I suppose it has something to do with my recent preoccupation with Star Trek (and all of its incarnations). Without boring everyone by enumerating the intricacies of plot and ample characterization that can be found in said series, movies, etc., it is irrefutably evident that the Star Trek franchise is, and has been, very much concerned with depicting strong female characters. This, of course, got me to thinking about strong female characters in literature, and since the last lit. course I took was medieval, I thought it appropriate to re-investigate some oldie-but-goodies and compose a bit of an analysis of their female characters. So, here you go . . . the first essay regarding feminism fueled by Star Trek and too much time.


Controversies over the implications of engendered societal constraints as they encroach on the freedoms and liberties of the female sex have remained a pivotal theme of pre-eminent authors through the ages of literary enlightenment. These themes, though superlative to the judicious treatment of females, have not reserved all that was intended by the elucidation of such differences. A time of great gender bias was the period colloquially known as the Dark Ages, or – with the intent of having a greater sensibility towards those who take offence to such superfluous trivialities – the Middle English period. A greater understanding of social roles available to women during, and the expectations thrust upon them, can be had by a close examination of texts having their genesis in or before these times. Formally, a subsequent discussion of such, and other, topics is to be aided by the analysis of such texts as: The Second Play of the Shepherds, The Wife of Bath’s Prologue, and Beowulf.
An un-shirking reality to women of such times, a reality which has not been entirely absolved even throughout the sequence of generations, is the social constraint of sexism, as is exercised through male domination and marital status. Geoffrey Chaucer, a prominent fourteenth century writer, among other things, adroitly addressed such marital follies in his revered tale, The Wife of Bath, namely, its prologue. Common age of consent for females to marry at the time, was twelve years old, an age which hardly left the decision of choosing a mate to the persons marrying, but rather to the parents or guardians. As one begins the reading of the prologue, it is quickly learned that the focal character, Dame Alison, was of that age when she first wed, “To speke of that is in marriage: for lordinges, sith I was twelf yeer was of age. . .” The assertion can then be made that marriage was done out of social strictures and possible economic possibility, and not out of genuine affection. This near futility of marriage, with the nature of demands, adjustments and responsibilities involved in marriage calling upon one to manifest maturity and balance, along with love, clearly provides evidence to the ineffectiveness of such marriages. Furthermore, Dame Alison’s slew of five husbands attests to the congenital flaws of said social and marital procedures, lending a great deal to the objective and marginalized treatment of women.
Ironically, at such times, the various religious sects, claiming to share biblical standards with common persons, through the bastardization of biblical text, only reinforced the social prejudices against women at the time. The common perception of authority was that husbands deserved control of the wife because he controls the state, a disgustingly simplified version of principals set in the book of Ephesians 5: 24, 25, where it states, “In fact, as the congregation is in subjection to the Christ, so let wives be to their husbands in everything. Husbands, continue loving your wives, just as the Christ also loved the congregation and delivered up himself for it.” As can be noted by a juxtaposition of the original text, and its lopsided interpretation by religious officials of the day, the original text was wrongly interpreted to make husbands authoritarians and rulers over their wives, instead of loving providers and family heads. It is worth noting that Chaucer was aware of such religious encroachments, and uses Dame Alison as mediator between author and religious beliefs, when she justifies her actions of marrying multiple men by looking toward the biblical example of King Solomon and his litany of wives, "wyves mo than oon.” Chaucer further uses Alison to turn religious perception on its ear, by making her the dominant one in the relationships, creating a severe tongue in cheek to all of its readers.
The issue of marital imperfection and its stranglehold on Middle English women is also poignantly if not subliminally discussed, in the anonymously authored The Second Play of the Shepherds. In stark contrast to Chaucer’s revolt against misogyny and gender limitations, through the depiction of Alison, the strong willed prurient, The Second Play of the Shepherds, an overtly religious piece, depicts the near “poster child” of Middle English women, that is to say, obedient and submissive. “In my cradle abide. Let me alone, and I shall lyg beside in childbed and groan.” This line, taken from a period of ascending tension between characters, is voiced by Uxor, the wife of Mak, a local thief who has stolen a lamb from a band of pastors. Upon near discovery, Uxor consents to help her husband deceive the pastors by pretending to be in the rigors of labor. This instance though superficially unremarkable, attests to the complete capitulation of the wife to her husband. Furthermore, this piece comments on the expectations of females to produce offspring; though not a direct depiction of the birthing process, Uxor nevertheless treats the situation with the utmost tact, displaying inherent nurturing qualities that a mother should embody. “I shall swaddle him right in my cradle.” Again, this quotation, if not the entire piece, comments strongly on the expectation of women to fill the role of mother and caregiver to her husband’s children, culminating in a literary character who is expectedly dull and lacking dimension. The implications of this text, being observed as a religious teaching tool to reach persons unable to attain books or regular publications, beautifully contrasts with the secular work of Chaucer by showing the stereotypical life of a common woman as is perceived through the lens of a religious writer, as opposed to the near fanciful indulgences of an upper class woman. Therefore, it can be noted that the more distinguished a person is socially and economically, the more license they have to live promiscuously.
As opposed to the previously discussed works, which in them can be found female prominent female characters, despite their depiction, the following work nearly eliminates the necessity of women entirely. Beowulf an anonymously written, anonymously compiled and anonymously published article of Saxon epic poetry focalizes on the hero Beowulf as he conquers various antagonists, written from the male perspective. The female character, known as Grendel’s mother, in fact is referred to many times as inhuman, the offspring of Cain, a monstrous entity, addressed only with the faintest of female humanity, “that swamp-thing from hell, the tarn hag.” The significance of the most prominent “female” symbol in the piece being depicted as such, resolutely displays the male dominated society in which the tale was written and is concentrated. The subsequent grappling of Beowulf and Grendel’s mother symbolically reinforces the prototypical patriarchal beliefs of male domination, and its begrudging acknowledgement of the possibility of feminine uprising; a thought that is antithetical to Chaucer’s sensitivity to feminine competency as is stated in The Wife of Bath’s Tale, “I putte me in youre wise governaunce: Cheseth youreself which may be most plesaunce and most honour to you and me also.” Contrarily to Beowulf, wherein feminine power is cut down mercilessly because of the character’s lack of traditional and appropriate feminine traits, Chaucer, in this tale, validates the competency of women and their ability to govern their lives with the sophistication and confidence which would classically only be characterized by masculinity.
Thusly, through the contrasting depictions of self actualized female symbols, religiously stereotypic pacifists and classification bending female incarnations, the definition of femininity is broadened, and the constraints and expectations of socially antiquated beliefs upon women become immaterial, as, yet again, the ceaseless evolution of both literature and society become enlightened.

