In my notebook I have a sketch depicting Gallagher’s understanding of the reader-text relationship; it features the teacher as a pope-like pipeline to understanding the classics. In his view, then, the student is essentially the receptor of information/relevancy as gleaned from the text and the teacher; the students seems to have a passive role in all of this. Any understanding of the experiences and expertise that students might bring to the table, even in a discussion of a classic work, seems lost. By contrast, the teacher is the active party, relayer of the Meaning of the Text, and the person from whom students will be able to develop a sense of said work’s “greatness.” The text itself is figured as unchanging, its location in our historical place and setting rendered irrelevant (unless, I assume, the teacher finds relevancies that he or she is willing to share).

This view of teachers and texts can, I’m sure, be quite empowering for teachers. Teachers are defined as the lynchpin of text appreciation and understanding. It doesn’t say much for the student, though, whose situation, motivation, and personality apparently play no part in meaning-making. I would propound a view of reading that figures the student-text relationship as primary and one that values a collaborative effort at meaning-making rather than an approach that values the teacher’s response more than the students’ responses.

Even the canon itself is the logical extension of Gallagher’s teacher-centric view of reading. Who chooses “classics”? Why are they classics? What about the notable exclusion of diverse writers (until relatively recently)? To argue that all classics are worth reading because, well, because they are classic is circular logic that sounds like bureaucrat-talk that serves to further entrench the status quo.

Me: So I just read that chapter from The Things They Carried about the guy getting his tooth pulled.

My Dentist: Oh, yeah? (He sounds vaguely disinterested–by this I mean, not even interested enough to bother sounding interested.)

Me: Uh-huh. And the guy gets a perfectly good tooth pulled out because he was embarrassed about fainting in the dentist’s tent the day before. (I chatter on determinedly.)

Dentist: I see. (I don’t even have the sense that he’s even listening.)

Me: So, I was thinking, could you go ahead and locate my tooth that represents shame, embarrassment, and cowardice, and just yank that sucker out?

Dentist: (Staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.) I’m sorry?

Me: Yeah, let’s just forget the cleaning. Try out some metaphorical dentistry on me.

Dentist: (He giggles nervously, which, it turns out, is not something you want your dentist to do.) So just yank one out?

Me: Er-

Dentist: (With growing enthusiasm) Let’s do it!

Me: …(I’m running out the door.)

“To be a scientist is to commit to a life of confusion punctuated by rare moments of clarity,” Greene notes poetically. Of course, I could easily substitute “scientist” with “writer” or perhaps “philosopher” and keep the same sense of truth. The process of searching he describes is how I feel as a thinker and researcher too. There is something human about the search for patterns, I think. I saw it in my son when he was very little, when he’d arrange blocks in complex but particular patterns of shape and color. When I teach literature, it’s half of what I do, showing students how certain motifs resonate with certain meanings. And if those literary patterns seem to connect with patterns you’ve noticed in your non-literary life (I hear that some people have those), then you’ve got something special. Even in mundane life, in our relationships, we seek and fall into patterns and rhythms, sometimes to our benefit and sometimes to our detriment. Saying “I love you” at the end of each phone conversation, picking up dirty socks, screwing the toothpaste cap back on because you know he prefers it neat, reading together: these are the rhythms of love.

I find such momentous truth, too, in the idea that inquiry forms identity. It’s that pithy line from The Matrix: “It’s the question that drives us.” It’s Socrates. It’s why I, as a citizen, believe that a culture of questions is better than a society secure in its absolute knowledge. It’s why I, as a teacher, believe that questions should drive education, not the testing endgame comprised of right and wrong answers.

What kind of world do we want to live in? One in which curiosity killed the cat or one in which we constantly press against physical, virtual, and abstract frontiers?

deathbed: a short play

Mother lies in a bed and Son sits at her side holding her hand. They should appear to be roughly the same age.

Son: Mom?

Mother: Yes?

Son: I’ve heard that at the, well, you know, when people are-er. I know that as the end, well…

Mother: You’ve heard that when someone is dying…what?

Son: I’ve heard that sometimes– at the end– people experience a moment of perfect clarity and understand everything. The way the whole world works. The theory of everything seems simple…

Mother: I love you.

Son: I love you, too, mom, but, I wonder, what are you experiencing? What do you know now? Tell me about it? (He pulls out a notepad.)

(Pause.)

Son: Mom? Please– what have you come to understand about life, about the world?

Mother: I’ve already told you.

(She dies.)

(Curtain.)

