Knowing Nothing about Bar Graphs

A few of the English teachers at my workplace are raising questions about the value of some of the content on our district's quarterly standardized tests. I don't care to comment on the pros and cons of standardized tests, but I did want to weigh in on the content under review. Here's the questions up for examination: Why should English teachers teach their students to read bar graphs? Does this skill belong in an English class? Why should we bother trusting the "eggheads" who create these graphs?

Here's my take: The ability to proficiently read a bar graph, or any other type of graph, is a research skill. I think research skills are vital for students, especially English students. Charts and bar graphs are great primary sources to use when trying to support an argument. Learning to interpret charts and bar graphs will help students be able to understand the evidence they'll need when writing an argumentative or research essay.

The language for information is constantly evolving, and English teachers would do their students a great service by teaching them to read and speak these various languages. Here's a couple of suggestions: The Gale Group's Opposing Viewpoints in Context electronic database has a great "Statistics" section covering every currently important social issue ... with many charts and graphs that students (and scholars) can use to draw conclusions in their research. Also, USA TODAY became popular for being one of the first newspapers to appeal to our image-driven culture (i.e. those raised on television as their primary information medium). If reading (English) teachers don't teach students to read the "visual texts" in this "visual world," I'm afraid the level of critical thinking in our society would decrease.

Concerning the reliability of current research findings from the "eggheads," sure, they could be erroneous, but current research findings, though not infallible, are some of the most reliable sources we have at any given period in history. These Ph.D.'s may chart or graph their findings, but they're usually very careful when drawing concrete conclusions from their research. Most findings acknowledge variables and provide qualified conclusions. And, yes, research findings are often proved wrong, but isn't this why English teachers teach their students to research the most current information? Like many, I'm often tempted to throw out the baby with the bathwater, wring my disillusioned hands at the epistemological sky, and make the agnostic proclamation, but then I realize that KNOWING is not the only goal. THINKING is the goal, which leads to KNOWING, and when our students accept the wisdom (guised as humility) of Socrates ("I know one thing, that I know nothing"), only then can they truly THINK ... and KNOW!

My job is to carefully pry open the minds of my students ... in a delicate manner so their brains don't fall out (HT: G.K. Chesterton) ... and bar graphs are one of the many tools the lobotomist should consider.

Book Review - David Freeman Hawkes: EVERYDAY LIFE IN EARLY AMERICA (1988)

Everyday Life in Early America by David Freeman Hawke

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I'm not sure how I should review a book like this. I'm not educated enough to make an offhand evaluation of the writer's arguments, and I don't want to spend the time needed to make this evaluation. I took exhaustive notes because I wanted to record each new fact I learned and each previously-held question Hawke answered for me. So if the amount of notes one takes translates into a letter grade, I would give this book a B; A's are reserved for only the most mind-blowing works of nonfiction, and this book wasn't exactly mind-blowing--it was simply informative. Hawke basically explores every aspect of the early American colonists' life and culture. His approach is objective: he usually shares the various positions of differing historians. Hawke seems to be a tertiary voice in historical studies (at least in this book ... if there's a such thing as a "tertiary" voice)--he mostly uses secondary source material--even his primary sources are usually quoted from secondary sources. I was also disappointed that instead of a footnotes or citations, Hawke instead provides a "Selected Bibliography," which makes evaluating his arguments, if so inclined to, more difficult. But in all, I know this book will inform my American literature course, especially Chapter 12: "Wonders of the Invisible World," in which Hawke discusses the colonists' pre-enlightenment beliefs (i.e. superstitions) and the Salem Witch Trials.

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Why I Love Horror Films: Overcoming the Fear of the Painted Devils

The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. --Lady Macbeth, Act 2.2.53-55, Shakespeare's MACBETH

One blogger asks, "Do you like horror movies? I don't. It surprises me that people would want to watch something that makes themselves feel scared" ("Horror Movies" from Don't Convert Me).

