I think romance is an unfairly reviled genre. That is not to say that romance films and novels don't have their share of awful examples, or that romance novels and films don't make their share of blunders.
"Where Romances Go Wrong" discusses those blunders. Before that, I want to defend the genre. I won't be criticizing it later because I think it is stupid. I will be criticizing it because I think it could be better.
The first argument against romances is that they are "escapist." I consider this the dumbest of the arguments. ALL writing is escapist, even so-called "realistic" fiction. The moment we pick up a book--fiction or non-fiction--we are "escaping" from the world around us.
That does not mean that we shut off our brains or that the world of the book becomes more or less important than our surroundings or that what happens in the book has no personal relevance to our daily lives. Whatever goes on while we read is very individual. People who read "true life" or "realistic" or "sad" (which is usually what people mean by "realistic") stories are not automatically more in touch with reality than people who read fantasy or "non-realistic" or happy stories. Lots of people read horror not because they think the events in the books will happen to them but to create a distance between themselves and the events.
It is possible, of course, that some people read sad stories because their own lives are sad. It is also entirely possible that many people read sad stories because their own lives AREN'T sad. The point is that there is not an automatic connection between the type of books one reads and the type of life one inhabits.
The second argument against romances is bound up in the first: romances are unrealistic. Now, I believe that what people really mean when they say, "Romances are unrealistic" is that romances are CONVENIENT. I will return to this business of convenience in the next post. But first I'm going to deal with the issue of "unrealism." Setting aside the issue of convenience, the censure "unrealistic" to far too many people means a happy ending. Romances end happily; therefore, they are unrealistic. There's some weird human assumption that insists that happy events and endings are somehow not as true-to-life as unhappy events and endings.
C.S. Lewis illustrates this weird human assumption in one of his apologetics. He compares the birth of a child to war. He points out that when one is talking about the happiness surrounding birth, literal-minded we-like-relativity-because-we-can-use-it-to-make-everybody-else's-lives-miserable types will say, "But that's just subjective" or "That's just your emotions" or "That's just what our patriarchal, pro-child society has taught you to think."
But if one mentions the trauma and horror of war, the miserable ones will instantly agree that yes, absolutely, "That is what war is REALLY like."
Anything good is relative. Anything bad is "reality."
Balderdash! say I. Emotion is emotion, good or bad or otherwise. Granted the sappy sweetness of Hallmark cards can grate after awhile. But the angst-ridden chest-beating of the miserables isn't much better and a lot less hard to ignore. Unhappy endings are no more likely than happy ones and although everybody dies, not everybody invests death with terror, foreboding and glum faces. The tendency to do so is as much an emotional construct as smiling glibly, quoting bad poetry and making everybody watch the end of Ghost (good movie, by the way). Dead is dead. Life is life.
I'm not saying that death and murder and war and a thousand other tragedies are supposed to be met with a shrug, any more than I am implying that birth, weddings, new jobs, great movies, good books, a new dress, a nice walk are supposed to be met with a grumpy "whatever." To move this from relativity into the territory of 18th/19th century classicism, I'm enough of a Jane Austen fan to believe in appropriate responses to appropriate events. And I believe those appropriate responses are, to a degree, taught. The body reacts. But the how of that reaction depends on our nature, our nurture and our choices within the confines of a civilized society. (And I happen to believe in civilization which separates me from the miserable types.)
If emotions are just emotions, and the "how" of emotions is taught, then writing books where people get married and are happy is no more or less "real" than writing books where people get divorced and hate each other and fight over the kids. In fact, I've read plenty of the latter that struck me as ridiculous beyond belief--everything was so CONVENIENT (more of that later).
Which brings me back to romances. One of the things I like about romances is that they are constructive. I've written earlier posts about how much of a cop-out I consider death (and instant breakups) in a story. I've killed off characters myself, but in general, I prefer to keep them alive because in general, I prefer to work out how my characters are going to solve a story's particular problem. To a degree, that's the fascination of fiction for me. I've always wanted to know what will happen next: after the prince kills the dragon, after Beast turns into the prince, after Cinderella fits the shoe onto her foot, after Rahab helps the spies. Getting there can be fun but how everything is going to work out later is part of the fun too. So it isn't that death and divorce aren't likely; it's that they are so dull.
Romances usually end with marriage. Romances don't ask, "What happens next?" What they do ask is, "How do the hero and heroine solve the problem which is keeping them from getting married? How will they overcome their pride or prejudice or whatever?"
That's not dull.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Where Romances Go Wrong
I believe that the main reason romances are so often criticized is because they are too often convenient. I've been reading Christian romances lately. Christian romances have their own particular motifs, but they also follow the traditional romance format. And part of the traditional romance format is to create odds that the couple must overcome. And sometimes the overcoming is a bit too easy.
The particular Christian romances I am reading are evangelical, meaning that divorce of the unhappy couple (so that the happy couple can get married) is frowned upon. This type of solution is rather distasteful, and most romances avoid it. However, the alternative is so outrageously convenient, it becomes hilarious after awhile.
The alternative? All the inconvenient people die. Slews of them! They drop dead like insects in one of those zapper things. Horrible husband--zap! Horrible wife--zap! Watch out: there goes another one.
Jane Austen never did that. And she lived in a time when it was far more likely for people to die at the literal drop of a literal hat. But she doesn't kill off the dastardly Wickham. She doesn't even kill off the flightly Lydia. She doesn't kill off the horrible father in Persuasion. She doesn't kill off the snide chick in Mansfield Park. She doesn't kill off anyone in Northanger Abbey (who isn't already dead before the book begins). I believe someone conveniently dies in Sense & Sensibility, but it was her first book, and she doesn't kill off the real villainness, Lucy Sharp (although she does marry her off conveniently; again, it was her first published book). Nobody dies in Emma or in Pride & Prejudice. People are left unhappily breathing to work their way out of their problems.