Phew! I'm sure that was quite tedious for everyone - and not nearly as fun to read as one of Ryan's blogs - but I've come to accept such things. Maybe I can be as interesting when I get an Asian girlfriend.

Also, I know this is going to sound unbelievably nerdy, and I'm sure that if anyone comments, it will be Alli with a textual guffaw, but its okay. I am sending out a call for all Trekkie readers of A Few Lines Mag. to post their thoughts in regards to the literary merit of Star Trek. What about the franchise has lent to its indelible mark on people everywhere. If this can be narrowed down, would this "thing" be universally transferable to all forms of literature? Can there be a quantifiable nature to the success of art? Am I losing my mind? Your thoughts and more are welcome as comments on this blog!

Humanly, Eric W. Strege

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Christmas for Atheists

"A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together"- Garrison Keillor.

I love Christmas time, I always have, and I don't know why. I was raised an atheist, yet my family celebrated Christmas every year, in true consumer/pagan fashion. About the most religious aspect of our traditions was listening to Amy Grant's "The Night Before Christmas." There were of course no midnight church pews or contemplations on the birth of baby Jesus for us. So, needless to say, the religious aspect of Christmas was not what got me.

As a little atheist, I was often asked why my family celebrated Christmas and why I cared about it so much. I sometimes wanted to rage at them in turn with responses such as, "now that you mention it, why do you celebrate Christmas? It comes from a pagan holiday you know." But, I tended to bite my lip and contemplate the question, however unwarranted, at hand.

I know what you're thinking: it was the presents. Well, there is of course some truth to that and is not to be written off as pure evil materialism. There is something endlessly enticing to a child (who is not yet able to decide what he/she can possess and who is not spoiled on a regular basis) about having some mysterious thing all beautifully wrapped up under the tree. In the realm of presents, the anticipation was the best part.

But, I will say now, as I said then, it was never just the presents. After all, the Christmas of my childhood involved traditions aside from presents. And there's the key word: tradition. So much seemed reliable at this time of year- my family, which is by no means extensive or wide-reaching, always came together, Christmas morning was always spent around the tree at an earlier hour than any of us were otherwise conscious, fantastically good food was to be had, a new movie to be seen all together, Bing Crosby tunes playing. And so, now I remember Christmas in this way and I've edited out all the bad stuff. It doesn't hurt that it sometimes snowed where I grew up.

As everyone recognizes in the ominous and oft-repeated chant of George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones, "winter is coming," winter more often than not represents death. And, indeed, at this time of year, we can see death all around us- the bare trees, the withered plants, the frost-bitten ground. It is the recognition of this correlation that drives many cultures, both present and past, to continuously enact traditions during this dark, cold, and uncertain time of the year. Saturnalia, the Ancient Roman celebration upon which some Christmas traditions are, at least in part, based, was originally developed as a means of raising morale. Similarly, St. Lucia's Day is a celebration intended as an overt reminder of the immanent return of warmth and sunlight. Basically, winter is a time, in all of its cold uncertainty, when we need reminders of our humanity and of warmth. And traditions help us to do just that by being so reliably the same, year after year; and with their consistency, they feed into that horribly erroneous sense that our lives can go on forever. But, that illusion is easily shattered whenever an aspect of the tradition changes, as they inevitably do.

My father died this year and that means this is the first Christmas season that my brother and I will not set aside a day sometime around the 25th to get together with him, exchange presents, have some drinks, and watch movies. The absence of my father during this time of year is just another reminder to me of the fragility of this whole affair of Christmas and holidays and everything else that is deceptively consistent for awhile- it's a reminder of course of the fragility of life in general.