I love horror films because they once epitomized my childhood fears. I hold my dad somewhat responsible for instigating this fear. He was never a fan of horror films, but he did force me to go to haunted houses each Halloween, a yearly tradition that filled me with dread each October. My dad also loved to tell wild tales to horrify my brother and me, and more often than not, the veracity of these tales was left up in the air. To this day, my dad has never told me that he was only joking about that tractor beam pulling him into a UFO ship late one night in Chauvin, LA--which, incidentally, occurred within a week after a night of quality family programming--i.e. a "documentary" about alien encounters. When I was in first grade, I remember watching JAWS III with my dad, and I also remember bolting from the room after some dude's severed head floated across the screen. Another reason I associate childhood fears with my father is because of a night in second grade. I remember lying on the couch with him as he flipped through the channels (an exhaustive number since we had just bought a satellite dish). He stopped flipping on a backyard scene. A teenaged girl was walking through her yard wearing a white nightgown. A hatted silhouette appeared on a boarded fence. Suddenly, a monstrous, disfigured face filled the screen; he then chopped off one of his own fingers! That was all I could handle. My dad laughed a little as I struggled to escape his grip and the grip of the scary man wearing the fedora. Another vivid experience I remember was hearing the voices of my neighbors crying for help during a sleepless night after watching Stephen King's CAT'S EYE. In fourth grade, the first scene of King's CHILDREN OF THE CORN caused me to flee to my room, and two years later, I spent another sleepless night mulling over scenes from King's PET SEMATARY. These moments with the "painted devils" of the screen etched the names of both Freddy Krueger and Stephen King into my mind.

It wasn't until the summer after my parents' divorce that I found the strength to face my fears and watch some of the horror movies that I had, for years, cowered from. Before the divorce, I remember peeking at the grotesque VHS boxes in the video store horror section, from a safe distance, hoping my dad wouldn't see me. I was afraid he would rent one and make me watch it, just like he made me go to haunted houses for all those years. But now, I was ready. That summer my brother and I watched the NIGHTMARE ON ELM ST series (five films had been released by that time), all eight FRIDAY THE 13th films, both FRIGHT NIGHT films, several PUPPET MASTER movies, and countless others. I checked out my first adult book at the local library--Stephen King's NIGHT SHIFT--and within the next few years I had consumed IT, NEEDFUL THINGS, PET SEMATARY, and THE STAND. So, I spent the following years watching and reading horror. I even gained a friend in the deal: I noticed a guy on my bus reading one of the books in King's DARK TOWER series, and eventually he became my best friend, and for the next decade we watched and read horror together, making it through some of the worst (most of the Full Moon pantheon, BOARDINGHOUSE, etc.) and the best (HALLOWEEN, EVENT HORIZON, SCREAM, THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT, etc.).

To this day, I try to watch the major horror releases or buzz films, and I'm still working on reading the entire Stephen King library (32 down and 35 to go). Since my wife hates horror, I don't get to watch as many as I would like (married guys might be able to understand this predicament). Furthermore, few adults in my social circle watch horror (I've counted one in the last five years of living in B.R.). Horror films, in addition to countless other pubescent fixations, let me know that I belong where I'm at--in a high school. It's the only place where I can have a good conversation about this genre. Nowadays, I've grown desensitized, not only to the gore and terror, but to the victory over fear that these films once represented. My adolescent obsession and pride has become an intellectual pursuit lately (as have most subjects of interest since studying literature in college)--I'm fascinated with finding the inciting force of societal fears reflected in popular horror--but, after reading the blog of a random person who commented on my previous post, I guess I just felt the need to explain why I would want to watch something of this nature.

This Bog of ... [Temporary] Stench

Viewing my life in the midst of this five-day sickness is horribly depressing. I tried to go back to school yesterday. After vomiting into two cups before school started, I tried to guide my students through their persuasive essays. I found myself despairing at their illogical, non-explicit attempts to persuade their audiences. What am I doing wrong? Why don’t they get it? I give up. During my conference/planning period, I balled up an old pullover and used it as a pillow. After five minutes of lying on the floor in my classroom, I decided to check myself out, go home, and lie in my bed for twenty-four hours.

Fairy tales have kept me company in this sweaty, stinking bedroom, this Bog of Eternal Stench. I’m sympathizing with Jennifer Connelly’s character in LABYRINTH (1986). Like her, I take so much for granted as I travel through the labyrinth that is life—namely, my health. The days when I agonize over the minute pale in comparison to these last few days, and they make me want to appreciate and savor each day—without nausea, headaches, and stomach cramps—patiently teach my students, and lovingly nourish my family.