“Established truths are comforting, but it is the mysteries that make the soul ache and render a life of exploration worth living.” –Brian Greene

When I was a teenager, I was reading Anne Rice’s vampire novels and role-playing in Ravenloft, so for me personally it’s no stretch to maintain my interest in reading vampire-oriented fiction. I’m pleased, too, with the mainstreaming of vampires, mostly in urban fantasy because it means I have more choices. But I am curious about the cultural reasons behind this surge in vampires in urban fantasy and paranormal romance. (Werewolves, wizards, and faeries are also getting a solid burst of popularity, but I’m going to start with the vamps and see where it leads.)

The earliest vampire stories probably emerged as allegorical warnings, perhaps meant for young girls specifically but perhaps geared for a general audience. Early vampires were much more scary than sexy, and the death by nocturnal exsanguination element was consistent. The idea of a creature who lives by stealing the blood of its victims is certainly evocative; for people without modern medical knowledge, vampire bites might have explained symptoms like paleness, lethargy, and plain old death.

Vampire stories evolved into sexual allegory, with Bram Stoker’s Dracula most famously exploring the sexy side of vampirism. The commentary about men who take advantage of women sexually was appropriate in many societies in which girls’ chastity and virginity were sacrosanct. Of course, losing one’s virginity before marriage was considered as bad as death.

Anne Rice is surely responsible for propagating the erotic modern vampire. She, like her Queen of the Damned, can count herself mother of many, many fictional vampires in urban fantasy. Edward Cullen from Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series, Jean-Claude from Laurel K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series, and Bill Compton from Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse series (and hence the Trueblood series on HBO) are the example vampires to which I will refer.

Sex is a pivotal element for each of my example vampires and their human female mates. In two of the three cases, the vampire is responsible for his lover’s first sexual experience, and in the exception, Jean-Claude and Anita, Jean-Claude is Anita’s second lover and then only after a very long period of self-imposed abstinence. This would indicate that the vampires represent, not just the antiquated idea of “lost” virginity, but a sexual awakening for the female characters. Vampires are well-suited as symbols for such awakenings; they are beautiful and physically irresistible, as indeed sexual urges often are, though American culture would not have it so for women. But vampires are also dark and hidden from the daytime, mundane world, which again is apt for a country where mentions of sex and the female sex drive are often taboo.

A few years ago I would have argued that women felt a particular affinity for vampire lover fantasies because they are free from the concerns one would have with a human lover: disease and pregnancy. Both Hamilton and Meyer managed to muddy those waters, most prominently in regards to pregnancy.

Perhaps the aspect of vampire boyfriends that resonants most with modern female readers is their nocturnal habits and daytime hibernation. During the day, the vampires are completely and entirely removed from the picture. But, unlike human men, they aren’t at work, or hanging out with their male friends, or out philandering. They are unconscious, asleep, and unavailable for good or ill. Particularly for Sookie, this “dead time” affords her continued self-reliance; in fact, with great frequency the vampires are dependent on her during the day. In the Twilight series, the only one of the three series in which the vampires can be active during the day (although they cannot be exposed to direct sunlight), Meyer goes through great pains to point out that Edward is busy focusing on artistic and intellectual endeavors when he’s not around Bella. Bella is primary, so much so that Edward evens sits in her room and watches her sleep on many nights.

Edward is actually an exception to the rule in certain other regards as well: although he does finally agree to have sex with Bella once they are properly wed, he’s generally opposed to sex because of his idea, which does turn out to be wholly justified, that he will hurt Bella. In Edward, we see a repudiation of Bella’s sex drive and a fairly scary notion that equates sex and violence for poor, human Bella. The domestic violence parallels in regard to Edward and Bella’s first sexual encounter are inescapable; she is covered in bruises, and he is horribly contrite, though, of course, he didn’t mean to do it. Yikes. But, rather than explore that particularly heinous line of thought, I’m going to take a look at Edward’s place in the cult of abstinence, a social phenomenon described extensively by others, including Trey Parker and Matt Stone in the recent episode of South Park entitled “The Ring.” Also, Jacob Clifton, sublime reviewer on Television Without Pity, notes about Edward (he also indicts the Jonas Brothers, by the way): “I get that they’re, like, sex methadone, but it seems like a dangerous precedent to teach your kids to sublimate their sexuality in that way…” (Read the rest of Jacob’s comment; it’s both hilarious and insightful, though be forewarned that it’s embedded in an American Idol recap.)

At any rate, I must conclude that vampires in urban fantasy are allowing American women to engage in a kind of discourse about sex that struggles to happen in other kinds of media. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that vampire fiction taps into unconscious ideas about sexuality and is finding a mainstream following because it hides the difficult conversations behind fangs and coffins, which, it turns out, is where we like them.

In the end, much of what she talked about was a definition of fantasy with many references to Tolkien and Lewis. I particularly liked Tolkien’s classification of faerie tales as “entirely rational things.” If you want the details, read Amy’s article, which you find here.