Before you start to think that I'm on my way to Scrooge status, I should tell you about what originally inspired me to write about Christmas today: my small-ish fake (even though it tries to obscure this fact with bark rod that runs up the center, it is still apparent as a result of the glue globs that hold the branches on) Christmas tree in my little living room. With donations from my mother, I stylishly decorated it with lights and red and silver ornaments. As I sat on the couch the other night to admire my work, a strange emotion overcame me. It wasn't quite nostalgia, but that was part of it: I felt what I feel every year looking at the Christmas tree. But, this year, it's my tree. I was not only still able to experience the traditions of my childhood, but I was reassured that I would be able to continue them and begin to make my own as well. And in this way, traditions are resilient- we are able to take them with us even as we lose loved ones. Because even as we do lose those whom we first made the traditions with, we are able to share them with the new loved ones who come into our lives and with the people from our childhood who we are lucky enough to still have with us.

I realize that this blog became a sentimental one and completely sidesteps many important issues that could be discussed regarding Christmas. I also realize that I'm not being politically correct by only spotlighting Christmas. And for that, I apologize. But, not really because one has to write what she knows. Oh, and to the Jehovah's Witnesses…yeeah, I got nothin'.
Happy Holidays,
Leena

Monday, December 12, 2011

Grammar ain't no thang.

So as English majors and literary enthusiasts we deal with grammar a lot. We see a lot of horrible grammar, we all have our pet peeves and we get really frustrated when we see what we interpret as “basic” grammar misuse.


Why?


I honestly don’t understand this attitude that all grammar must be perfect all the time. I mean, sure, if you’re presenting to a class it’s best to sound like you have a decent understanding of linguistic mechanics. And, yeah, if you’re writing for a class it’s probably an okay idea to use the best grammar you have at your disposal. But what about outside of class?


I have a lot of friends who are grammar tools. I won’t say grammar Nazis, largely because I hate that phrase, but also because they’re not in good enough command of grammar themselves to be considered real, high level grammar assholes. They tend to amuse me more than they frustrate me (at least when they’re correcting someone else’s grammar) but they do manage to frustrate me most of the time, usually when they’re criticizing a grammar mistake that doesn’t impede comprehension on the part of a listener.


One particular grammatical criticism I’ve been hearing harped on frequently in the last week is the phrase “I’m doing good” – to which grammar tools quip, “Oh, have you been helping out with a charity? Volunteering? Assisting old ladies? No? Then you’re doing well, not good.” Ahem, sorry, but fuck you. Mister Grammar Tool, you know perfectly well what that speaker meant – you just wanted to take the opportunity to point out that “good” in that context has historically meant something other than what it means in colloquial speech. Good for you, you’re an asshole.


I have a secret that most of my friends don’t know about me, largely because I made most of my friends in school where this secret could be potentially embarrassing. When I’m at home or when I’m with my other friends, I primarily speak LOL, not English. I pronounce BRB as “burb” around my husband and sister, I phrase requests for objects as derivatives of “I can has?” (i.e. when I want a sandwich I say to my husband “can has fud naow plz?”) and I rarely say “I don’t like X” when a nice “do not want” will do the trick.


Now, why do I, an English Literature major with a BA and a high level of respect for the written word, allow my spoken grammar to be so infected with such hideous perversions of the English Language? Because I actually know how the rules of the language work, which can be simply summed up in two words: they don’t.


Look folks, I’ve studied Chaucer. I’ve got Shakespeare down. I’m full up on James. I know the 411 on Spencer and I’m hip to Pope. Do you know what one of the most important thing all of these authors have in common is? They sound nothing like us. It doesn’t matter if it’s Middle English, Early Modern or full on Modern English; if something was written in English more than a hundred years ago, the language has changed drastically enough that it can never go back, and so it sounds like it comes from a different language because it essentially did.


So why are we trying to correct ourselves to sound like we’re a hundred years older than we are? I’m not saying that the change from Twain’s English to Salinger’s English is as drastic as the change from Chaucer to Shakespeare, or even the change from Shakespeare to Twain, but the change exists nonetheless and even now we’re not speaking or writing in the language of Salinger. It’s still English, sure, but it’s a slightly different English – a more modern English for more modern times.


Grammar doesn’t really matter. I’ll let you flinch for a second before I add a caveat to that. Okay, prescriptive grammar doesn’t really matter. The grammar that grammar texts teach, the grammar of Strunk and White, the grammar you hated having to learn in high school – that doesn’t matter. Descriptive grammar matters because it is what the speakers of a language understand. When you’re speaking, you can’t hear the differences between there, their, and they’re or its and it’s. When you’re reading you can usually see the differences between those words, and know which is wrong in context, but generally we know what the writer meant even though they committed the horrendous faux pas of using the wrong homonym. So get over it. Prescriptive grammar is largely useless and even in the context of a classroom it’s nearly impossible to properly pin down the exact rules by which grammar should be judged, and even then it doesn’t particularly matter – you can still sound professional and competent in English when you’re ignoring prescriptive rules. Don’t believe me? Check out the first eight paragraphs of this post; I dare you to find the seventeen purposefully inserted violations of prescriptive English grammar and point them out in the comments.


