In which we survey the annual spring harvest The Felix Chronicles, # 35
I make a detour when I arrive at school for a final round of faculty meetings to take a look at the Quad. Surprisingly, there are no obvious traces of yesterday’s ceremonies. Less than 24 hours ago, this space was teeming with parents, grandparents, alums, along with hundreds of students —- some of whom were wearing caps and gowns and about to dissolve into living ghosts. Today, all that remains is a sole folding chair. And since it’s brown, not black like the hundreds that had been set up, I’m not even sure it was here yesterday. The only sign that anything relatively unusual had happened are the distressed stripes of grass running horizontally across the Quad. The maintenance crew will take care of that in pretty short order, and this space will revert to a stretch of silence, punctuated only by the occasional round of elementary school kids singing here on summer afternoons, or administrators walking to and from their cars. Birds and bees will hold dominion for a season.
I’m relieved it’s finally over. It’s been three weeks since the seniors finished classes, a period punctuated by end-of-the-year parties, final exams, the prom, the senior dinner, and other rituals. Graduation is the most tedious. People typically experience a string over a string of a dozen or so years: elementary school and middle school, then high school, college, each a little more bittersweet and dogged by anxiety, followed perhaps by a postgraduate degree. And then that’s it for a generation. But we teachers (especially high school teachers) go through the motions every year. The students, the speeches, the recitation of the school song: they all tend to run together. If anything is likely to be memorable, it’s the weather: hot or rainy, surprisingly cool or surprisingly beautiful. There’s usually a moment of genuine gladness at some point in the morning, as we witness the visible signs of maturity in some of our charges. And there’s often a moment of genuine regret, too, when we face an esteemed colleague’s retirement, the graduation of the final child in a cherished family, or a fond farewell from a clutch of friends who complemented each other so nicely. Any of these people may reappear at some point, in some perhaps transfigured way. But the uncertainty of such scenarios, and the certainty of time’s passage, make such moments bittersweet at best.
It’s always a relief when you get in the car and head home after such rituals, and I’m glad to seize a life, however quotidian, that’s truly my own. For years now, it’s been my habit to come home from graduation and mow the lawn. I think of Winslow Homer’s 1865 painting “Veteran in a New Field,” which depicts a recently returned Civil War soldier threshing wheat. Figuratively speaking, my campaign is over, and I’m eager to get back to my farm.
This notion of closure is among the greatest satisfactions of teaching. Other walks of life are comparably cyclical. But I don’t think any afford the kind of clean lines and closed books that a life in schools does. Many working people take extended summer vacations, but few of them are as expansive and sharply chiseled as that afforded by an academic schedule. As we are all veterans of schooling, this experience is a virtual birthright. But only teachers refuse to relinquish it.
The time will come—unexpectedly quickly —when my longings will turn away from completion and repose toward the rebirth that comes with the fall. In my case, the longings typically return long before it's time to actually return to the classroom. But as I make my way from meeting to meeting, from a final faculty softball came to a final trip to the local watering hole before we all disperse, I pause to savor the cadence. The present is past. And history will be born anew.
in which we see a civil war in popular music -- and a (largely) civil discussion in the classroom
The Felix Chronicles, #31
It's the end of the semester in my Civil War course. We've looked at sectional conflict, the course of the war, and Reconstruction. Now we're in what I consider the seminar stretch, where I'm asking students to choose pop culture versions or renditions of the Civil War and to write research essays analyzing their explicit as well as implicit arguments.While they get up to speed with their projects -- which they will soon discuss as works-in-progress -- I'm devoting class time to modeling the kind of work I want them to do. To that end, we've watched excerpts from Birth of a Nation and, in an experiment, Gone with the Wind in its entirety (to my surprise, I have two African American students who express enthusiasm for the movie, though a third is writing his essay on the film's racism).That's taken up a lot of time. So now I need some quick hits -- literally -- to keep things moving.
Southern man, better keep your head Don't forget what your good book said Southern change gonna come at last Now your crosses are burning fast . . .
Here we go:
"So, folks, what would the Neil Young who released this song in 1971 have us believe about the Civil War -- given, I'll add, that those two words don't appear in the song?"
"Well, it's pretty clear that he considers the South responsible for what happened," Aaron says.
"Why do you think so?" "Why do I think so?" Aaron is confused by the simple-mindedness of the question.
"Yes. What evidence do you have that he wants us to hold the South responsible?" Aaron gestures toward the Smart Board and reads the lyrics: "I saw cotton/And I saw black/Big white mansions/ and little shacks/Southern man, when will you pay them back?"
"You forgot the screaming and bull whips cracking," Zack notes. "A subtle point, I know."
"All right then," I say, sidestepping the humor. "We know what he's saying and how he's trying to make the point -- with words, at any rate. Cotton, mansions, bull whips: these are all images we associate with the antebellum South, even if they persisted long after the war. But the meaning of a song is never simply a matter of lyrics." I play another snippet: "How long how long?" Young intones. I shut it off abruptly. The point is to try to take the song apart, to be attentive to how it's put together.