My only personal issue with the presentation is that the literary critic in me would rather analyze the meanings present in the texts, the reader-text relationships, instead of attending to external power structures that impact interpretation and dissemination of the work (not that Rowling really needs much more dissemination). That’s my internal lit crit snob talking though; for teachers, parents, librarians, and other readers, Amy’s critique of the governmental, educational and religious structures that inform literary analysis engages us in the conversation and gives us lots of intellectual back-up for the things that we believe in emotionally: books are good, people should read them. In schools and libraries, teachers frequently find themselves in the position of defending their classroom materials and even defending children’s freedom to read certain books at all. What I appreciate most about Amy’s work is that it comes from a strong anti-censorship position but doesn’t excoriate people who are just attempting to preserve the perceived innocence of children.

On the pro side, he has saved her life innumerable times and seems to keep close tabs on her, even though they aren’t currently dating. Yeah, there’s a fine line between care-taking and stalking, but considering the amount trouble Sookie gets into, you really couldn’t blame anyone who cares about Sookie from taking extra care about her. Also, he told her he loved her in this book, apparently at great expense to his own personal code of silence. I do believe that it was hard for him to admit his true feelings for her there.

On the con side, Bill has never been exactly averse to taking Sookie into danger, though I suppose he’s really had no choice in most situations. And, speaking of choice, there’s the incident with his vampire lover. Maybe he had to do as she said and have sex and maybe not. Either way, he betrayed Sookie without even being vampire enough to go and talk to her about it.

On the could-go-either-way side is Bill’s jealousy over Eric. I might read this as love’s true jealousy or I might read it as, he-lost-her-but-he-doesn’t-want-anyone-else-to-have-her jealousy. That’s a tough one.

As a reader, I’m totally intrigued by this storyline. Will they be together or not? Personally, I’m hoping for Quinn, but Bill does seem to be the Major Story Arc Love Interest. Not that Charlaine Harris attends to the tropes of romance (one of the many things I like about her). But here’s why my feminist self thinks that Bill and Sookie really need to remain parted: Bill says that his affair was through no fault of his own, that he must obey his maker (also his lover). Doesn’t this logical line seem rather like the real-life defense of cheating men, i.e. that they can’t help it? Sookie takes care of herself, but she deserves better than a vamp without free will. That girl needs a were-tiger.

The teaching strategies Gallagher describes in chapter three are essentially democratic teaching practices; that is, he is valuing activities that lead to students who both value and have freedom and who are capable of creating their own critical analyses of texts.

Choice in what students read is a hinge-point for democratic teaching practice. Gallagher nicely addresses the struggles teachers face in allowing such freedom: after all, it’s much harder to assess and handle all of the paperwork involved. It also, as he addresses obliquely, requires that the teacher give up some measure of power and control to allow students this choice. Reading one text all together privileges the teacher as the “knower,” as the experience person leading the class through the text. Allowing for choice empowers the students as readers of texts the teacher may or may not have familiarity with. The teacher has to trust students’ judgments and perceptions of the texts then.

(On a side note, my colleagues and I discussed this precise issue over lunch today. How does one go about assessing independent reading? How can you hold students accountable for doing independent reading and not just reading summaries on the internet? I noted to my colleagues that Gallagher offers quite a few methods for assessing independent reading without engaging in too much nitty-gritty work that might impinge on their enjoyment of the reading itself. For my part, though, I would argue that teachers should first try and find books students actually want to read, then give them class time to actually do some reading. Once you have them hooked, they will be much more likely to actually engage. We spend far too much time worrying about how we will hold kids accountable for reading or learning or whatever and not nearly enough time making sure we’re teaching them something worthwhile and helping them to see its value. C.S. Lewis noted that “Only wardens worry about escape.” (That may be a paraphrase.) In the same way, I think only accountants worry about tabulation and documentation. Teachers, perhaps, are better off expending their efforts elsewhere.)

Gallagher also recommends front-loading texts that you do read together, then giving the students the reins to read and interpret independently. This is also a democratic strategy as it leads the students toward independent thinking.

One of the final thoughts in the chapter comes by way of Jon Scieszka, writer of The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, which I adore, urges teachers to avoid smack-talking other media, like television, movies, and blogs (oh my!). This also strikes me as a democratic concept because it eschews the elitist attitudes that non-books are also non-texts and less worthwhile, thereby creating a caste system among texts. This stratification is innately anti-democratic, aside from the fact that it probably inspires students to root for the underdog and despise the oppressor.

