Writers of the World, Unite!

Here's a nifty little video explaining the Writers' Guild strike. For more information , visit United Hollywood. And for some interesting videos in support of the strike, visit Speechless. I've never wanted to read lips so badly as when I viewed the Sean Penn video.

Diversion

Here's a diversion to eat up 10 - 15 minutes of your day.

FYI: The comments posted to the page in linked above includes a link to the following web site, which includes an article written about this spinning silhouette: http://www.michaelbach.de/ot/sze_silhouette/index.html

Teaching with Exigence

NPR recently broadcasted a story (available via podcast) about Soldier's Heart: Teaching Literature Through Peace and War at West Point, a new book by Elizabeth Samet. I haven't read the book, but listening to the podcast and Samet's comments about teaching young officers-to-be, many of whom will likely be going to war, I couldn't help wondering how the exigence supplied by an active war might shape the transaction of reading, the exchange that takes place in the classroom, the instructor's choices about texts, topics of discussion, etc.

For most of us teaching in higher education, there is simply little sense of exigence. This is true of both teachers and students, both of whom are too easily isolated--temporally and spatially--from the contexts and challenges our students will experience once their schooling is finished. This isolation is generated by all sorts of factors: the abundance that surrounds us, our priviledged place within that abundance, the variety of contexts our students will encounter upon graduation.

How would our teaching change if we had a more immediate and concrete sense of the challenges our students would confront? How would levels of student engagement change with a greater sense of exigence? Can such exigence be framed or generated with authenticity?

I'm A Loaner

In the last year, I've become a podcast junkie. Well, not a junkie, but I do have a handful of podcasts that I listen to regularly: the New York Times Book Review, NPR Books, Slate.com, Dave Ramsey, the Academy of American Poets poetcast, and sermons by friends and former pastors.

The Slate.com Daily Podcast recently included Bill Clinton's address to the Slate 60--a collection of the 60 most giving philanthropists over the last year. In his remarks, Clinton referred to an organization called Kiva, which provides individuals the opportunity to participate in loaning money to small businesses in developing countries (a.k.a. microfinancing). The idea intrigued me, so I visited the site. Loaners get to select the borrower they want to support, so I'm now contributing $25 toward a loan for a barber in Lebanon. Why did I select a barber, of all things? I suppose it's another Wendell Berry thing. Looking at the profiles of all these folks seeking a loan, I saw "barber" and thought of Jayber Crow. Who wouldn't want to support Jayber Crow?

I'm still trying to decide whether I'm comfortable with being a loaner rather than a giver. If anyone knows of a Kiva-like means of giving, let me know. Perhaps I'll revisit this issue when I've taken more time to think it through.

Theme Songs

During conversation at a friend's birthday party, the subject of personal theme songs surfaced. I've been ruminating on the topic for the last couple of days, and I've finally settled on my "Top Twelve."

These are the songs that fulfill the "theme song" definition provided on Ally McBeal: "...something you can play in your head to make you feel better." While there are a lot of other songs that I get excited about, many of them have an impact due to either mere nostalgia or a certain shadowy catharsis that doesn't quite fit the Ally McBeal definition. Also, I decided, rather arbitrarily, to allow only one song from any individual artist--thus, only one song by U2, John Mellencamp, and Simple Minds.

In any event, here's the top twelve, listed alphabetically by artist:

"Soak up the Sun" : Sheryl Crow
"Don’t Bring Me Down" : ELO
"One Thing Leads to Another" : The Fixx
"You Dropped a Bomb on Me" : The Gap Band
"Walkin’ on Sunshine" : Katrina and the Waves
"Small Town" : John Mellencamp
"Smells Like Teen Spirit" : Nirvana
"Alive and Kickin’" : Simple Minds
"Come Sail Away" : Styx
"Mysterious Ways" : U2
"Jump" : Van Halen
"A Country Boy Can Survive" : Hank Williams, Jr.