Jane Austen also didn't create wholly bad characters. Most of her "bad" guys are weak, silly, intrusive, greedy, self-serving, but rarely evil personified. Evil personified is a convenience of too many romance books. The Christian romances attempt to solve this by occasionally having bad guys get saved. True to form, Jane Austen rarely did this. Wickham may be sorry that he married Lydia, but he goes right on trying to charm everybody in sight despite the fact that everybody in sight knows what he did. The bad-tempered father and daughter in Persuasion never really grasp what happened. General Tilney in Northanger doesn't change one wit. Willoughby in Sense & Sensibility is only sorry that he couldn't marry for both money and love. All the unhappy people in Mansfield Park stay unhappy. (And the ambiguous people stay ambiguous. It isn't my favorite of Austen's books, but I do think it is her best.) And Emma only contains self-serving people, not bad ones.
For Jane Austen, change always centers on the hero and heroine. They are the ones who react, change, grow, learn from the experiences around them. In real life, of course, everyone else would be reacting, changing, growing, learning, but one of the conventions (not conveniences) of fiction is that we watch the world through a few eyes, not through the experience of humanity as a mass (no, not even Tolstoy could do that).
This business of change, however, brings us to another romantic convenience: instant change. In romances, the change is often a moment of recognition: the hero or heroine recognizes his/her true feelings. Darcy undergoes this when Elizabeth taunts him, saying that a "gentleman" would not have proposed to her by criticizing her family.
However, Darcy DOES NOT have that moment of revelation, and then, hey, presto, everything is okay. In fact, Darcy writes his "angry" letter to Elizabeth first. (Darcy later apologizes to Elizabeth for the letter, but she responds that although it started out angryish, it ended graciously). His pride is hurt. He has to process his reaction to Elizabeth before he can admit that he behaved badly.
In too many romances, the moment of revelation is instant, unprecedented by any believable set-up and resulting in almost immediate pay-off. The Christian romances I'm reading are particularly annoying here. The moment of recognition often occurs when the hero or heroine is saved (therefore, making said hero or heroine worthy of love). Now, I will admit that my "eerk" reaction is not just due to the convenience. As a Mormon, I don't believe in one single moment of grace, prior to which a person did not accept the Savior and after which, did. I think people just struggle along and that one's life is an accumulation of choices. I don't really buy into the idea that everything leads up to one moment in time, before which a person would go to hell, after which the person would not.
However, that's my personal philosophical reaction. Instant revelation also bothers me as a writer and a reader. Based on my brother Eugene's comments concerning Mormon romance novels (see his review of The Last Promise at his blog), this business of the instant fix/snap-judgment is not just an evangelical problem. I doubt it is just a religious problem. I would guess that it comes down mostly to bad writing. It's HARD to be constructive. It's HARD to work out problems intelligently. It's HARD to set up change and then pay it off effectively. That's why we Janites worship Jane Austen. She went for the happy ending, but she didn't do it easily!
Now, I am not talking to the writers of romances who are just trying to churn out formula, so they can make a living. Hey, more power to ya, folks. I am talking to those people who want to write character-driven romances* and write them well. In a way, I'm calling for the return of the respectable romance.
*Romances fall into too categories: character-driven and "world romance."
I use the term "world romance" to correspond to "world fantasy," novels which are more about the world of the characters than about the characters themselves.
In "world romance," the story centers on the hero and heroine overcoming obstacles in their personal lives before they can meet. In chick-lit, the story centers on the heroine's friends, how often she goes shopping, what she does in her church/work/volunteer group, etc. etc. etc. It's Sleepless in Seattle (don't meet until the end) versus You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, and Lakehouse (ongoing relationship, no matter how strange).
I prefer the character-driven romance (You've Got Mail) to "world romance" (Sleepless in Seattle). I have very little interest in world fiction generally (Tolkien being the huge exception), and so can't comment much on it. Hence, all my comments are directed at the character-driven romance.
Here are some character-driven romances (from all genres):
Monk Downstairs by Tim Farrington
Jane Eyre by Bronte
Jane Austen (debatable: see You Know It is a Character-Driven Romance If . . .)
Pamela by Samuel Richardson
Beauty by Robin McKinley
Queen of Attolia by Megan Turner
Georgette Heyer (though many of her romances are "world romances," Devil's Cub and Venetia are more character-driven)
Fifteen by Beverly Cleary
Blood & Chocolate (THE BOOK!) by Annette Curtis Klause
Serpent of Time by Eugene Woodbury
Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia McKillip
Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers (not one of her best mysteries, but one of her under-appreciated novels--Wimsey's character is better delineated here than anywhere else)
Glass Mountain by Cynthia Voigt
"Straw Into Gold" from The Rumplestiltskin Problem by Vivian Vande Velde
Samantha and the Cowboy by Lorraine Heath
Changeover by Margaret Mahy (and kudos to Mahy for subtitling it "a supernatural romance")
The Road Home by Ellen Emerson White
Howl's Moving Castle (the movie) by Diana Wynne Jones
Romances by Lisa Kleypas
The particular Christian romances I am reading are evangelical, meaning that divorce of the unhappy couple (so that the happy couple can get married) is frowned upon. This type of solution is rather distasteful, and most romances avoid it. However, the alternative is so outrageously convenient, it becomes hilarious after awhile.
The alternative? All the inconvenient people die. Slews of them! They drop dead like insects in one of those zapper things. Horrible husband--zap! Horrible wife--zap! Watch out: there goes another one.
Jane Austen never did that. And she lived in a time when it was far more likely for people to die at the literal drop of a literal hat. But she doesn't kill off the dastardly Wickham. She doesn't even kill off the flightly Lydia. She doesn't kill off the horrible father in Persuasion. She doesn't kill off the snide chick in Mansfield Park. She doesn't kill off anyone in Northanger Abbey (who isn't already dead before the book begins). I believe someone conveniently dies in Sense & Sensibility, but it was her first book, and she doesn't kill off the real villainness, Lucy Sharp (although she does marry her off conveniently; again, it was her first published book). Nobody dies in Emma or in Pride & Prejudice. People are left unhappily breathing to work their way out of their problems.