Since Netflix stopped working an hour into LABYRINTH, I went to Hulu and began watching the new ABC series ONCE UPON A TIME. It got me thinking about “our world.” In order to defeat Snow White, the Evil Queen kills her own father and uses his heart to unleash the curse of all curses on the fairytale world. The curse enslaves characters like Jiminy Cricket, Little Red Riding Hood & her grandmother, Geppetto & Pinocchio, and Snow White, transporting them to the town of Storybrook in “our world,” with no memory of their happy lives in fairytale land, to live in a place where there are no “happy endings.” Like the curse, this virus (or whatever it is) muddles my perspective, making me forget that each night I go to sleep loved by my family, respected by my students, and satisfied with who I am and who I’m becoming. I’m sure as the season unfolds, these fairytale characters will learn to find happiness in “our world.” They’ll begin to remember their true selves and live out their fairytale amidst the paralyzing forces of human existence, proving that, even in a land perceived as the worst by the Evil Queen and her cohorts, “happy endings” can exist!

I’m thankful to have Ludo, Sir Didymus, and Hoggle by my side during these cumbersome days to help me fight off the creatures … and David Bowie, who keeps singing these sour keyboard-driven, kiddified, new wave tunes in my ear. “Shut up! … and stop prancing about and saying ‘babes’ like a goblin pedophile!!” Love brings me medicine, soup, and crackers, and expresses their worries each time I relapse. (No bulging tights or molesting, high-pitched guitar solos!) And Henry, I believe you! I saw what happened to fairytale land! Emma Swan didn’t get the privilege I had of seeing all the flashback material. But she’s coming around! Once she comes to full terms with the supernatural evil afoot, she’ll be able to fight those forces with confidence! And after today, I’ll get off these pillows and stand by your side as well, embracing my health and the loved ones by my side, and we’ll rid this town of all its cursed 80’s rock stars and poisonous politicians who try to convince us to turn our backs on others and accept an unhappy ending to the story we live!

Theme Analysis: Stephen King's RAGE (1977)

Rage by Stephen King

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Because this book, according to several teenage school shooters, inspired them to commit their violent acts, Stephen King asked his publisher to take it out of print. Taking a book out of print may decrease the readership a bit, but it can’t stop a seasoned King reader like myself from picking up a worn copy for 25¢ at Goodwill. I loved RAGE. I thought I was about to read a plot-driven, suspenseful tale of a troubled youth, but I was pleased when I realized this early novel was actually a more “literary,” Freudian exploration of a troubled teen’s psychological experiment (and it still had enough page-turning suspense to hasten my reading).

MEANING [Spoilers Ahead]: King seems to argue that the secrets we keep help us to cling to our humanity, and in order to remain sane, we should discuss those secrets with those we trust, as opposed to those who get paid to ask questions and listen (e.g., school counselors, clinical psychiatrists). It’s when we channel those secrets through built-up rage that our insanity gets the best of us. Charles Decker chooses the latter, which results in him bludgeoning a teacher with a pipe wrench, murdering two other teachers, and holding a classroom hostage. The hostage situation, to Decker’s surprise, becomes more of a counseling session for both Decker and the teens in the classroom, who have hidden hostilities and frustrations of their own. During their few hours together, Decker is able to unravel the weave of his Oedipus complex. The students also reveal their own parental, peer, and sexual insecurities and experiences and some of the ways they’ve channeled them—all but Ted Jones, who prefers to deny his id and hide behind his ego, eventually becoming more insane than Decker, who, because of his hostage experiment, actually becomes more of what he considers a human being—while Jones ends up committed to an asylum. In a memo printed in the last few pages of RAGE, Jones’s doctor writes, “…I am not as hopeful for this boy [Jones] as I once was” (128). It’s Decker who seems to have made progress. He writes, “They [the asylum staff] give me custard and I hate it, but I eat it just the same. They think I like it. So I have a secret again. Finally I have a secret again….it’s only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better. Like a human being again” (131). I used these final words from Decker, as well as Jones’s prognosis, as a lens for the novel, but I think there’s much more to King’s meaning that would surely reveal itself in a second reading—a task I might perform if I wasn’t a solo literature geek (having no one to explore with), or if I was a troubled teen like Jeffrey Lynne Cox, who claimed reading RAGE over and over again (along with the Kuwait Airways Flight 422 hijacking in 1988) inspired him to hold hostage a humanities class of sixty. Stephen King’s response to this and other RAGE-inspired acts: “Now out of print, and a good thing.” I’m sure I’d better understand King’s decision to stop publishing RAGE if I was in his shoes, having access to the depths of the novel’s meaning from the troubled teen mind that wrote this book back during the early 1970s.

Source Material:
“RAGE (Stephen King Novel).” Wikipedia.org._King_novel%29>.