Because I will find it virtually impossible to narrow this list to a single song, I've set up a poll in the sidebar so that anyone who cares to weigh in can do so. Just know that the final decision--if it ever gets made--will be mine. :)

Michael Vick & Finding Jesus

Those of you familiar with the online magazine Slate.com may already be aware that Slate has started a new video section titled Slate V. They use this part of the Slate.com site to distribute short video segments. They've done some good stuff.

One regular feature--and one that I tend to find rather annoying--is the collaboration with MediaCurves.com. MediaCurves takes video segments (e.g., political advertisements and speeches, news segments, press conferences, etc.) and shows them to a group of viewers who rate the believability (or some other criteria) of the segment while it plays. They then overlay a graph of the viewer feedback onto the video segment. Slate V features some of the these videos.

The latest is MediaCurves viedo on Slate V is one featuring Michael Vick's apology. The apology and the viewer response are mostly what one would expect. What caught my attention is the very end of the video clip, when Vick states:

Through this situation, I found Jesus and asked him for forgiveness. And have turned my life over to God. I think that’s the right thing to do as of right now.

There's a lot to be considered simply in terms of rhetoric. One has to wonder if Vick and/or the writer of the apology thought the viewing public would respond positively to this statement of new-found faith. And, if they did, one has to wonder about the choice of "as of right now" as a qualifier.

In any event, the viewer reaction from MediaCurves is intriguing.

gad

Winner at Jacob's Well

I keep tabs from time to time on the web site for Jacob’s Well, a church in Kansas City planted by an acquaintance of mine, Tim Keel. In perusing the MP3 files on the Jacob’s Well site, I noticed that earlier this year they hosted Lauren Winner, whose three public speaking engagements were included in the MP3s. While each of Winner’s three talks are well worth listening to, I was particularly struck by the one on “Sex, Marriage, and Singleness.”

In discussing Matthew 22:23-33 , Winner notes that the passage rankles and confuses happily married people:

This passage is to my mind on of the most revealing moments in the gospel about the radical nature of Jesus’s call to us, because it suggests not that married people won’t see their spouse again, it suggests that marriage is not the defining relationship of even a marital relationship, and that the defining relationship between all of us, the relationship that will obtain throughout time and beyond time into eternity is the relationship of brother and sister in Christ. […] If that confuses what you think about marriage, just try to think about what it means for parenting. […] It would be pretty wild and radical to think that what my job was as a parent would be to raise my sister or brother in Christ, and that that would be my fundamental relationship. Weird.

More generally, the talk focuses on both marriage and singleness and the lessons each has to teach the church. It concludes with a quotation from an Eastern Orthodox theologian, Paul Avdokomov (sp?). The quotation is about marriage and singleness, but—more interesting to me—it’s also about calling and vocation more generally.

We should think of vocation as an invitation, a call from the friend. I accept it today in the contours of my present situation, until the time when I will perhaps see more clearly. One’s vocation is found exactly on the crest between necessity and creative freedom, along the line of faith which reveals the direction as its free and strong confession grows. One’s entire vocation, whether to marriage or singleness, is an option. It is an answer to a call that has been heard. It can simply be the present condition. It is never a voice that clarifies everything. The dimness inherence in the life of faith never leaves us. There is one thing we can be sure of, that every vocation is accompanied by a renunciation. One who is married renounced monastic heroism. A monk renounced the married life. The rich young man of the gospel is not invited either to marry or to enter a monastery. He had to renounce his wealth, his having, his preferences, in order to follow the Lord. However, in all cases of deprivation that scripture speaks of, grace offers a gift, and out of a negative renunciation it creates a positive vocation.

Folks interested in listening to the entire MP3 can find it here.