Jane Austen also didn't create wholly bad characters. Most of her "bad" guys are weak, silly, intrusive, greedy, self-serving, but rarely evil personified. Evil personified is a convenience of too many romance books. The Christian romances attempt to solve this by occasionally having bad guys get saved. True to form, Jane Austen rarely did this. Wickham may be sorry that he married Lydia, but he goes right on trying to charm everybody in sight despite the fact that everybody in sight knows what he did. The bad-tempered father and daughter in Persuasion never really grasp what happened. General Tilney in Northanger doesn't change one wit. Willoughby in Sense & Sensibility is only sorry that he couldn't marry for both money and love. All the unhappy people in Mansfield Park stay unhappy. (And the ambiguous people stay ambiguous. It isn't my favorite of Austen's books, but I do think it is her best.) And Emma only contains self-serving people, not bad ones.
For Jane Austen, change always centers on the hero and heroine. They are the ones who react, change, grow, learn from the experiences around them. In real life, of course, everyone else would be reacting, changing, growing, learning, but one of the conventions (not conveniences) of fiction is that we watch the world through a few eyes, not through the experience of humanity as a mass (no, not even Tolstoy could do that).
This business of change, however, brings us to another romantic convenience: instant change. In romances, the change is often a moment of recognition: the hero or heroine recognizes his/her true feelings. Darcy undergoes this when Elizabeth taunts him, saying that a "gentleman" would not have proposed to her by criticizing her family.
However, Darcy DOES NOT have that moment of revelation, and then, hey, presto, everything is okay. In fact, Darcy writes his "angry" letter to Elizabeth first. (Darcy later apologizes to Elizabeth for the letter, but she responds that although it started out angryish, it ended graciously). His pride is hurt. He has to process his reaction to Elizabeth before he can admit that he behaved badly.
In too many romances, the moment of revelation is instant, unprecedented by any believable set-up and resulting in almost immediate pay-off. The Christian romances I'm reading are particularly annoying here. The moment of recognition often occurs when the hero or heroine is saved (therefore, making said hero or heroine worthy of love). Now, I will admit that my "eerk" reaction is not just due to the convenience. As a Mormon, I don't believe in one single moment of grace, prior to which a person did not accept the Savior and after which, did. I think people just struggle along and that one's life is an accumulation of choices. I don't really buy into the idea that everything leads up to one moment in time, before which a person would go to hell, after which the person would not.
However, that's my personal philosophical reaction. Instant revelation also bothers me as a writer and a reader. Based on my brother Eugene's comments concerning Mormon romance novels (see his review of The Last Promise at his blog), this business of the instant fix/snap-judgment is not just an evangelical problem. I doubt it is just a religious problem. I would guess that it comes down mostly to bad writing. It's HARD to be constructive. It's HARD to work out problems intelligently. It's HARD to set up change and then pay it off effectively. That's why we Janites worship Jane Austen. She went for the happy ending, but she didn't do it easily!
Now, I am not talking to the writers of romances who are just trying to churn out formula, so they can make a living. Hey, more power to ya, folks. I am talking to those people who want to write character-driven romances* and write them well. In a way, I'm calling for the return of the respectable romance.
*Romances fall into too categories: character-driven and "world romance."
I use the term "world romance" to correspond to "world fantasy," novels which are more about the world of the characters than about the characters themselves.
In "world romance," the story centers on the hero and heroine overcoming obstacles in their personal lives before they can meet. In chick-lit, the story centers on the heroine's friends, how often she goes shopping, what she does in her church/work/volunteer group, etc. etc. etc. It's Sleepless in Seattle (don't meet until the end) versus You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, and Lakehouse (ongoing relationship, no matter how strange).
I prefer the character-driven romance (You've Got Mail) to "world romance" (Sleepless in Seattle). I have very little interest in world fiction generally (Tolkien being the huge exception), and so can't comment much on it. Hence, all my comments are directed at the character-driven romance.
Here are some character-driven romances (from all genres):
Monk Downstairs by Tim Farrington
Jane Eyre by Bronte
Jane Austen (debatable: see You Know It is a Character-Driven Romance If . . .)
Pamela by Samuel Richardson
Beauty by Robin McKinley
Queen of Attolia by Megan Turner
Georgette Heyer (though many of her romances are "world romances," Devil's Cub and Venetia are more character-driven)
Fifteen by Beverly Cleary
Blood & Chocolate (THE BOOK!) by Annette Curtis Klause
Serpent of Time by Eugene Woodbury
Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia McKillip
Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers (not one of her best mysteries, but one of her under-appreciated novels--Wimsey's character is better delineated here than anywhere else)
Glass Mountain by Cynthia Voigt
"Straw Into Gold" from The Rumplestiltskin Problem by Vivian Vande Velde
Samantha and the Cowboy by Lorraine Heath
Changeover by Margaret Mahy (and kudos to Mahy for subtitling it "a supernatural romance")
The Road Home by Ellen Emerson White
Howl's Moving Castle (the movie) by Diana Wynne Jones
Romances by Lisa Kleypas
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Analysis of Education Course
I took an education course this summer that I recently, as in just, finished (I am hoping to get certified sometime in, oh, the next twenty years). Education courses are often villified as boring, stupid, wasteful, and unimaginative. I will admit that the main textbook for the course was mind-numbing, and I do not think I would have benefited from taking the course on-campus. However, I took the course on-line. The professor was excellent, and the assignments were extremely effective. I have made several changes to my lesson plans based on what I learned. And I learned things I didn't know, or at least things I wouldn't have bothered to find out about if I hadn't been forced (like rubrics).
I still have a number of reservations about the philosophies behind the course, which I talk about below. My reservations can be summed up by a line from Diana Trilling (written in 1981!): "[T]he young are only as virtuous as they grow up to be and . . . the educational process doesn't improve their future prospects by flattering their present moral capacities." Add "writing and grammar" after "moral" and that's exactly what I believe.