But he and I are really at odds when it comes to money. He saves the suggestion that teachers buy the books for their classroom libraries for last– and I do appreciate his other options, and the first on his list is school and district money. That money is fair game for anybody, I suppose (though in these rough economic times, it’s going to be harder and harder to get a hold of that cash). Let’s examine his next three ideas more closely: 1. Organize books drives; 2. Encourage students to order books from Scholastic (and accrue points for classroom needs); and 3. Solicit donations on Parents’ Night. At my school, a suburban middle-class community school, all three of these options will probably be effective. At an impoverished urban school with parental involvement already low and in communities where parents struggle to feed and clothe their children, I seriously doubt books are going to rank higher than life’s necessities. That’s why many students grow up in text-impoverished environments in the first place.

So what you have is a loop similar to the Paige Paradox, in which the kids most in need of books don’t get them. And I’m a bit disappointed that Gallagher doesn’t acknowledge this loop that leaves teachers at poorer schools stuck with the least tenable option: buying books themselves.

Gallagher does helpfully suggest ways to stretch your book-buying dollar (nothing new to bibliophiles) and adds that he budgets fifty dollars per month for books for school. Personally, I’m staggered by that figure. (On a personal note, since he admitted earlier that he has to buy his own copies for school, I can’t even imagine how much this guy spends on his job total.) To a first-year teacher, fifty dollars is probably a completely unrealistic number. I’m a tenured teacher, and I think it’s high.

It seems to me that teachers already have these tremendous pressures on them all the time: state, local and national government standards and mandates coupled with most teachers’ genuine desires to do the right things by their students. This is why my reaction so strong when anyone suggests teachers spending their own money as a solution to any problem. The fact is that teaching is a job. It’s a crucial job, yes, but that doesn’t give us as a community permission to take advantage of the predominantly female teachers who choose to put so much of their lives into their jobs. To ask them to spend money they should by all rights be spending on their families and themselves is unconscionable.

Let me stop for a moment and tell you how rare it is for me to rejoice in my femininity. From the time I started growing boobs and menstruating, I was convinced that it was perfectly inconvenient to be a girl. Later in college, when I had interesting things to say that were overlooked by my professors in favor of the loud, but often vacuous, comments made by male students, I began to feel bitter. Today I’m mostly over all that sense of bitterness, though it still rears its head occasionally when I feel trapped by the boys’ club culture that private offices and public bureaucracy alike still harbor. I so often felt stifled by and frustrated with my gender that it’s strange to read this and feel simply glad to never know that particular burden. No one will ever expect me to pick up a gun and fight a foreign war, whether I believe it’s right personally or not. It may make me feel a little guilty to admit it, but for once I’m damn glad I’ll never have to make that choice.

But then I dig a little deeper. It’s not simple pity I feel for Tim O’Brien, it’s also a nagging kind of worry. You see, I have a son. A son who today is trotting around in cowboy boots just like O’Brien describes from his own childhood. I guess one real downside to being the mother of a son is that I have always had to deal with everything that comes with womanhood, both good and bad, and now I find myself in the worrying over manhood and what that means too.

So I did what I always do when I’m stewing over something. I wrote a poem:

little boy

the future-mirror occasionally tempts me
especially when i’m thinking of him sweetly,
of what kind of man he’ll be
and sure, i’ve glanced a time or two
and seen visions of a tall form
hunched over piano keys or brandishing
paintbrushes

sybil-ant it may be,
the mirror is two-natured
and may reflect this artist one day
and a drug-addled burnout the next
so i don’t look
(often)

the now, things that happen here
away from the mirror
tears over skinned knees, hugs, toy robots
are within my dominion
while in the mirror

i am nothing but a slave to time

Literacracy

“Morning, class!”

“Good morning, Dr. David!”

“How did you all enjoy Act IV last night? Scene i is, of course, one of the most famous scenes in literature.”

Silence looms.

Finally, Morgan clears her throat and raises her hand, “Well, it’s not about the witches exactly, Dr. David…”

“The apparitions? Macbeth himself?” Dr. David questions her briskly.

“Well, no,” mumbles Morgan. “It’s just, we’ve been talking and we don’t understand why we need to read this Shakespeare stuff at all.”

The silence returns and seems to settle down to see how the whole thing turns out.

“Yes, I see,” she says in a bored voice. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Morgan. You are dismissed.”

Panic sets in on Morgan’s face. “What? I– no– that’s not what I–”

“Yes, Morgan. It is what you meant. And as you should know by now the state of North Carolina has no interest in training students too dense to see the power of literature. You’ll hardly be material for the legislature. Good day.”

By the time Morgan finishes gathering her things and turn to face the class one last time, two of her classmates are engaged in a spirited debate over evil in Macbeth’s Scottish reign.

“All’s well that ends well,” chirps Dr. David as the door swings shut behind her.