One Thing Leads to Another

First, gotta love the Fixx. Another one of those weird convergence moments hit yesterday. To explain it, I need to go back. Last year, I applied for and was one of three persons interviewed for a position at a large state university. The committee decided not to make a hire, which, objectively, I can see was a wise choice for everyone involved. While I believe I could have done the job well, it meant redefining my professional life in ways I wasn't sure I wanted to pursue so singlemindedly. And, from their end, I didn't have some qualifications they desired--like a publication record or administrative experience at a university with a larger, more diverse student body. (Of course, I could have simply come across as a moron. One doesn't really get feedback after such interviews.) In any event, I don't know that I would have been a good fit for the job nor the job for me. But, as I told some friends, "It's one thing to not want to go to the party. It's another to not be invited."

Fast forward back to the present. After reading Wendell Berry's essay "The Unsettling of America" and beginning to consider what it might mean to pursue "settlement" in my life, my profession, etc., I stumble across the web to find a brief announcement about the aforementioned position being filled. I wasn't experiencing much in the way of "settlement," I'm afraid. Mostly indignation and dissatisfaction. Not because of the person who was hired, but because I wasn't.

So what do I do? I start Googling. I skim a couple of articles from the new hire's admirable vita. Insecurities surface. Indignation. Resentment and regret over all the choices that led me to where and who I am. The prideful part of me starts to reassure myself that I could have the new hire's vita if I really wanted it. I consider downloading the new hire's picture and using it as a motivational wallpaper on my computer's desktop. I start thinking about the school loans that could have been paid with the salary I would have made. Should have made....

About half way through the second article, however, I begin to realize that--admirable as the articles are--they aren't the kind of thing I really want to do. They are the kind of specialized scholarship that simply doesn't excite me. Perhaps I've been thoroughly converted to the liberal arts mindset, but I still hope to find a way to write (and perhaps publish) regularly and productively without having to select a narrow academic specialty.

So, I never downloaded the new hire's photo for my wallpaper (but I won't rule it out just yet), and I'm in the process of re-establishing an awkward peace about the whole thing. The peace comes from knowing that my insecurities and indignation arise from a prideful desire for a salary and position that aren't really connected with what I want to do. The awkwardness comes from the questions that linger after reading Berry--questions about the distinctions between "settlement" and merely "settling."

Settlement

Okay. I’ve decided that I really need to get (back?) into the habit of using this blog. Given the fact that I’m reading a lot of Wendell Berry for a presentation at the 2007 Midwest Writing Centers Association (MWCA) regional conference in October, this decision means that this blog is going to seem like a Berry blog for a while.

After talking with Liberty about my summer reading, I’ve decided that I’m going to alternate between Berry’s collection of short stories titled That Distant Land and his collection of essays titled The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry (ed. Norman Wirzba). I just finished reading the essay titled “The Unsettling of America,” in which Berry sheds the dichotomy between conqueror and victim for the terms exploitation and nurture.

Let me outline as briefly as I can what seem to me the characteristics of these opposite kinds of mind. I conceive a strip miner to be a model exploiter, and as a model nurturer I take the old-fashioned idea or ideal of a farmer. The exploiter is a specialist, an expert; the nurturer is not. The standard of the exploiter is efficiency; the standard of the nurturer is care. The exploiter’s goal is money, profit; the nurturer’s goal is health—his land’s health, his own, his family’s, his community’s, his country’s. Whereas the exploiter asks of a piece of land only how much and how quickly it can be made to produce, the nurturer asks a question that is much more complex and difficult: What is its carrying capacity? (That is: How much can be taken from it without diminishing it? What can it produce dependably for an indefinite time?) The exploiter wishes to earn as much as possible by as little work as possible; the nurturer expects, certainly, to have a decent living from his work, but his characteristic wish is to work as well as possible. The competence of the exploiter is in organization; that of the nurturer is in order--a human order, that is, that accommodates itself both to other order and to mystery. The exploiter typically serves an institution or organization; the nurturer serves land, household, community, place. The exploiter thinks of numbers, quantities, “hard facts”; the nurturer in terms of character, condition, quality, kind.(39)

Berry prefers these terms, in part, because they “describe a division not only between persons but also within persons” (39). When I consider this division in my professional life, I have to confront the fact that I serve--in some capacity--“an institution or organization.” Thankfully, my role as professor and director of a writing center place me in the service of the people who come to the university. I get to be one of the nurturers (I hope) within the institution. But, I can’t help wondering when and how I slide into the role of exploiter. For example, when do I find myself thinking in terms of the writing center (as institution) rather than the writers we seek to serve? When do I find myself thinking of my students in terms of “how much and how quickly [they] can be made to produce”? To what degree does the nature of the institution (generally or specifically) enable me to think, act, and live as nurturer rather than exploiter?