My research paper for the course can be found at Papers. It deals with language transfer issues in grammar courses.
Now I'm ready to teach in the fall!
**********************************************
"Educating the Exceptional Student in the Classroom" has been an insightful class. I still have mixed feelings about the philosophies of inclusion, accommodation and differentiated instruction; however, I find the processes embedded in these philosophies very helpful.
As I stated in my first reflective paper, I admire the principle of inclusion. Through this course, I have realized that inclusion does not mean lowering standards or giving students a free ride, but I still wonder if the demands of inclusion may lead to lowered standards. Teachers will spread themselves too thin. In an effort to meet everyone's needs, fewer and fewer demands will be made. As I suggested in my first reflective paper, collaboration can ease the burden of multiple needs, but collaboration itself involves extra work and (often unavailable) time. Without a structured plan (which, to be fair, the IEP requires), accommodations, rather than being temporary aids, can become barriers—engrained into the classroom culture and anticipated/expected by students.
My worries stem from my experience as a college adjunct. I am often unsettled by how much accommodation my students expect and how unready they are for working life or, even, academic application. When I, following procedure, release them from certain obligations, I wonder, "Am I really helping?" Or, rather, am I making the transition to "the real world" that much harder? In the "real world," grammar mistakes turn off potential employers; deadlines must be met; continual absences result in being fired; fellow employees don't fill in the blanks or do our work for us.
I'm harking back to my initial reservations regarding IDEA. Where is the line between assisting someone and preventing that person from individual growth and personal understanding? In a conference for English teachers, one professor remarked that some of her most fruitful learning experiences occurred when she failed. How, she wanted to know, can we give students similar experiences? (And where is the line between forcing kids to fail and allowing them, for their own good, to fail?)
Again, I do not believe that the philosophies of inclusion and accommodation automatically prevent learning and growth. Scaffolding, or modeling, provides a student with completed steps that are removed as the student progresses. If I want to teach students how to recognize and correct run-on sentences, I should first "model" a run-on sentence and show how it can be corrected. Eventually, the students will no longer need the model. That is the ideal.
Students suffer if the scaffolding is never removed. Likewise, students suffer if they are never required to process information outside their learning styles/comfort zones. Fewer and fewer of my students have been drilled in grammar (the older ones, yes; the younger ones, no), such as sentence diagramming. As I discuss in my research paper, grammar drills are not (necessarily) the best way to learn a language, but, in the absence of other approaches, they are better than nothing! I wonder if the current emphasis on context (provide a reason and application for every skill) has produced students without any groundwork in basic skills (and consequently an inability to build on those skills). Is my students' lack of readiness typical of twenty-year-olds or is it the result of inclusion, accommodation, and differentiated instruction applied inaccurately and/or hurriedly by overworked teachers? I don't know the answer.
Despite my reservations, I admire the intentions of inclusion, accommodation, and/or differentiated instruction; not all kids learn the same or at the same rate. Teaching is a creative process that involves constant re-evaluation: Is this lesson working? Could it be better? Who will understand it? How many students will it reach? Ultimately the teacher's job is to communicate, not simply to present information and hope the students got it. From this perspective, "Educating the Exceptional Student in the Classroom" has been helpful and enlightening, not to say engrossing! I particularly enjoyed the assignments that involved problem-solving. Analyzing extant lesson plans forced me to imagine a classroom of multiple responses and abilities. Creating my own lesson plans forced me to tweak old ideas, to examine how a lesson flows and where I can involve students more. Professor Soderstrom has also modeled approaches that I find useful, such as the outcome rubrics. I have always found it difficult to communicate progression and achievement to my students. The rubric is a possible solution.
The lesson plans also provided a useful model. I now use the same layout for my grammar and composition lessons. The "Pre-requisite" section helps me pinpoint exactly what each lesson should build on. If I haven't covered the pre-requisites, perhaps I should alter the lesson plan! I also enjoyed creating the WebQuest. I devised an interactive document that I hope to use when I teach on-line this fall. Again, the activity involved problem-solving: Can students follow the quest? Understand the main points? Are the websites accessible? Readable? Usable?
In the final analysis, I consider usability the key factor in teaching. Usability is also the aim of inclusion, accommodation, and differentiated instruction. Does a lesson enable the student? Does the student have the necessary skills to succeed? In the past two years, I have seen a welcome change in English composition courses in terms of usability. Rather than focusing on output and literary writing, the focus is now on portfolios, revision, and clear communication. Today's employers don't always require literary analysis, but they do require professional prose.
From this angle, I am entirely in agreement with the philosophies covered in this course. I only hope that I and other teachers can employ the philosophies responsibly.
I still have a number of reservations about the philosophies behind the course, which I talk about below. My reservations can be summed up by a line from Diana Trilling (written in 1981!): "[T]he young are only as virtuous as they grow up to be and . . . the educational process doesn't improve their future prospects by flattering their present moral capacities." Add "writing and grammar" after "moral" and that's exactly what I believe.
My research paper for the course can be found at Papers. It deals with language transfer issues in grammar courses.
Now I'm ready to teach in the fall!
**********************************************
"Educating the Exceptional Student in the Classroom" has been an insightful class. I still have mixed feelings about the philosophies of inclusion, accommodation and differentiated instruction; however, I find the processes embedded in these philosophies very helpful.
As I stated in my first reflective paper, I admire the principle of inclusion. Through this course, I have realized that inclusion does not mean lowering standards or giving students a free ride, but I still wonder if the demands of inclusion may lead to lowered standards. Teachers will spread themselves too thin. In an effort to meet everyone's needs, fewer and fewer demands will be made. As I suggested in my first reflective paper, collaboration can ease the burden of multiple needs, but collaboration itself involves extra work and (often unavailable) time. Without a structured plan (which, to be fair, the IEP requires), accommodations, rather than being temporary aids, can become barriers—engrained into the classroom culture and anticipated/expected by students.