Didn’t notice them? Couldn’t find them all? Good. You’re not a grammar tool. You use grammar as it should be used: to enhance understanding in written and oral communication rather than to blindly adhere to archaic systems in a misguided bid to appear proper.


Death is the absence of change. This axiom holds true for languages as well as for organisms. If you want the a language that won’t keep changing for the “worse,” then I kindly suggest that you drop English and take up Latin.


- Cheers,

Alli


*Just a side note as a real mindbender - the last few paragraphs of this, the ones that are more confusing and harder to understand, are as prescriptively correct as I could make them. What does that say about the place that prescriptive language has in the modern world. Just food for thought.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

If You Find Yourself Blocked By a Wall... Climb It.

Winter time is my favorite time of the year. Now I know what you all are probably thinking. Well of course it is, Christmas is just around the corner, and who doesn't love Christmas? And while I do love Christmas and all of the festivity, these are not the reasons why I love this season.


As many of you may know I grew up in a small town in Northern California, in a neighborhood where everyone knew one another's names. My best friends where my neighbors and while at night the streets where bare and quiet, during the day they would come alive with the games of the kids, the talk of the parents, and the smells of what everyone was making to eat that day. As I grew older I began to realize that the beauty and wonder of that neighborhood was not because of its location or its aesthetic awe, it was beautiful because of the people who lived there.


When I was seventeen and getting ready to leave for college the people who owned the house next to ours moved out, and a younger couple moved it. They had two young boys and seemed very happy. When returning home from college I enjoyed seeing how the kids on the street still played there as I once did with my friends when I was younger. It was a great place to grow up.


However, about five months ago, during summer break something tragic happened. The husband of the couple who moved in next door, while out exercising, suddenly died. He was only in his mid 30s and had a great family, a great job, and lived in a great neighborhood; everything seemed to be going his way in life. The family did not expect it as he was not sick and had no family history of any serious illness. It was a tragic loss for the family, as well as the entire neighborhood as we had all grown very close to this new family who had moved in just a few years ago.


A few weeks later I came home and found my mom talking to the wife of the man who had recently passed. As I approached to give my condolences, I overheard her say that what bothered her the most was how young he was, and how they still had so much to do together; things they said they would always do, but just never got around to it. This really got me thinking about my life. We always here people telling us that life is too short and that we should live each day to the fullest and never let anything hold us back from accomplishing our dreams, but how many of us actually do this?


When I was a child I dreamt of flying, becoming a professional soccer player, and traveling through some uncharted forest on a quest to find a long lost treasure that would somehow change the world. I dreamt similar dreams of all children, and as I've gotten older I've realized just how hard it is and would be to make some of those dreams come true; However, there are some dreams that I will never and can never give up. Throughout high school I always knew I wanted to go to college, so I worked hard and went. I also always dreamt of going white water rafting so, last summer, I decided to finally go, and it was unforgettable. I wanted to play the guitar since I was a little kid. I used to flip my cello on its side and act as if it really was a guitar, so three years ago I bought a guitar, and playing it has become a huge part of my life. I still have dreams today. Dreams that I am working towards or cannot fulfill at this point in my life. But I also have dreams that I have ignored. Dreams that I have neglected or given up for reasons that, looking back, were not meaningful enough.

So, what I want all of you to take away from this is the importance of not only having dreams, but also chasing after them. No one knows what tomorrow will bring, and, as cliché as that sounds, it really is true. So my charge for you all is to think of the one dream that seems so deeply rooted inside of you that it is as if it is part of you. Once you have found it, follow it. Whether that be writing, or running, or chasing after a career, it matters not. What does matter is that you go after it.


Tying this back to the beginning of this blog. Winter is my favorite season because it acts as a form of hibernation for me. It is rejuvenating and relaxing, and it brings about the new year. So as this new year approaches, heed my words. Think of a dream and, once you have found it, go.


May Your Travels Be True,

Nick Hart

Friday, December 9, 2011

Letter to the Leaves: What can you do in just A Few Lines

I will be holding a creativity contest from 12/9-12/30 and giving out a $25 Target gift card to the 1st place winner of each week.

Here’s how it’s going to go:

First I will present you with a person, place and thing. Next it’s your job to create a piece of Individual Expression that is no more than 350 words and incorporates each of the given terms at least once. The structure, form, and medium (written or photo) of each entry is up to the creator.

The winner will be chosen by me, Bermuda, and the winning passage will be posted on my blog. Entries will be judged on their creativity, imagery, and their ability to incorporate all of the terms into a seamless, provocative passage.

All entries are due by the start of the next week's challenge.

Passages can be submitted by posting them in the comment section at the conclusion of that particular week’s blog or by emailing them to me. For entries that are emailed, please put your name and title of entry in the subject line. For entries posted as a comment, please leave an email address where you can be contacted at.

Please include a word count at the beginning of passages.