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Book Review - Kathryn Stockett: THE HELP (2009)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

THE HELP fostered and strengthened the emotional ties between me and some of the girls in my book club. We mixed our tea with tears of both joy and sorrow into the wee hours of the morning: "Minny Jackson baked what?" "Girl, you know she's crazy ... but no crazier than me!" "I heard that, girlfriend! ... I HEARD THAT!!" "That Hilly Holbrook needs a mouthful of broken glass, girlfriend!" "Hell yeah ... and an unhinged jaw from several of my powerful punches to the face!" "Uh huh! That's what I'm talking about!"

This machismo yearning for release has revealed me as a liar. As you know, I'm not a girl, and as you may have assumed, I am not part of a women's book club (Although I do envy their book clubs and secretly wish women would put down their books and get back in the kitchen in hopes that men everywhere would drop out of their Fantasy Football leagues and, with the femininity now back in the kitchen, redefine reading as a worthy masculine pursuit. Unfortunately, my decision to read THE HELP is probably not going to encourage any man to read a book, but it might encourage them to send a few gay jokes my way!). But THE HELP is one of those books that Oprah and her ladies would love. It may be an Oprah Book Club Selection for all I know. I don't imagine most men would enjoy it, but I loved reading it. If it weren't for my own insecurities regarding others' perceptions, I probably wouldn't even assign genders to books, but, just as I had feared, my perceptions proved to be just as accurate as my self-centered head told me they were. Before walking into CC's coffee shop Tuesday, I pondered whether or not I should read a marigold and lilac-colored book in public. I decided to be myself, so I sat there with my almond latte and enjoyed a story about women and segregation in 1960's Mississippi. And when that lady walked up to me and said, "I am so happy to see a man reading THE HELP! Good for you!," I proudly said, "Nah. This book's for my wife--she's in the bathroom. I wasn't writing notes in the margins; I was adding up yardage to see how many yards Brees and McFadden need for my team to be in the lead next Sunday. I'll tell you who needs THE real HELP: the Miami Dolphins and the St. Louis Rams. Both 0-4 this season." Not really. I couldn't have told her that--since I had to go to ESPN to find the name of a good running back AND find out which teams were sucking this season. I actually told her that I really liked the book and that I appreciated how the author developed the suspense in spite of the typically unsuspenseful nature of the topic (sort of like Sorkin and Fincher did in THE SOCIAL NETWORK)--and then I crossed my legs (because it's comfortable, people, and because gone are the days when men's pants were so tight that they WOULD crush their nuts if they crossed their legs), allowed my wrist to fall limp (because it's comfortable too, people, and because gone are the days of ... wait ... ignore this parenthetical aside...), and finished enjoying my third "girly" novel about racism in these four years (First, Morrison's BELOVED, and Second, Walker's THE COLOR PURPLE). Good for me!!



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The Chirp of the Individualist

An old friend's thoughts on social identities sparked a few thoughts. She raises the following question: "Why wouldn't a person want to be 'real'?" Here's what I think:

Some people don't want to be "real" because, for them, the negative social consequences of being "real" outweigh the benefits of embracing their true identity. People are often hostile, insensitive, or snarky toward them, so they outwardly conform to avoid pain. Some people feel alone, and their only way of escaping is to put on a new identity. That people will like them a hell of a lot more if they be themselves does not ring true for everyone. You may like them a hell of a lot more if you THINK they're being themselves, but depending on the type of person they are, this may be not the case for everyone in their social circle. Also, according to sociologists and philosophers, it's quite normal for humans to project different personas depending on the social situation ("wearing a different hat"). People often emphasize some parts of their personalities and hide other parts, and even pretend when social demands must be met. I think this issue is more complicated than a black/white dichotomy between those who are "real" and those who are "posers." Researchers noticed a trend within young black males--their demographic has higher unemployment rates than other races in their bracket. Researchers found that they SO valued "being themselves," that they were unable to understand that code-switching is a normal and integral part of human success. These young black males fervently believed that wearing more formal clothes and using standard English (instead of their cultural dialect) was a form of "posing," or "being white" as they termed it. My point: "Posing" is a survival strategy in a socially threatening world. It helps people get what they want or need from the world jury. Just as many animals have the ability to blend into their surroundings to avoid an attack, the human species must do the same, and unfortunately, more often than not, when the grasshopper becomes boastful of his individuality and proclaims it from the black, shingled rooftop, the sparrow is the last one to enjoy the good intentions of his last individualistic chirp.