"What are you hearing here?"
Silence. They need a prompt. "Are these sweet dulcet tones? Should Beyonce be envious?" "He's mad," Chantel says.
"Yeah," her buddy Tanya pipes in." And the music. It's like, what's the word . . .It's like all bunched up, tangled."
"Gnarled?" I offer.
"Yeah. It's really gnarly. All those guitars."
"I hear pure rage," Rick says. "Young is furious." "Or, at any rate, this character he's created is."
"Sounds like Young to me," Rick continues. Though this is questionable textual criticism, I'm not inclined to argue the point.
"All right then. We agree on what Young is saying, and see see that he uses a number of strategies to get his point across, not the least of which is the highly dissonant sounds he produces with his voice and the instruments. My next question is: Do you agree with him? Is he persuasive?"
"I think so," says Aaron, returning to the fray.
"Why?"
"Well, I mean, he's got a point, doesn't he? I mean the South was at fault for having slavery and fighting to keep it.."
"Is this something Young persuades you to believe?" "Well he makes a damn good case."
"Does he, though? Is this a fair portrayal of the South?"
"I don't see why not." "Here's one reason: Southerners weren't the only ones who owned slaves or used whips in American history," I say. "Here's another: He's painting with a pretty broad brush here. Southern man seems to be all Southern men. Southern white men, anyway. Plantation owner, small farmer, college student, whatever."
"I agree," Caroline says. "It's a little over the top."
"I think you're reading a little too much into this," Aaron says. "It's a song. It's not like he's writing an essay for a history class where he has to take in every point of view."
"Can you take in every point of view when you write an essay for your history class?" I ask.
"You know what I mean," Aaron answers, smiling but annoyed. "He's telling a story. He has a point of view. He's not writing an academic book." There's a whiff of contempt in "academic book." "Well, sure," I reply. "He has a point of view. And so do I. And my point of view is that he's trying to bring you around to his point of view through a series of choices he makes, some of them likely to be unconscious, in writing the song. And one of the things I'm trying to do is to develop your powers of judgment."
I look up to the class as a whole. "You all know this song, right?" They nod. "How many of you have this song on your iPods?" About a third of the hands in the room go up.
"Can't say I've ever given it all that much attention," Asa, one of those who raised his hand, says. "I see what you're saying. But I still like it." "No law against that, Asa. I just want you to understand that not everyone likes it as much as you do, and may have real reasons not to." He nods.
"What I want to do now," I say, is play another song, one that I think all of you know, and one whose history some of you may know. It's by a group that does not agree with Neil Young, and says so." I begin to play Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama." There's smiling, nodding, and even a little foot-tapping as I play the song:
Well I heard Mister Young sing about her Well, I heard ole Neil put her down Well, I hope Neil Young will remember A Southern man don't need him around anyhow
Once again, I stop the song abruptly. "OK. So how would you characterize this as a response?"
"It isn't much of one," says Caroline. "More like a non-response." "Does the band make any effort to engage Young's song? To refute his reasoning? To offer an alternative take on the South?"
"Well I don't know about reasoning," Chantel says with some amusement. "But they they definitely have a different point of view!"
"You're right. In fact, let's hear a little more":
In Birmingham they love the governor Now we all did what we could do Now Watergate does not bother me Does your conscience bother you? Tell the truth
"This song came out in 1974," I explain. "I believe everyone in this elective has taken "U.S. Since 1945 previously, yes?" Nods of affirmation. "So tell me: What was Watergate?"
"That was the Nixon thing," Tanya says.
"Yes. What Nixon thing? Which Nixon thing?" "There was a thing about a hotel," Zack remembers. "What was the name of it?"
"The Watergate hotel." ("Someone says "duh." Some chuckles at this.)
"Right," Zack continues. "The Watergate hotel. A bunch of guys broke in looking for dirt on what's his name . . . McGovern. They got caught. Nixon said he had nothing to do with it. But there were tapes. They showed he did. He was forced out.""
"Admirably succinct, Zack. Nineteen seventy four, when this song was a top ten hit, was the year that Nixon resigned. But why is Lyrnyrd Skynryd bringing this up? What does Watergate have to do with anything?" "I have no idea," he replies.
"I think maybe he's saying that he's got nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to apologize for," Aaron says.
"Yeah. And that people who point fingers should shut the hell up," Asa says.
"Right," I note. "Nixon won 49 states in 1972, all but Massachusetts. The whole country elected him. Not just Southerners. And Southerners are not the only ones who have done things in American history that require apologizing. Hear that, Neil Young? You'd never know from hearing 'Southern Man' that every single one of the original thirteen colonies had slavery. We did what we could to fix our mistakes. Have you looked at yours?"