Limit two entries per creator per week.

Photo entries will be accepted as long as all given terms are represented and readily discernable by a reasonable person.

The winner will be awarded a $25 dollar gift card to Target.
.
This contest is open to all people, except for those of you on the masthead

If you have any questions please email me at Bermuda.editor at gmail.com

Here are your given terms for this week:

Person: Jesus

Place: Occupy Encampment

Thing: Flashlight (broken)

Undoubtedly Yours,
Bermuda

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before

Hello everyone, I come to you this evening as a man who seeks to speak plainly. Instead of my signature prolixity, I aim to offer a few personal truths spoken as honestly as I once did.

As you have probably noticed, a few of us editors have decided to share our personal academic histories, all with the intent of enforcing the point that, despite previous engagement - or lack there of - in education, there is always a moment where things can be turned around. And although this moment is better coming sooner rather than later, the main importance is that it comes at all.

When I was an elementary school lad, I obsessed over the quality of my work, I gave great thought to my reputation with my fellow classmates and instructors alike. This continued until about 7th grade, the grade where I - to put it nicely - lost sync with myself. I found all of my assignments dull and exasperating, and decided not to complete them. Believe it or not, the only interest I had in school was science (go figure). I participated in science fair competitions and won first place in district, county and state competitions, and one year even won first prize in the Discovery Channel National Science Fair (first prize was a large savings bond and an entire week vacation in San Francisco where I would get to meet the Mythbusters, ya, how awesome is that?!) Aside from that, I also competed in "Botball" robotics competitions and made it to 3 national competitions (why they were in Oklahoma is still beyond me). Now I know what you are thinking, "what does this guy mean he lost it? Compared to Jack, he is a model student!" Well, I suppose in some ways you would be right, but everything really hit the fan when I was in high school. Like Jack, I was in I.B. everything, and hated nearly every minute of it, mainly because I hated all the teachers (especially the English ones). I had become so accustom to leaving everything to the last minute and not caring if I even had a test the next day, they never really hurt your grade anyway, how could it in a class that had 2,000 points for a quarter? This trend continued: failing notices, progress reports, make up assignments, emails flying back and forth between my mom and the teachers, emotional mixtures of apathy and guilt, all the while somehow making B's and C's (I'm convinced Jack and I are born under the same sign or something, its the only excuse), it was terrible. Believe it or not, this lasted until SENIOR YEAR of high school! I was in a quandary about what to do with my life (my love of science having worn off somewhere between 9th and 10th). I forced myself to sit down and really meditate on what I enjoyed, and what my natural abilities were/are. I began to realize that, if I thought back to all the great memories of my childhood, adolescence, and on up, almost all of them came back to literature: the excitement of the elementary school library, my mom bringing home the new installment of the Lemony Snicket series for me to read, staying up nights to find out just how these characters, who, in ways, I felt closer to than any of my other friends, would escape the next trap or solve the next riddle. That realization in mind, and the thought that a future which would allow me to pursue what I loved was right in front of me if only I applied myself, compelled me to achieve good grades and to truly attain knowledge so that I could have a future. I know it sounds cheesy to say that from that moment on everything was different, I started caring about my academics, about my place in things, etc., but its the truth, and from then on I have always made it my purpose to excel in my pursuits, which, I can is something I have succeeded in.

So, again, if you take anything away from the overly sentimental stuff above, it is this: Do not be afraid to take action over your life. Act wisely and decisively, Think earnestly upon matters which concern you. Only then will you begin to find true fulfillment. As I said before, its best for this to be done sooner rather than later, so take my advice and the advice of the other editors who have so openly blogged about this. Learn from our mistakes (my god I've suddenly turned into my grandmother) and don't be afraid to do a little soul searching. The moment you stop being able to surprise yourself is the day you lose worth.