My worries stem from my experience as a college adjunct. I am often unsettled by how much accommodation my students expect and how unready they are for working life or, even, academic application. When I, following procedure, release them from certain obligations, I wonder, "Am I really helping?" Or, rather, am I making the transition to "the real world" that much harder? In the "real world," grammar mistakes turn off potential employers; deadlines must be met; continual absences result in being fired; fellow employees don't fill in the blanks or do our work for us.
I'm harking back to my initial reservations regarding IDEA. Where is the line between assisting someone and preventing that person from individual growth and personal understanding? In a conference for English teachers, one professor remarked that some of her most fruitful learning experiences occurred when she failed. How, she wanted to know, can we give students similar experiences? (And where is the line between forcing kids to fail and allowing them, for their own good, to fail?)
Again, I do not believe that the philosophies of inclusion and accommodation automatically prevent learning and growth. Scaffolding, or modeling, provides a student with completed steps that are removed as the student progresses. If I want to teach students how to recognize and correct run-on sentences, I should first "model" a run-on sentence and show how it can be corrected. Eventually, the students will no longer need the model. That is the ideal.
Students suffer if the scaffolding is never removed. Likewise, students suffer if they are never required to process information outside their learning styles/comfort zones. Fewer and fewer of my students have been drilled in grammar (the older ones, yes; the younger ones, no), such as sentence diagramming. As I discuss in my research paper, grammar drills are not (necessarily) the best way to learn a language, but, in the absence of other approaches, they are better than nothing! I wonder if the current emphasis on context (provide a reason and application for every skill) has produced students without any groundwork in basic skills (and consequently an inability to build on those skills). Is my students' lack of readiness typical of twenty-year-olds or is it the result of inclusion, accommodation, and differentiated instruction applied inaccurately and/or hurriedly by overworked teachers? I don't know the answer.
Despite my reservations, I admire the intentions of inclusion, accommodation, and/or differentiated instruction; not all kids learn the same or at the same rate. Teaching is a creative process that involves constant re-evaluation: Is this lesson working? Could it be better? Who will understand it? How many students will it reach? Ultimately the teacher's job is to communicate, not simply to present information and hope the students got it. From this perspective, "Educating the Exceptional Student in the Classroom" has been helpful and enlightening, not to say engrossing! I particularly enjoyed the assignments that involved problem-solving. Analyzing extant lesson plans forced me to imagine a classroom of multiple responses and abilities. Creating my own lesson plans forced me to tweak old ideas, to examine how a lesson flows and where I can involve students more. Professor Soderstrom has also modeled approaches that I find useful, such as the outcome rubrics. I have always found it difficult to communicate progression and achievement to my students. The rubric is a possible solution.
The lesson plans also provided a useful model. I now use the same layout for my grammar and composition lessons. The "Pre-requisite" section helps me pinpoint exactly what each lesson should build on. If I haven't covered the pre-requisites, perhaps I should alter the lesson plan! I also enjoyed creating the WebQuest. I devised an interactive document that I hope to use when I teach on-line this fall. Again, the activity involved problem-solving: Can students follow the quest? Understand the main points? Are the websites accessible? Readable? Usable?
In the final analysis, I consider usability the key factor in teaching. Usability is also the aim of inclusion, accommodation, and differentiated instruction. Does a lesson enable the student? Does the student have the necessary skills to succeed? In the past two years, I have seen a welcome change in English composition courses in terms of usability. Rather than focusing on output and literary writing, the focus is now on portfolios, revision, and clear communication. Today's employers don't always require literary analysis, but they do require professional prose.
From this angle, I am entirely in agreement with the philosophies covered in this course. I only hope that I and other teachers can employ the philosophies responsibly.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Respectless Television
I've been thinking about the last episode of the last season of Bones for awhile now. It bothers me so much, I have to write about it.
In the episode, a mother is dying from AIDS. She believes she will no longer be able to care for her mentally retarded daughter. So she kills her. At the end of the episode, Bones goes to prison and tells the mother, "I understand--your motive was love" or words to that effect.
At that moment, I lost all respect for the writers of the show. Which upset me, since up to that point, I'd considered Bones one of the better written shows on television. But there are a few things I can't stand, and I'm afraid the above plot (as well as Bones' reaction to the above plot) is one of them.
I'm not a politically correct kind of person. If I was, I would have referred to the daughter as "a young person with mental disabilities." Having made that disclaimer, it astonishes me how morally purblind television can be about "children with disabilities."
Let's take a look at Booth and Bones' reaction to a child with "normal" abilities. An ambitious mother encourages her "normal" nine-year-old daughter to compete in beauty pageants--veneering her teeth, buying her a corset. Booth and Bones are appalled, and rightly so. The crazy, ambitious mother argues that her daughter LOVES competing; why should the mother withhold something so fun? I've heard non-fictional mothers make this kind of argument on Dr. Phil and wanted to smack them. When I was nine, my idea of fun was dumping two pounds of sugar on my Cheerios; that doesn't mean it was a good idea.
Anyway, Booth and Bones are appalled and angry and snotty to the crazy, ambitious mother. And they don't change their minds when it turns out that beauty pageant pressure was largely to blame for the girl's death. (By the way, the scene in that episode where Bones teaches anthropological heirarchies, with pictures of skeletons, to pre-adolescent girls is great.)
We turn now to the last episode of the season: the primary caregiver of a mentally retarded daughter decides to kill her daughter. So the mother is a sicko. She decides to commit murder because her daughter couldn't possibly have any kind of life without the mother around, which makes her an egotistical sicko. She believes there is no other way to help the daughter. Murder is a probable and plausible solution to this woman. Which makes her an egotistical, sociopathic sicko.
This is love? This is any sane person's definition of love?
Granted, the kid would probably have been stuck in a state-run institution and granted state-run institutions don't have the best reputation. If I remember correctly, I believe there was a chance the kid would be put into the care of a rather nasty individual. And that's all very bad. But let's look at this another way.
The caregiver of a boy with "normal" abilities is going to die. The seven-year-old boy will be put into foster care. The caregiver decides--out of "love"--to kill the child to spare him from the horrible foster care system.