"Did Lynyrd Skynryd actually say that?" Tanya asks.
"No, not in so many words. But that's one way to read what they're saying," I reply. "It's sort of like that argument we discussed a couple months back, when Southerners responded to Northern critics of slavery by saying Northerners have their own white slaves in factories. But let me ask you something else: Who was the governor of Alabama in 1974?" Silence. Then, Caroline: "George Wallace?"
"Right. And what was the slogan associated with George Wallace?"
More silence. "Wait," Hakim says. "Something about yesterday, today and tomorrow?"
"Segregation," Aaron says.
"Right: 'Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.'" "Wow," Rick says. "I had no idea."
"Me either," says Caroline.
"Now that you do, how does this context affect your perception of the song?"
"I'm really not sure." Caroline sounds genuinely confused. You don't often hear a student express honest uncertainty in a classroom. Good for you, Caroline.
"Again," Aaron says, "I think you're reading too much into this, too. It's a song about pride. These people are talking about a place they love. Nobody really gives a damn about George Wallace or Watergate. That's the point."
"They say they love George Wallace!" Jenny interjects, irritated by Aaron's irritation.
"They say it more like: You hate George Wallace? Well, we love George Wallace. But Wallace isn't the point. What do you hear when you listen to this song? Sweet Home Alabama. Sky so blue. Comin' home to you."
I'm hearing echoes of Aaron's father here, chief of surgery at a large New York hospital. Mom, a truly lovely woman, runs a landscaping business and is a fixture of cafeteria bake sales. I hope the struggle for his soul isn't over. But for now, I'll take his side in this debate. "It's an expression of regional pride," I say. "Like Frank Sinatra singing 'New York, New York."
"Exactly." Aaron leans back, smiles, and nods. He's pleased that I get it.
"I should point out that Wallace later recanted his racial views views, and was re-elected with substantial black support. But at this point, the moment Lynyrd Skynyrd immortalized him, Wallace was an avowed opponent of black equality."
"Where does the name Lynyrd Skynyrd come from?" Chantel asks in a voice of idle curiosity.
"After their high school gym teacher, Leonard Skinner. Lynyrd Skynyrd was their mocking name for him."
"That's great," Zack says, beaming with amusement.
"Be that as it may, Zack, let me ask you a question: Do you think this song is racist?"
He winces. "I dunno. I mean, I guess so."
"Of course it's racist," Jenny says. "These people are saying they love a guy who considers black people inferior!"
"Well, they don't say that," I point out. "But they do say others do."
"No," she corrects me. "They say 'the governor's true.'"
I squint at the Smart Board. "You're right, Jenny." Her prompt leads me to see something else: "And note that last line: 'Montgomery's got the answer.' Montgomery is the capital of Alabama. It was also, you may remember, the first capital of the Confederacy before it moved to Richmond. But maybe I'm reading too much into it, right Aaron?"
"Right." He's trying to stiffen my resolve.
I pause. "Zack: You have this song on your iPod?"
"Yes I do."
"Knowing what you know now, should you have this song on your iPod?"
"Well, sure," he says after a pause. "I mean, I understand some people might be offended. But Aaron is basically right. It's just a song. Every song is probably offensive to somebody."
"Half the music on my iPod" is offensive," Hakim notes. "I've got Fifty Cent, Cam' Ron, stuff like that."
"What about you, Caroline?"
"Well, I don't have the song on my iPod. But I hear it all the time at parties or on the radio."
"If you did have the song on your iPod, do you think you would remove it?"
"That's a tough one." I wait for her to say one way or the other. When it's clear she isn't going to, I shift my gaze. "Zack, let me come back to you."
"Gee, thanks, Mr. Cullen."
"You said you will keep this song on your iPod, which of course is your right. And you point out that people have different tastes. Can I infer from what you've said that you would not choose to play this song at, say, a University of Alabama football game because it might give offense to some people?"
"Well, no," he says. "I mean there might be some people that get offended. But I don't think most would. He shoots a glance at Chantel. "But I mean, if we reached a point when a lot of people were offended, then I guess yeah, I would."
"You could also argue that a decision to stop playing 'Sweet Home Alabama' at an Alabama football game would also be offensive to some people," Aaron notes."I just don't think a song, whatever its message, has that much impact. I mean, I've got "Suck it or Not" on my iPod, just like Hakim. Does that mean I hate women? I don't think Jenny's going to turn into a racist because she hears 'Sweet Home Alabama' while watching the Crimson Tide."
"Like I ever would," she replies.
"You go to your brother's games," Zack notes. Jenny's brother is the quarterback on the school team, which has gone undefeated the last two years running.
"Well, yeah, for home games," she concedes. "But that's different. I never really know what's going on anyway."
"But this does bring up an interesting point," I say. "Can you imagine yourself 150 years ago, leaving your home in New York to go visit family or friends in Mississippi? You'd see slavery all around, but would you say anything about it? Would you think you should say anything about it? I mean, who would you be to pass judgment on something like that? What would you know?"