To Dr. Easley & Mrs. Bickford, two very special ladies - E. W. Strege

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

"I Ain't Here to Save Anyone" - CC Ryder

After reading Leena's blog, I, too, felt as though I should share some stuff about myself - namely my academic history. It's a rough one, and it's not one I'm too particularly proud of - although in some strange way I do feel as though I kind of pulled a miracle out of my ass, and that's pretty cool - however, it's what made me who I am today. So sit back, grab a glass of whiskey, and good luck reading this.
            In junior high and high school, I was in the International Baccalaureate Program. Even in those days, I was a little shit head. I never did my work because I knew I could do the bare minimum and get a passing grade in the course. In fact, when I was in seventh grade, I didn't turn in a single assignment. Sure, I would do parts, but once they started to bore me, they would find themselves scrunched up inside the back of my desk or lost somewhere in a folder. At the end of the semester, progress reports would be sent home, and every time I would get the "in danger of failing" notice from all of my classes.
            Needless to say, especially for those of you who have met my mother, my mom would lose her shit. I seriously don't know how I survived six years of this process. Anyways, I would get yelled at, my mom would call all of my teachers, and all of them would let me turn in everything for partial credit. So, I smoothed out all the crumpled papers and finish what I had - maybe, sometimes, not really? - started and turned in a massive folder of all my work on the last day possible. After the tome of papers were graded, my F would magically turn into a C+ or a B (usually a B, though, because I had "potential")
            The funny thing about this is that it made my mom furious. Time after time my teachers would say, "Andrew is the smartest kid in the class, but he just needs some motivation," or, "Andrew is brilliant, but he's not a great student."
            Fuck.
            There it was, folks. I was rewarded even when I didn't do anything. After all, I was the "smartest kid in the class." Why should I do my work if I already knew all the material? Well, even now, after all that's happened in my life, I still don't really see the point of it; and, when I really think about it, it's the praise of bad students and the fear to say anything about said students which gives them a subconscious license to slack off and become apathetic.
            So I guess that's where it began. Funny, I never really realized that until just now. It's time to move on, though. High school is where this apathy was perpetuated. All of the IB classes were a joke, as were the few AP classes I took; and as the progress reports came in and the phone calls went out, I was only reassured that I was the smartest kid in the class. IB English, IB Physics, AP US History? You name it, I was good at it, and everyone knew it.
            After four years of what should have been a 2.0, but what ended up being a miraculous 3.4 - I know, not the best, but sure as hell better than a 2.0 and amazing for never having done a page of homework - I took my diploma and marched off to Cal Poly where I studied Aerospace Engineering. Well…that's using "study" a bit flippantly.
            Three years of my teachers, again, failing to give me what I needed, I found myself at rock bottom with a 1.8 GPA, all the while being on academic probation (which goes without saying). Sure, I had some great professors, especially Mr. Le, who taught English (I got a low C in that class), but it was still too easy. Then I took a class with Dr. Moss.
            One could say Dr. Moss saved my life. I was a quarter away from being kicked out of Cal Poly when I first took a class with him. He was the first person who ever told me that not trying wasn’t going to cut it. He was the first person who helped me realize that I was worth more than I was putting out. He helped me see that I could do so much, but that I was choosing not to. Dr. Moss helped me see in myself what I didn't want to. Inside of me was a brilliant student who could accomplish anything, but in order to do so, would have to work for it. Since then I have held a 3.5 GPA, gone to conferences, taught English in China twice, published poetry and fiction in magazines, and started my own.
            So what's the moral here? Well, it's not too simple, really; however, I do think there is one lesson to be learned. If you are a student who has the potential to do great things - and trust me, many people have the ability to do so, but choose to ignore it - fucking man up and do what you need to do. I'll say what's been said before: if you act like I did all those years ago, you're a fucking moron. I was a fucking moron.
            Now I know what you're thinking. You're wondering about Dr. Moss. I'll tell you this about Dr. Moss. He did not save me. He did not try to save me. Dr. Moss did one thing for me, and one thing only. He helped me see what I didn't want to see, and the only reason he was able to do so was because I allowed him to help me. If I had gone on my merry way and continued to fuck up after Moss's class, it would not have been his fault. No one can save you, folks, and no one is trying to. Anyone who says otherwise is a romantic. So don't be an idiot. If you're drowning, start to fucking swim.

JF
            

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Confessions of a former "idiot"


At the end of my freshman year of undergrad, my GPA was 1.5 and I was on academic probation. I had failed not only Economics 101, but Freshman English…twice. I tell you this as a response to the idea that because I was (eventually) a successful English grad student and am now a composition instructor, I am in some way unable to understand the plight of struggling and seemingly apathetic students.

I cannot say that I was a struggling student because, if I had been, I would not have failed all those courses. And I cannot say that I was uninspired by those courses- on the contrary, they were all quite interesting to me. No, I was simply apathetic, which is the main reason I can now recognize apathy in my own students.

I was inspired by both of my English 105 teachers and by the subject. I already loved English and I was very interested in the topics at hand for both classes- in the first we discussed the fast food industry in America, and the second was about the war in the middle east. I would go to classes, excited to be there, and I would participate in the conversations. But, I almost never did my work, and when I did, I did it in a half-assed manner because that's how I did all of my work that year.

For about the first half of my Economics class, I was in fact a struggling student, but that didn't last. Economics is not a subject that comes easily to me and for awhile, I put in the effort to understand and I did indeed complete my work. But, apathy set in once again, and I simply stopped doing the work, deciding that I could continue to put in the time and effort but that I didn't want to.

Now, you're probably asking “why?” Why did I behave this way? Was it that I was working too much? I was, after all, working at Stater Brothers at the beginning of college and, by the end of the year, I was working fulltime hours at Disneyland. But, no, I can't say that that was it; during my third year, I took 20 units (five days a week of classes) and Friday nights and all day Saturdays and Sundays were spent at work. I received all As and Bs that year.

But, the difference Freshman year was that my heart wasn't in it (yes, I realize that's a cliché). And as much as I was interested in the topics and as much as I could have continued to grapple with the ones that I wasn't, nothing that any of my professors did could have changed my apathy.