Okay, now, doesn't that make you want to barf?
So, why is it different when the kid is mentally retarded? Why is it okay to poison and/or push mentally retarded kids onto railway tracks (same plot: Cold Case episode)? Because mentally retarded kids couldn't possibly have or want to live like everyone else? Because their desires can't be easily assertained, so the primary care giver must know best? Because mentally retarded kids never recover from the deaths of primary caregivers? Because death is better for mentally retarded kids than institutional living or even life under rotten conditions? Could it be that the writers believe mental retardation is worse than death and the only thing that makes it okay is the wonderful caregiver?
Politically incorrect questions, and House can ask them because he is honestly trying to understand the underlying moral reasoning to people's behavior. But the Bones' writers weren't trying to understand any underlying moral standard when Bones got all compassionate with the egotistical, morally-depraved mother: they were just falling back on a fictional cliche that is too superficial and stupid to be believed.
What will they do next season? Have a mentally retarded child molested by a pedophile, and then have Bones go to the prison and tell the pedophile, "Oh, yes, I understand--you did it out of love"? You can bet Bones wouldn't say that about a pedophile of a "normal" child. But I suppose the comparison isn't fair. After all, in the hands of the right writer, murder can be made to look as sweet and innocuous and heart-wrenching as sending a kid off to day camp. I wonder if Susan Smith's kids feel the same way under all that lake water?
In the episode, a mother is dying from AIDS. She believes she will no longer be able to care for her mentally retarded daughter. So she kills her. At the end of the episode, Bones goes to prison and tells the mother, "I understand--your motive was love" or words to that effect.
At that moment, I lost all respect for the writers of the show. Which upset me, since up to that point, I'd considered Bones one of the better written shows on television. But there are a few things I can't stand, and I'm afraid the above plot (as well as Bones' reaction to the above plot) is one of them.
I'm not a politically correct kind of person. If I was, I would have referred to the daughter as "a young person with mental disabilities." Having made that disclaimer, it astonishes me how morally purblind television can be about "children with disabilities."
Let's take a look at Booth and Bones' reaction to a child with "normal" abilities. An ambitious mother encourages her "normal" nine-year-old daughter to compete in beauty pageants--veneering her teeth, buying her a corset. Booth and Bones are appalled, and rightly so. The crazy, ambitious mother argues that her daughter LOVES competing; why should the mother withhold something so fun? I've heard non-fictional mothers make this kind of argument on Dr. Phil and wanted to smack them. When I was nine, my idea of fun was dumping two pounds of sugar on my Cheerios; that doesn't mean it was a good idea.
Anyway, Booth and Bones are appalled and angry and snotty to the crazy, ambitious mother. And they don't change their minds when it turns out that beauty pageant pressure was largely to blame for the girl's death. (By the way, the scene in that episode where Bones teaches anthropological heirarchies, with pictures of skeletons, to pre-adolescent girls is great.)
We turn now to the last episode of the season: the primary caregiver of a mentally retarded daughter decides to kill her daughter. So the mother is a sicko. She decides to commit murder because her daughter couldn't possibly have any kind of life without the mother around, which makes her an egotistical sicko. She believes there is no other way to help the daughter. Murder is a probable and plausible solution to this woman. Which makes her an egotistical, sociopathic sicko.
This is love? This is any sane person's definition of love?
Granted, the kid would probably have been stuck in a state-run institution and granted state-run institutions don't have the best reputation. If I remember correctly, I believe there was a chance the kid would be put into the care of a rather nasty individual. And that's all very bad. But let's look at this another way.
The caregiver of a boy with "normal" abilities is going to die. The seven-year-old boy will be put into foster care. The caregiver decides--out of "love"--to kill the child to spare him from the horrible foster care system.
Okay, now, doesn't that make you want to barf?
So, why is it different when the kid is mentally retarded? Why is it okay to poison and/or push mentally retarded kids onto railway tracks (same plot: Cold Case episode)? Because mentally retarded kids couldn't possibly have or want to live like everyone else? Because their desires can't be easily assertained, so the primary care giver must know best? Because mentally retarded kids never recover from the deaths of primary caregivers? Because death is better for mentally retarded kids than institutional living or even life under rotten conditions? Could it be that the writers believe mental retardation is worse than death and the only thing that makes it okay is the wonderful caregiver?
Politically incorrect questions, and House can ask them because he is honestly trying to understand the underlying moral reasoning to people's behavior. But the Bones' writers weren't trying to understand any underlying moral standard when Bones got all compassionate with the egotistical, morally-depraved mother: they were just falling back on a fictional cliche that is too superficial and stupid to be believed.
What will they do next season? Have a mentally retarded child molested by a pedophile, and then have Bones go to the prison and tell the pedophile, "Oh, yes, I understand--you did it out of love"? You can bet Bones wouldn't say that about a pedophile of a "normal" child. But I suppose the comparison isn't fair. After all, in the hands of the right writer, murder can be made to look as sweet and innocuous and heart-wrenching as sending a kid off to day camp. I wonder if Susan Smith's kids feel the same way under all that lake water?
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Nice Humor/Mean Humor
My brother Eugene recently had a guest post on The Motley Vision, "On Humor and the Literary Novel." A question was posed in the comments about why some "mean" jokes make us wince while other "mean" jokes make us laugh. In other words, why does just about every character on Everybody Loves Raymond make my skin crawl but Cox and House don't?
I've pondered this question for awhile, and here's my answer!
I think the difference lies in the intent of the joke (sarcastic diatribe, insult, pun, whatever). I don't mean the intent of the joke to the jokee but the intent of the joke to the audience.
In most of Everybody Loves Raymond, the jokes are made to make the jokee wince with embarrassment. More than that, the intent of the joke is to make the audience complicit in the jokee's embarrassment. The joke is the embarrassment.