"That's scary to think about," Caroline says. "I'd like to think I'd speak out, but I'm not sure I would." No one follows up on that. We're about out of time -- and energy.
"Well, that's my attempt to get us back to the Civil War, from which we've drifted," I say, signalling an attempt to wrap this all up as class ends. "I'll end today by disagreeing with Aaron. I think he really does have a point: it is possible to read too much into a song," I say, looking at him and nodding before I shift my gaze up and scan the room as a whole. "But that's not the premise of this assignment, this class, or my career, and since you are at least for the moment stuck with me, I'm asking you to play along with me here. And that means taking seriously the notion that any song, any movie, any advertisement or whatever is making any number of assertions. Your job here is to figure out what one of those assertions is, explain why you think that particular assertion is being made, and then to evaluate the legitimacy of that assertion. Starting next week, I'm hoping you'll start presenting what you're working on." I think I've connected: they seem to be looking at me fairly intentently. "OK. See you tomorrow. We're going to have a discussion of what you're working on -- and I"ll be looking for volunteers to show a clip or play a song so we can have a discussion of the kind we did here today.
As they shuffle out, Hakim asks me, "Did you have these records when you were growing up, Mr. Cullen?"
"Indeed I did, Hakim."
"Did you know what they were really about?"
"Not right away. But eventually, yes."
"And you kept them?"
"Well I could say it was strictly for professional reasons."
"Ah," he says. "I guess it's legit, then. See you next tomorrow, Mr. Cullen."
"Take care, Hakim." He let me off the hook too easily, I think. These kids may think I raise these questions actually knowing how I'd answer them. But one of the great guilty pleasures of teaching is to push people to answer questions you don't know how you'd answer yourself.
In which we see new technology is really an old story
The Felix Chronicles, #22 "All right, Mr. Cullen," Nate says."So you've told us about movies and newspapers a hundred years ago. What about radio?"
"Yeah," Jason says. "What about radio?"
"Well, what do you want to know?"
"How did radio happen?" Jason asks. "When did people start listening to music?"
"If by 'music' you mean sound recordings, not for a long time after radio came along. Actually, the record industry hated radio. Record companies wanted no part of it."
"Really?" Lisa asks. "That's so weird."
"Well, not really. Record people thought that people would never buy music if they could get it for free."
"Well, I can kinda see that," Roy says. "My big brother tells me that there was a big fight over this company Napster a few years ago."
"Right. But that wasn't the only problem. Records also sounded lousy on early radio. Most music was live."
"That must have been cool," Joey says. "Radio today is so lame. Z-100 plays the same music over and over again."
"Actually, early radio was pretty lame," I say. "It was like local access cable today. Wayne and Garth type of stuff."
"Wayne and Garth?" Kim asks. "Who are Wayne and Garth?"
I sigh. Even pop culture that was after my time has become old. Of course I should have known when Roy referred to Napster as "this company."
"Haven't you ever seen Wayne's World?" Joey asks incredulously. He plays the air guitar and wails "Wayne'sworldWayne's world!" It's not clear whether the laughter is recognition of the riff or amusement at Joey's weirdness.
"Actually," I say, "We probably need to take a step back. The roots of radio are in telegraphy. You may remember when we talked it about that last fall: the telegraph allowed virtually instant communication between two points, connected by a wire. That was pretty amazing. But almost as soon as that happened, tinkerers and entrepreneurs began working on communication without wires -- wireless communication. By about 1900, the technology reached the point where this could happen relatively proficiently through Morse code. The big user of wireless telegraphy was the shipping business -- ports could get crowded, and accidents could happen in the dark and bad weather. Radio also had military applications that became apparent during the First World War."
"This is a little surprising," Lisa says. "That this thing we think of as entertainment was used for war."
"Not surprising at all. How do you think the Internet started?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the Internet was first invented by the Defense Department in the 1960s. It was made so that computers could communicate in the event of a nuclear war."
"Wow. I had no idea."
"And tape recording was invented by the Nazis so that they could give the impression that Hitler was everywhere during World War II," Tom says.
"Yup. A lot of the the things we take for granted in everyday life started out as military technologies."
"Wow," Beth says. "That's sad."
"Yes, Beth, it is. "Radio became a form of entertainment pretty quickly, if not in the way you might think. By about 1920 a new hobby had emerged of so-called "radio hams" who set up communication systems in their basements and began signalling each other. By this point, the technology had improved to the point where it was possible to transmit the human voice. These guys were often total dweebs who were obsessed with distance." Here I adopt the voice of an imagined radio ham shouting to his wife upstairs: 'Hey honey! Listen to this! I got a guy here in Cleveland! Can you believe that? He says it's raining in Ohio!' The class laughs.