A classroom of students can respond just as unpredictably as a piece of land, and that response is tied to a whole bunch of variables--some of which are outside of the farmer’s/teacher’s influence. But the analogy breaks down when one considers that those students--individually and collectively--have a will that one doesn’t find in a piece of land. Students, too, can find themselves wrestling with the divisions between exploiter and nurturer. Thus, in addition to self-examination, one must end up asking how to help shape a community that tends toward nurturing.

Berry asserts that the answers (to his questions, at least) "are to be found in our history: in its until now subordinate tendency of settlement, of domestic permanence" (45). What does "settlement" look like for a professor? For a student? For a writing center? For communities--like institutions of higher education--that depend upon recurrent waves of students with an ambitious and decidedly unsettled eye toward the horizon?

Remembering

One of the things I love about my life and the purposes and people it includes, is the potential for convergence--between...what? ...plotlines? ...themes? When one's life is dominated by story, a certain intertextuality just seems to occur more often. I suppose the same happens for other folks with other jobs, but the frequency of those moments just seems higher due to my life as a teacher and a reader.

Tonight, during (literally) a couple minutes of reading while I was waiting for my wife, who was waiting to switch laundry before coming to bed, a couple of plotlines intersected. And in this case, as in many others, Wendell Berry helped usher me to the crossroads.

First, as part of the board for the Midwest Writing Centers Association (MWCA), I'm working on the proposal review stage for our conference in October 2007. My own proposal focuses on literary worlds and how literary places--like Berry's Port William--might generate questions or perspectives that could inform our work in writing centers.

Second, even though there is still a solid month and tons of grading and a million other things to be done before this semester is over, I've been wrestling with that melancholy which arises when I realize students whom I admire, respect, and treasure--students who come as close to being friends as the barriers of age and institutional position will allow--are on the verge of leaving campus. Such melancholy is wholly selfish, of course, but I suppose that is part of what makes it notable.

Then, tonight, I picked up Berry's collection of short stories titled This Distant Land, mostly to preview quickly before bed, in hopes of getting an early start on actually developing the project for the conference. I got through the epigraph, and now I'm staying up late to write this blog post. Here's the epigraph, which will probably end up becoming an inscription on a graduation card or two. The epigraph is a passage from Berry's novel titled Remembering, and the formatting is in the original.

Oh that I should ever forget We stood by the wagon saying goodbye or trying to & I seen it come over her how far they was a going & she must look at us to remember us forever & it come over her pap and me and the others We stood & looked & knowed it was all the time we had & from now on we must remember We must look now forever Then Will rech down to her from the seat & she clim up by the hub of the wheel & set beside him & he spoke to the team She had been Betsy Rowanberry two days who was bornd Betsy Coulter 21 May 1824 Will turnd the mules & they stepd into the road passd under the oak & soon was out of sight down the hill The last I seen was her hand still raisd still waving after wagon & all was out of sight Oh it was the last I seen of her that little hand Afterwards I would say to myself I could have gone with them as far as the foot of the hill & seen her that much longer I could have gone on as far as the river mouth & footed it back by dark But however far I finaly would have come to wher I would have to stand and see them go on that hand a waving God bless her I never knowd what become of her I will never see her in this world again

Having typed it out, I wonder if it seems a bit too much for the wholly expected and not-nearly-so-permanent departure of students from a university. But it resonates somehow. It reminds me of E. A. Robinson's poem "The Sheaves," which always dominates my thinking during times of seasonal change.