Shakespeare, who did everything, employed this kind of joke (as well as all the other kinds). The treatment of Malvolio in Twelfth Night is precisely this type of humor. The joke lies in Malvolio's embarrassment. Which is why, I think, that particular part of Twelfth Night is rather problematic. However, that's just me. There's plenty of evidence (reality TV shows, Three Stooges, Roman games) that human beings enjoy watching other human beings suffer.
That being said, I also think a lot of people feel as I do and prefer the non-embarrassing joke. In Scrubs, for example, Cox belittles J.D. with his "Mary Janes" and "Buttercups," but the intent of the name-calling is not to embarrass J.D.--that is, not to embarrass J.D. before his audience (us). This works partly because J.D. is the narrator and therefore controls the audience's perspective. If he wants us to see him humiliated, there must be a reason. It works also because J.D. doesn't embarrass easily. Finally, it works because, if you've watched the show long enough, you know that Cox adores J.D. (and that Cox and J.D. are actually very similar; I didn't realize how much until the episode where Cox talks about seeing himself sitting on a throne while a conversation is going on--"He's J.D.!" I thought although J.D. is fundamentally kinder and less angry-guy).
This same principle is at work in House. In my post on Cox, Becker & House, I make the argument that everything House says is intrinsic to his personality. He doesn't belittle his interns to make the audience laugh; he belittles his interns because that's how House deals with life.
The point being that in both House and Scrubs, the jokes are not at the expense of the jokees. In fact, the jokes often backfire unto the jokers.
In a tangential kind of way, I think this same principle applies to sex jokes. I almost always wince when American comedians tell sex jokes. Said comedians are almost always aiming for result #1--make the audience wince or laugh with embarrassment. The jokes aren't even funny; they just make people laugh because the jokes are "daring."
In contrast, British comedies like Red Dwarf and Black Adder and Vicar are replete with earthy humor, but the humor is not used to embarrass the audience and rarely to embarrass the characters. Jokes about sex seemed to be used more for their useful metaphorical content than anything else. Consequently, I find them far less leering and salacious.
Or, as C.S. Lewis wrote in Screwtape Letters (see my post about C.S. Lewis' non-repressive nature), sexual humor gives rise to incongruities. There are people who tell sex jokes because they want to talk about sex (American comedians), and there are people who tell sex jokes because they want to use the incongruities (Monty Python and all those guys). So I have never seen any comedy with Ben Stiller, and likely never will, yet I think the beginning of Monty Python's Meaning of Life where the teacher gives an in-depth sexual education class to a bunch of TOTALLY BORED teenagers is absolutely hilarious and far less "dirty" (for lack of a better word).
I've pondered this question for awhile, and here's my answer!
I think the difference lies in the intent of the joke (sarcastic diatribe, insult, pun, whatever). I don't mean the intent of the joke to the jokee but the intent of the joke to the audience.
In most of Everybody Loves Raymond, the jokes are made to make the jokee wince with embarrassment. More than that, the intent of the joke is to make the audience complicit in the jokee's embarrassment. The joke is the embarrassment.
Shakespeare, who did everything, employed this kind of joke (as well as all the other kinds). The treatment of Malvolio in Twelfth Night is precisely this type of humor. The joke lies in Malvolio's embarrassment. Which is why, I think, that particular part of Twelfth Night is rather problematic. However, that's just me. There's plenty of evidence (reality TV shows, Three Stooges, Roman games) that human beings enjoy watching other human beings suffer.
That being said, I also think a lot of people feel as I do and prefer the non-embarrassing joke. In Scrubs, for example, Cox belittles J.D. with his "Mary Janes" and "Buttercups," but the intent of the name-calling is not to embarrass J.D.--that is, not to embarrass J.D. before his audience (us). This works partly because J.D. is the narrator and therefore controls the audience's perspective. If he wants us to see him humiliated, there must be a reason. It works also because J.D. doesn't embarrass easily. Finally, it works because, if you've watched the show long enough, you know that Cox adores J.D. (and that Cox and J.D. are actually very similar; I didn't realize how much until the episode where Cox talks about seeing himself sitting on a throne while a conversation is going on--"He's J.D.!" I thought although J.D. is fundamentally kinder and less angry-guy).
This same principle is at work in House. In my post on Cox, Becker & House, I make the argument that everything House says is intrinsic to his personality. He doesn't belittle his interns to make the audience laugh; he belittles his interns because that's how House deals with life.
The point being that in both House and Scrubs, the jokes are not at the expense of the jokees. In fact, the jokes often backfire unto the jokers.
In a tangential kind of way, I think this same principle applies to sex jokes. I almost always wince when American comedians tell sex jokes. Said comedians are almost always aiming for result #1--make the audience wince or laugh with embarrassment. The jokes aren't even funny; they just make people laugh because the jokes are "daring."
In contrast, British comedies like Red Dwarf and Black Adder and Vicar are replete with earthy humor, but the humor is not used to embarrass the audience and rarely to embarrass the characters. Jokes about sex seemed to be used more for their useful metaphorical content than anything else. Consequently, I find them far less leering and salacious.
Or, as C.S. Lewis wrote in Screwtape Letters (see my post about C.S. Lewis' non-repressive nature), sexual humor gives rise to incongruities. There are people who tell sex jokes because they want to talk about sex (American comedians), and there are people who tell sex jokes because they want to use the incongruities (Monty Python and all those guys). So I have never seen any comedy with Ben Stiller, and likely never will, yet I think the beginning of Monty Python's Meaning of Life where the teacher gives an in-depth sexual education class to a bunch of TOTALLY BORED teenagers is absolutely hilarious and far less "dirty" (for lack of a better word).
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Great Dogs
I'm not really into animal movies. See my post "Animals That Talk" about why. But I have a soft spot for two TV animals: Eddie from Frasier and Diefenbaker from Due South. In both cases, the dog is used to illustrate character and actually makes sense within the context of the show.