"This is kind of how I imagine Bill Gates in the seventies," I say. "He was a dork, too. They may strike out with girls, but end up running the world. You can imagine he got good looking pretty fast after he started Microsoft." Some amused smiles at this.
"So how did we get from that to listening to music?" Sam asks.
"Well, it began with an engineer outside of Pittsburgh," I answer. "This guy had the bright idea of transmitting music and other information to multiple people at the same time, people who didn't need or even want to talk back. So it was that radio broadcasting was born. People started buying just receivers rather than both halves of the set."
"So that's how we got Z-100," Joey says.
"Not quite. You're making it a much more straight line than it actually was."
"Really?" Kim asks. "Why?"
"Well, " I say, "early radio was a little like Facebook or Twitter."
"This I've got to hear," Susan says.
"What's Twitter?" Mindy asks.
"You don't know Twitter?" a bunch of voices ask in unison. I must say I'm surprised as well. But I don't want to get sidetracked.
"Well, like Facebook or Twitter, early radio was this big novelty item," I explain. "People were really intrigued by it. But people didn't quite know what to do with it, either. The rules weren't really clear, if you know what I mean. Just like we try to sort out what it means to 'friend' someone, people were trying to figure out what should go on the radio. In the early days, schools, labor unions, churches, even department stores owned radio stations. You could hear lectures, or sermons, or even college lectures -- "
'"Like those podcasts you can get at the iTunes store," Nate interrupts.
"Right. You could also hear really amateur entertainment. Like your neighborhood singing group. Or a local magician."
"Oh -- so now I see what you mean by Wayne's World," Sam says.
"Yes. A lot of it was really amateurish stuff."
"Like all those tweets people send around."
"Like those tweets," I affirm, never having Twittered myself. "But still, people were excited. And more than just a bunch of lame entertainers. People sensed there was serious money in radio. Just like they do in Facebook. The people who run Facebook today are sitting on hundreds of millions of dollars from investors. But no one is sure when, or even if, it will ever make any real money. They're just hoping."
"Yeah, Facebook is like radio in that people just like to lurk," Samantha says. "I never say much on Facebook. But I like to see what other people are doing."
"I love posting to Facebook," Lisa says. "What's the point if you don't participate?"
"Well, you may be pointing out an important difference between radio and Facebook," I say. Actually, it's the interactive dimension to Facebook that makes it the reason why people refer to it and things like Twitter as 'Internet 2.0.' The second generation of the Internet. Sort of what like sound movies were to silent pictures."
"So how did radio make money?" Kim asks.
Wanna take a guess?"
"By selling radio sets?"
"Not a bad answer. Actually, there was some money in that."
"Did people pay to go on the radio?" Ellen asks.
"Well, no, if by 'people' you mean entertainers. But you're on the right track."
"You mean advertisers?" Kim asks. As always, her curiosity is consistent and focused.
"Right. Advertising. Companies like Ever Ready batteries would pay to sponsor a show. That really drove up the quality of what it was possible to do. Proctor and Gamble, for example, would pay for the production of radio plays, aimed at middle-class women, who were often stay-at-home wives and mothers. They came to be known as soap operas."
"Aaah," Becky, who has been quiet today, says. "So that's where they came from!"
"Not that everyone was happy about advertising," I note. "You're probably too young to remember" -- by this point in the class, I've recalibrated my sense of generational time -- "but when the Internet became a presence in everyday life, there were a lot of people who were afraid of, and resented, the commercialization of the web. They didn't want advertising. Of course, they lost. There were people like that in radio, too. Those churches and unions, for example. By the 1930s, the Federal Radio Commission, headed by a guy named Herbert Hoover, gave all the best wavelengths -- like the one for Z-100 -- to commercial interests, while non-profit stations literally got shoved to the side, like 87 or 90 or something. There are always winners and losers when a new technology comes along. Which is not to say that big business always wins out. In England, for example, the government kept control and used money from taxes on radio sets to create the British Broadcasting Corporation, or BBC."
"Which gave us Monty Python," Joey notes. "The Ministry of Funny Walks."
"Indeed. Bring out your dead."
"What's he talking about?" Liza whispers to Mindy.
"And what about television?" Kim asks.I look at the clock. Class is over.
"That's another story. But let me say this: the technology for TV was already in place in the early 1920s -- even before radio took off. Revenue from radio was used to develop television. But TV took much longer to arrive than anyone figured. Partly that was World War II -- a lot of the talent and energy went into radar instead. The point here being that ability to do something doesn't mean that it's going to happen quickly or in a predictable manner."
Notebooks flip; laptops close.
"So, Mr. Cullen, does this mean you'll friend me on Facebook now?" Becky asks as she gets up with everyone else to leave.
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm an old man."
"So?" (Alas, she doesn't contest my self-description.) "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Because I'm like Moses. I see the promised land. But I won't cross over into it with you. Think of me fondly when your kid shoves a gadget in your face whose appeal, if not operation, you find utterly incomprehensible."