But, someone did change me that year: my counselor. He told me, upon review of my first year grades, that maybe college wasn't for me. He said I should consider sticking with my job at Disneyland and making a career out of that. His words made all the difference because I knew they weren’t true. I dedicated myself to school after that. There was a 180 turn in my effort. Some people would have told that counselor that what he did was wrong and that he should have attempted to inspire me to work harder and not to lose my opportunity. Instead, what he did was cut to the chase and tell me what all my professors were probably thinking about me (if they had any thoughts about me that is). If I had had a different reaction- if I had responded by saying, "you're right, I don't belong here," then maybe that means I wouldn't have. Part of the college experience is realizing, for yourself, who you are and who you are going to be. You get to decide that.

As I mentioned, I was working much more often and under much more emotional duress the following year and taking much more difficult classes; but, I did well because I had decided that, no matter what it took, I was never going to be told that I wasn't college material.

There are people who are and are not college material all around us- and by the way, many people who aren't college material are extremely intelligent and intellectual thinkers. Some people whom I admire most in the world do not have college degrees and many of them are writers. And many of them did attend college for some years and discovered that, for better or for worse, it was not for them; many of them found their way in life and in their careers as a result of that decision.

Once again, the beautiful thing about college and life is that we all get to decide how we are going to spend our time and what is best for us and every once in awhile we will meet people who help us to discover what is that within ourselves. So, thank you to my freshman year professors, and thank you to that counselor who (maybe inadvertently) challenged me that day to prove myself. Professors, some people may say that you failed because I wasn’t inspired to do my assignments, but you inspired me nonetheless. Counselor, some may say that you failed because you didn’t seem to believe in me, but you caused me to act in a way that was in accordance with what I knew I was capable.

Looking back on all of this reminds me that a successful educator does not always give out As and may not always gingerly hold his students’ hands. I hope, if you’re thinking about becoming educators yourselves or if you are evaluating what it means to be an inspiration, you will remember that an education comes in many different forms and that the route to inspiring someone may not look like what you had expected.

Until next time,
Leena

Monday, December 5, 2011

The Art of Absence and other opinions

I don’t know about you, but I love sad poetry.


Triumphal poetry seems too showy, poems about requited love are dull, and poems about children frequently appear insipid to me.


I love the poetry of funerals.


This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well – I used an adaptation of Auden’s “Funeral Blues” as part of my wedding vows – but somehow it surprises me every time I pick up something dirge-like and walk away feeling enlivened.


I think my enjoyment of depressing poetry is mostly due to the fact that I’m continually astounded by the enormous well of sadness that humans are capable of experiencing; many people will know great joy in their lives, but suffering is really more of a universal emotion.


Funerals make people horny (this has been documented – a lot – just trust me). People get married in droves after national tragedies (and tell me, honestly, do you not know of a child who was born around June 11th, 2002?) and during wars.


Why? Well, to quote W.B. Yeats, because “man is in love and loves what vanishes.” We are addicted to our own temporal instability – think about the traditional symbols of love; hearts that stop beating, red roses which wither when cut from the bush, arrows meant to rend flesh and end life – love is death and death is love, that which has died can only be remembered, and then only imperfectly, and usually as a more perfect version of that which existed in life.


The poetry of absence is, in my opinion, more complete and more tragically energetic than poetry about a living presence. Consider Ginsberg’s “Supermarket in California,” the poem is an ode and a eulogy to Walt Whitman; Ginsberg transforms the old poet into a clown and a god, powerful and pathetic because he is dead. It is harder to write poetry about the living because the living will contradict themselves (which is fine, they do after all contain multitudes) and pervert the poetry written for them or poets will pervert their own attitudes about their muse – think of Rosaline in Romeo and Juliet – Romeo falls for her, swoons over her, prates and prattles and poetry-s over her then ditches the whole concept of her because she less than Juliet. Poetry is like studying language – Latin is ideal because it is dead and no one is going to suddenly declare that “D’oh” is a word or that “less” is an acceptable (and inevitable) replacement for “fewer”; just like a dead lover won’t cheat, get fat, or suddenly declare undying allegiance to Justin Bieber.


I’m being ridiculous, of course. There’s wonderful poetry written about life and living and love and silliness and the now. But I just can’t bring myself to love it as much as the poetry about what was but isn’t any longer.


Maybe I’m just a downer, maybe I’m just an emo kid at heart, or maybe I simply love what vanishes. I cherish the perishable and I treasure the lost; the glass is empty but the memory of the sweetness of the drink is sweeter than the drink could’ve been.


So, how about you?

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Picking Up Where They Left Off

Hello again everyone. Over the past quarter I have been working on a research project focusing on the role of the writing tutor in any writer's life. This project has taken me down roads I had not yet traveled as an English major at Cal Poly, reading articles and books that I would not have otherwise. Along the way I stumbled across a series of articles by Nancy Sommers who has spent much of her career writing about the importance of the revision process in writing. While I am not here to discuss any one of her articles in particular, I would however like to share with you how some of her ideas, as well as some of my own, may be able to inspire you the next time you sit down to write.


When writing a paper one is often confronted with the necessity of using sources. Why? Because sources establish ethos. They increase the credibility, or attempt to increase the credibility, of your paper because, if they are the right sources, they establish that your topic matters and someone who is considered an expert in the field shares similar opinions as you. However, there comes a point in any paper where the use of sources can begin to overwhelm rather than uphold. The sources begin to deteriorate the argument because they mute the writer.