Eddie is Martin's dog. He is also one of the most expressive animals I've ever seen on the screen. I've developed quite a partiality for Frasier. What I like the most is that both Frasier's point of view and Martin's point of view occupy the same space. Although both the intellectual, snobby son and the down-to-earth cop father are played off each other, I never feel--as I do with Everybody Loves Raymond--that they are played at the expense of each other. No one is the bad guy.
Martin, played by John Mahoney, is a great character, and he has a great dog. The dog is used as a plot device and as a joke device. Again, the dog (it is actually two dogs over the 11 seasons) is very talented. He reminds me of The Thin Man dog: Asta.
Like Asta, Eddie and Diefenbaker are constantly on the set. I suppose dogs are easier to handle than kids, but I alway roll my eyes when television mothers have kids and then the kids MAGICALLY disappear for the next, oh, six or seven years. Of course, one isn't supposed to *gasp* mention Murphy Brown, but, well, Dan Quayle was right there, wasn't he? The kid showed up something like 12 times in ten years. Easy to be a single mom under those conditions.
Eddie and Diefenbaker, on the other hand, are constantly at hand. Eddie has to be walked. Diefenbacker rides around in the back of Ray's car. With Diefenbaker especially this is impressive since, unlike Eddie, he is often filmed outside. The directors never forget to include him in shots. I watched an episode recently where the car was driving away. It was likely driven by stunt men, and I figured, "They don't need to include Diefenbaker. They could just say that he was lying down." But no, just as the car turned the corner, Diefenbaker's head popped up. That is cool.
Diefenbaker is also used to illustrate character. He is a deaf wolf who was brought to the non-wilds of Chicago by his Canadian Mountie master, Fraser (played by Paul Gross). Fraser talks to Diefenbaker all the time, responding to Diefenbaker's presumed comments. There's an ongoing joke that Diefenbaker saved Fraser's life once and now he makes Fraser "pay and pay and pay."
Diefenbaker is not as cuddly as Eddie; after all, he's a wolf. But this also serves to elucidate the varying characters of the dogs' two masters. Martin is friendly, old-fashioned, protective of his dog and his sons (no matter how exasperated). Fraser, the Mountie, is kind but also somewhat reserved and aloof. At the end of the first season, there is a heart-rending scene where Fraser believes he must shoot Diefenbaker because Diefenbaker has become a menace to society. Paul Gross doesn't have Fraser cry or even rage. He does a series of confused double takes which are more painful to watch than any great emotion. So he loves Diefenbaker, but he isn't going to smother him in kisses.
And the dog--I don't think it is really a wolf although later the show implies that he is a mixed breed (maybe dog and wolf experts complained)--trots along with Ray and Fraser with interest but without any "all over you" ebulliance. Eventually, you start to believe Fraser's assessment of his own dog!
I also have to give kudos to Newbie's stuffed dog in Scrubs. There is one episode where J.D. keeps moving the dog to scare Elliot. For some reason, it makes me laugh like crazy.
For more great animal TV, check out Creature Comforts, the British version. It is hilarious! And very off-kilter.
Eddie is Martin's dog. He is also one of the most expressive animals I've ever seen on the screen. I've developed quite a partiality for Frasier. What I like the most is that both Frasier's point of view and Martin's point of view occupy the same space. Although both the intellectual, snobby son and the down-to-earth cop father are played off each other, I never feel--as I do with Everybody Loves Raymond--that they are played at the expense of each other. No one is the bad guy.
Martin, played by John Mahoney, is a great character, and he has a great dog. The dog is used as a plot device and as a joke device. Again, the dog (it is actually two dogs over the 11 seasons) is very talented. He reminds me of The Thin Man dog: Asta.
Like Asta, Eddie and Diefenbaker are constantly on the set. I suppose dogs are easier to handle than kids, but I alway roll my eyes when television mothers have kids and then the kids MAGICALLY disappear for the next, oh, six or seven years. Of course, one isn't supposed to *gasp* mention Murphy Brown, but, well, Dan Quayle was right there, wasn't he? The kid showed up something like 12 times in ten years. Easy to be a single mom under those conditions.
Eddie and Diefenbaker, on the other hand, are constantly at hand. Eddie has to be walked. Diefenbacker rides around in the back of Ray's car. With Diefenbaker especially this is impressive since, unlike Eddie, he is often filmed outside. The directors never forget to include him in shots. I watched an episode recently where the car was driving away. It was likely driven by stunt men, and I figured, "They don't need to include Diefenbaker. They could just say that he was lying down." But no, just as the car turned the corner, Diefenbaker's head popped up. That is cool.
Diefenbaker is also used to illustrate character. He is a deaf wolf who was brought to the non-wilds of Chicago by his Canadian Mountie master, Fraser (played by Paul Gross). Fraser talks to Diefenbaker all the time, responding to Diefenbaker's presumed comments. There's an ongoing joke that Diefenbaker saved Fraser's life once and now he makes Fraser "pay and pay and pay."
Diefenbaker is not as cuddly as Eddie; after all, he's a wolf. But this also serves to elucidate the varying characters of the dogs' two masters. Martin is friendly, old-fashioned, protective of his dog and his sons (no matter how exasperated). Fraser, the Mountie, is kind but also somewhat reserved and aloof. At the end of the first season, there is a heart-rending scene where Fraser believes he must shoot Diefenbaker because Diefenbaker has become a menace to society. Paul Gross doesn't have Fraser cry or even rage. He does a series of confused double takes which are more painful to watch than any great emotion. So he loves Diefenbaker, but he isn't going to smother him in kisses.
And the dog--I don't think it is really a wolf although later the show implies that he is a mixed breed (maybe dog and wolf experts complained)--trots along with Ray and Fraser with interest but without any "all over you" ebulliance. Eventually, you start to believe Fraser's assessment of his own dog!
I also have to give kudos to Newbie's stuffed dog in Scrubs. There is one episode where J.D. keeps moving the dog to scare Elliot. For some reason, it makes me laugh like crazy.
For more great animal TV, check out Creature Comforts, the British version. It is hilarious! And very off-kilter.
Monday, June 18, 2007
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