She smiles: she can see this. I'm so pleased. "All right then. Have a good day, Mr. Cullen."
"Have a good decade, Becky." But already out the door, she doesn't hear me. With the room now empty, I can finally check my email.
In which a teacher prods a class to cast a cold eye on an American Dream
The Felix Chronicles, #21
JAY GATSBY IS A PATHETIC FRAUD.
I point to the file I've just clicked open on the Smart Board. It's a document in bold type, consisting of nothing but those five words. “What do you think, folks? Is Gatsby a pathetic fraud?”
"Absolutely," say Roy without hesitation.
"He is not!" says Kim.
“He makes up his identity,” Roy says. “Gatsby pretends to be something he’s not.”
"So you think he's a fraud, Roy," I say. "And pathetic?"
Roy is nodding his assent when Jason jumps in.“No,” he says. “Because even though Gatsby makes things up Nick Carraway admires his hope and his ambition.”
“Well that’s what Nick thinks,” I say. “That’s what Jason thinks, too?”
He nods. “Yes, I do.”
Becky weighs in. “He was definitely a fraud, she says. But I’m not sure about pathetic. He did questionable things on the way up, but the fact that he was striving for something – he might not be pathetic.”
“Oh no, he’s definitely pathetic and a fraud, says Nate. "He got where he was through fraudulence, cheating and going around the law –”
I interrupt: “That’s fraud in the legal sense of the term. A crime.”
“Yes, he continues, and he’s pathetic in the desperation with which he wants Daisy Buchanan."
"Okay. But let’s step back,” I say. “When you’re confronted with a statement like 'Jay Gatsby is a pathetic fraud,' what’s the first thing you should do?”
A moment of silence. I don’t expect an instant answer – actually, I’ll feel better if it emerges after a moment of consideration – but I’ve been hammering at this point long enough in our papers and our discussions to expect at least some clarity on this point.
I hear an indistinct female voice. “Define.” A little tentative, but at least it’s an assertion, not a question.
“Right,” I say emphatically. “You’ve got to define your terms. Now let’s go back to the easier part of this: Is Jay Gatsby a fraud?”
A chorus of voices: “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he pretends to be someone he’s not,” Ellen says. I note that at least some of the facts are reasonably clear: the man who calls himself Jay Gatsby was actually born James Gatz, he makes inaccurate factual statements about his background (among them that he lived in San Francisco, which he describes as “the Middle West”), and so on. There are other, unverifiable claims he makes that we can regard with some suspicion, but in any event there is no empirical doubt – the man says things that aren’t true, ipsofacto (I slip in a little vocabulary building here) he is a fraud. Right?
I’m expecting, even inviting, a challenge, but I don’t expect it to come from Nate. I’m not so sure, he says.
“Wait a second – didn’t you just say he was both pathetic and a fraud?”
“Well, I’m thinking about it,” he says. Noting Ellen’s observation that he created a character for himself, Nate notes that when James Gatz adopted the identity of Jay Gatsby, he invented that person and became that person. He followed all the rules of the person he invented.
“So,” I say by way of offering an example, when Gatsby describes himself as “an Oxford man,” he’s saying something that’s factually accurate – he did go to Oxford – just not in the way people customarily think of it, getting an undergraduate degree and the like.
“Exactly.”
Joey jumps in. “They’re all a bunch of frauds.”
Really? How so?
“Daisy is pretending to be a faithful wife; Myrtle is pretending to be belong in the world of Tom, with whom she’s having an affair, Jordan is pretending . . . .”
“ . . . that she cares about anyone but herself?” I offer. Joey nods. We all get the point.
“Of course,” I say after a pause, “by this standard, we’re probably all frauds.” No takers on that one.
“The point about Gatsby,” Kim says, "is that Gatsby seems to have a kind of higher purpose. That’s why Nick admires him.”
Nick Carraway again. I don’t want them to lean on him so much. At least right now.
“Okay,” I say. “You understand my real point here, which is less about whether Gatsby is or isn’t a fraud, and more about having a clear standard by which you measure the term. Now let’s move on to a term I suspect is a little less clear: pathetic. What does it mean to be pathetic?”
A long pause. I repeat the question.
“Lame, “says Nate. “That’s a word that comes to mind.”
“To get to a desperation point, says Liza. To stoop to a certain point.”
Another pause.
“I guess it’s time for me to share my secret dream with you,” I tell the class. “My secret dream – I take a suspense-building breath – is that I really think I can make it in the NBA. I want to become a professional basketball player.”
A few smiles.
“I mean, yeah, sure, it’s a long shot. Yes, I’ll have to lose a few pounds, work out a little harder. And yes, I’m not all that tall. But if I’m willing to work at it, and give it everything I’ve got, I mean, why not? I can do this! I mean, this is America, right?”
By this point in the school year, they’re used to this routine. No one is jumping to take the bait. “So I ask: Am I pathetic?”