Well what do I mean by this?


I mean that an overwhelming amount of sources can actually become a bad thing. Writing is a tool that allows us to express ourselves. As declared by Walter Ong, writing is a technology that allows critical thinking. When we write we establish our beliefs on paper and make them visible for others to read and learn from. Bringing this back to the essay, if our essays are filled with quotes establishing how our claims have been proven true by others, then we are doing nothing more than restating what others have already stated. We are doing nothing more than establishing what has already been established, and, in no way, are pushing that specific field of research or literature forward in anyway.


So what are we supposed to do when we write a research essay?


Establish a balance. I am not prescribing that one annihilates any and all use of quotes in their writing. Quotes often allow for a jumping point. In fact, this is exactly what researchers want when they research. By publishing articles and performing experiments researchers want others to read their work, and through this reading they hope that others will find their work interesting to pursue it themselves and further revise the insights they themselves have made. As Ferdinand Saussure elicits, words gain meaning based on their differences. In this same way, what we write about gains meaning because of the dissonance it creates in the literary circle it enters. If a circle has only one theme, and all of the writers and minds of this circle function only to restate what has already been stated and no disagreement occurs, no dissonance is present, then no new knowledge will enter this circle. It is through difference, and the clashing of ideas that new ideas are formed and earlier thoughts and theories are transformed and revised into something new, often more practical, and more accurate.


So my point today. As I write my research paper I do have sections where I am restating what the researchers before me have stated, establishing the past research that has been done in attempts to prove why my research topic is important, and I have been tempted to stop there. But it is necessary that I don't. It is necessary that none of us stop there. When we write, when we draw, whatever it is that we do, we should never neglect to think critically, analyze, and attempt to bring our own opinions and theories into the argument. We should strive, with our work, to create dissonance with other works around us. We should aim to stir the waters and revise what needs revised, because without this, we accomplish nothing more than what already has been.


Until Next Time Friends,


Nick

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Us and Them

Feel free to listen to this Pink Floyd classic while you read this blog.
It won't really enhance the experience but it's a pretty good excuse to listen to Floyd.

So, the thematic nature of my life seems to have continued this week though the theme has changed. This week, instead of writing an essay about identity in writing, I'm writing a paper about composition's place in academia as a whole. Since writing my blog entitled "The Great Disconnect" I've noticed that there has been a lot about us, them, and we. Myself included! So, now that my status as a hypocrite has been covered, I would now like to try and recapture the essence of said disconnect since I've put in some relevant research towards it.

As last week, I was inspired to write in response to Bermuda's last blog. Go check it out, it's an evaluation of the elements of pedagogy; a subject that a lot of the masthead is debating over at the moment (and I encourage you to become part of it). He wrote that misunderstandings are created between majors such as science and English because they hold distinctly different value systems. Where science values the concrete, English values justified ideas. However, both departments are concerned with a level of "correctness." The problem is that the two departments are contributing to two vastly different discourse communities. It is these communities that set the criteria for correctness. So here, I would like to argue that this gap between communities can be bridged through cooperation and the university can be one big happy family.

It's a pretty big misconception that scientific majors are simply taught to regurgitate information. Their assignments are very similar to ours, in their papers they are instructed to apply theories and weigh evidence in a clear and concise way. It does require critical thinking, it's the subject matter that doesn't translate into the English department. Luckily, we have people bridging this gap. Discipline specific writing is on its way. In 2005 applied linguists from the Northern Arizona University set out to create a partnership between the chemistry department and the English department. This experience was documented in a collaborative article entitled "Creating and validating assessment instruments for a discipline-specific writing course: and interdisciplinary approach." I know what you're thinking, "that sounds rigid as hell," but actually it's pretty enlightening and covers the frictions that departments face when they need to compromise with each other. The key is approaching the situation with an open mind, the linguists went in ready to adapt a writing style to the chemists rather than overturning everything in the chemistry discourse community. They implemented a testing program that asked chemistry students to write essays that synthesize the ideas from up to six articles at a time. These were not graded on the terms of right and wrong, but rather to the point that a student justified his/her idea.

Teaching writing across the curriculum not only serves major pedagogical purposes but it also allows students to actively contribute to their own communities in a cohesive and effective way. So though the end game of the departments may be different, the need to convey them remains the same but the method in which they are conveyed seems to differ. By cooperating with other disciplines the method seems to overlap at many points. I think it's necessary for educators of composition to be able to show students that writing is an asset to any discipline while also accepting that not every piece of academic writing needs to be structured like a literary analysis. Hell, the over structured writing in freshman comp even turns me off the subject.

Anycrap, this is all coming of a bit dry to me so I'm gonna open up for some questions and comments. Here're a few: By merging disciplines to we risk watering down both of them in order to meet the standards of the other? Should we just become experts in our own respective fields and pay little mind to the ones that don't apply to us? Do we really need to coddle science majors? Are we really so different after all?

I tried,
-Rainamoinen