“No,” says Kim. “You’re not pathetic.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think that having dreams is never pathetic.”
“Even my dream of playing in the NBA?”
“No matter how unattainable dreams may be.”
“Wait a second, I say in a voice of mock indignation. Are you suggesting my dream is unattainable?”
“No! NoNoNo!” The class relieves itself in collective laughter as Kim struggles to avoid giving offense. “Your problem is you’re too nice,” I tell her, as the class laughs some more – a well-known aspect of her personality is suddenly on public view, and my guess is that not all of this laughter is entirely sympathetic. Do they also see her grit? She waits for the laughter to subside to finish making her point. “Striving for a dream is never pathetic," she insists. "Even if it’s unattainable. That may be hard for a person to deal with in the end, but it’s not pathetic. Gatsby realizes that his dream is never what he made it out to be, but – "
“– are you saying Gatsby’s dream is also unattainable?”
“Well, he kind of got her, at least at first. But what I mean is that dreams and goals are what make life . . . . “
I finish her sentence: “Miserable?” The class roars with laughter. It feels like some tension is being discharged.
“No! No!” Kim shouts fruitlessly among the din. But it’s clear she’s not quite ready to yield.
This is good.
“Dreams are vicious things, Kim, are they not?”
“No.” She sounds almost contrite.
“No?”
“No.” (A little more assertive.) “You have to keep pushing. You have to deal with the pain of it, and maybe have a new dream. Because that’s how you keep going, how you keep going forward.”
I’m moved by her ingenuousness, but say nothing. Instead, I shift my gaze to Joey, who has been watching these proceedings with unfeigned amusement. “Do you endorse my dream of making it in the NBA? You think I should do it?”
He shrugs. “Sure,” he says, an affirmation of heartless indifference.
“Wow,” I reply with exaggerated indignation. “I can't tell who's more cruel. Kim for encouraging me, or you for dismissing me.”
"I'm not cruel!" Kim protests.
Ellen is more measured. “If you’re striving to better yourself, that’s fine, she says. "But if you start closing off other avenues – like if you quit your day job and waste all this money training –"
“What are you implying?”
“Well, obviously you can’t make it in the NBA.”
“Oh really? Well what if I’m a Kim guy and insist on it? That makes me pathetic?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re throwing away what you have for the sake of something that’s never going to happen.”
“Hmmm.” Silently putting aside the question of just what she’s referring to in what she thinks I have, I shake my head and say she’s given us a pretty good definition of pathetic. Does it apply to Gatsby? Is he pathetic for chasing Daisy?
“Yes. “
“Why?”
“He wants to repeat the past, he wants to take back those five years,” she says, referring to a famous line in the novel (“Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!”). Gatsby wants Daisy not to have married, not to have had a daughter, not to have never had feelings for her husband Tom.
“That’s pathetic.”
The clarity of Ellen’s reasoning is impressive. I wonder if she has effectively played out the string. But then Joey continues to develop his earlier point. “Actually," he says, "it’s the other characters in the book who strike me as more pathetic.”
“Really? How so?”
“They’re so bored with themselves. They don’t know what to do.”
“Why is that pathetic? I mean, maybe it’s obnoxious, or just unattractive. But pathetic?”
“I think it’s pathetic, I guess, because they don’t have dreams.” (Shades of Kim here – who would have thought?) “Because they’re already wealthy.”
I note that Liza had used the word “desperate” when we began trying to define the word “pathetic.” But the characters of Daisy, Tom, Jordan: Are they desperate?
“Yeah, I think so,” Joey replies. “Daisy is desperate to do something with her life.”
“All right then. So here’s our Spark Notes summary of The Great Gatsby” (a few chuckles as I speak): “It’s a book about desperately pathetic frauds, of whom Gatsby is the least pathetic and fraudulent.”
I’m inviting disagreement, but assume it’s going to take a moment to coalesce. So I’m particularly surprised when Ginger raises her hand with a face that suggests obvious dissent. For months now, I’ve been using every official channel (and a few unofficial ones, like a word to her advisor) to tell Ginger I’d like to hear from her more. In part this is because her exams and essays are so weak that class participation is the one avenue I see open in terms of having a discretionary lever with which to raise her grade into the relatively safe C range. The one time we had a conversation about this directly, she grew defensive to the point of hostility. I don’t think of her as especially bright – in the terminology my wife sometimes casually uses in the privacy of the dinner table, she has “a gray matter issue” – which she may know and believe independently. Alas, her pattern of diffidence may the most concrete evidence I have of relevant intelligence. I'm reminded of the old Abe Lincoln joke: it's better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove any doubt.
“I just don’t see him as a pathetic fraud, she says. Actually, I think he’s kind of a tragic hero.”
Not bad, Ginger, I think. Not bad at all. “Well now, that’s a term we haven’t heard in this discussion. Tragic hero? How so?”
“Well, because of stuff that people like Kim and Jason have been saying. He has something and he works hard toward it. He’s like the most developed character in the book.”
Chris, who has been quiet thus far, has raised his hand, ready to take it from there. I’m pleased. There’s something palpably sane about Chris – he’s consistently pragmatic in his commentary, while evincing a sense of sympathy for any character he’s assessing, whether real or fictional. He seems like he’d be a great friend. The thought occurs to me that he’s gay (a couple gestures, his well-known presence with the theater crowd), which, if true, is an orientation he seems to inhabit with a sense of equilibrium uncommon in adolescents. I find myself wondering to what degree his parents get credit for that. “I agree with Ginger, he’s now saying. "I think we’re putting far too much emphasis on the attainability of the dream in deciding whether it’s pathetic or not. Actually, I think Gatsby was successful on a lot of levels. He imagined a life, he lived it out, he gained a lot of respect –"
“Well OK,” I acknowledge. “That’s true. But those are means, not ends. You’re saying that if I lose twenty pounds, improve my jump shot, maybe improve my sense of athletic fashion, I’m not pathetic, even if I don’t make it to the NBA, right?”
“Right. Because you’ve moved toward your goal –"
“ – as long,” Ellen chimes in, “as you don’t let it define your life.”
I nod, considering this approvingly. “All right. I’ll buy that. But let me ask you this: To what degree does the goal itself matter? Maybe it’s not pathetic to devote, or even lose, your life in a quest for world peace or to defeat racism. But Gatsby had a dream of winning the heart of Daisy. Here I gotta ask: Daisy? Like me in the NBA, no? More to the point: What kind of dream is Daisy? I’ll tell you what makes Gatsby pathetic: It’s that Daisy is what he wants!” Here I make feminine gestures with my hands and adopt the most ridiculous voice I can muster, quoting her inane reaction to Gatsby’s wardrobe when getting a tour of his house: “Oh the shirts! I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beautiful shirts before!” I know that the laughter that ensues is as much for how foolish I look in mocking Daisy than in the foolishness of Daisy herself.
Kim’s not interested in a cheap laugh. “I don’t think it’s really about Daisy, she says, as if she hadn’t heard anything but my question. It’s more that Daisy is a symbol of a larger dream.”
“Yes,” says Chris. “I mean even when he was a kid, Gatsby was making that list of things to do.”
“Like ‘Be Nicer to Parents,’” I quote, part of an inventory that included “study needed inventions” and “practice elocution,” suggesting that Gatsby was a kind of warped Benjamin Franklin from the very beginning. “Be nicer to parents: Now there’s a moron for you.”
Kim is still working through her idea. “Daisy represents everything that Gatsby wants, she’s saying. It’s the house, the pool, the status.”
“So Gatsby objectifies her? She’s a status symbol?
Yeah.
“Unlike all of you, who when you fall in love are actually in love with the authentic person, not some notion of what they appear to be. I’m almost sneering here. But we don’t make that mistake now, do we?”
Kim is trying to sidestep the question. “Well, that’s what he does, seeing her as the missing piece to a puzzle.”
“But that’s pretty shallow, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“I mean, you wouldn’t make a mistake like that, now would you, Kim?” Kim clearly doesn’t like this line of questioning. I don’t blame her. Fortunately for her, class is just about over.
“I guess not, she says.” Books are closing. The classroom door has opened slightly; kids waiting to get in are sending a not-so-subtle signal. With a wry smile, I gesture toward the door. “All right then. See you tomorrow.” Class has ended on a discordant note. I’m satisfied.
“I guess not,” I repeat aloud to no one in particular as I gather my notes. Eduardo, the ethics teacher who has the class next, makes a gesture of hello as he tinkers with the Smart Board behind me, making the question of Gatsby’s pathetic fraudulence disappear. I guess not, too. Kim’s a pretty level-headed kid – diligent, committed, maybe a streak of melancholy. Then again, plenty of smart people have done plenty of dumb things when it comes to matters of the heart.
But that’s where we are: in the realm of educating guesses. In wonder how many of these kids were aware that for most of the last fifty minutes this was only nominally a History class. The interdisciplinary reach into English could be justified relatively easily; the move into judging Gatsby’s dream is more of a stretch. That’s not only because the discussion was conducted on ahistorical terms – we treated Gatsby’s dream as if it was a current event when in fact there are all kinds of ways it was historically determined – but because the line of discussion led me to query the ingenuous Kim about a matter that’s none of my business.I claim no special expertise in measuring the legitimacy or basis of love (though I perhaps illegitimately count the fact that I’ve managed to stay married for twenty years as among my most substantial accomplishments), and even if I did, the notion that a lively discussion in history class might avoid a broken heart is a conceit that . . . well, that’s exactly what it is: a conceit. I am the true pathetic fraud here, acting as if any of this really makes a difference.
