Lee points out the irony of the achievement gap on page 183: although it would seem obvious that the successes of one group at the expense of others creates problems that “will eventually leach into other segments” of society, the dominant group (Whites) doesn’t work hard enough to close the gap, placing more blame on others than taking responsibility. She uses the phrase “all in the same boat,” and when I read that I did not think of The Mayflower, Life of Pi or even Noah’s Ark. I thought of The Titanic. Everyone was on the same boat, yes, and that boat hit an ice berg, but who had first access to the too-few life boats? The people who were on deck. The wealthy were more likely to be saved, for the oppressed classes were down below and were denied the opportunities to get top-side in order that they might save themselves. To me, this emphasizes all the more the responsibility of those on the higher end of the achievement gap to those “underperformers”. Sure, we are all equal, but we do not have the same equity. The conversation of merit and the disrobing of cultures not in line with the current system cannot continue. Humanity does not have to abide by Darwinic ideologies. It is arrogant and short-sided to do so.
In Chapter 5, Lee brings to light what I had commented in my notes while reading the first part of the book: the relationship between content knowledge and pedagogical content knowledge. I have often thought about the demands of a teacher’s mind and “how we think about what teachers need to know” (110). School is this interesting place where your performance is continuously measured, and one measurement is necessary to qualify for the next and the next. And whatever it is that makes someone “good at school” somehow means they’re more qualified to ultimately – to what? To work? In my perception, people become ELA teachers, not because of their past proficiency in pedagogical content knowledge (this, I think, often has a small window for seeding, rooting, and growing as most pedagogical knowledge is formed during Student Teaching and in reaction to the first years of teaching – again, this is my estimation) but because of their performance in and success with ELA content knowledge. There is a necessity in knowing both the ins and outs of the discipline but also how people learn, highlighted by two points in particular: understanding “enduring misconceptions and naïve theories held by youth ant novices generally” and “multiple routes to maximize opportunities to learn” (120). For some reason, I feel that many people are committed to streamlining their own production and work in a way that it would be more work and not worth the individual effort to think broadly and deeply about pedagogy, which would ultimately require change.
The crux of Chapter 5, and the book, in my estimation comes on page 129. The teacher must commit to and actually make progress in coming “to know each student and the life circumstances that student brings with him when he enters a classroom.” That is the daunting and ultimate measure of teaching, and it must be the first thing in a teacher’s heart, mind, and deed. Does it profit a theologian to study scriptures without a desire to know God? Do I have a desire to share my knowledge with those unexposed, or am I concerned with knowing my students? Not many jobs carry the same kinds of ethical pressures. My grandfather told me that his mother once said, “Teachers don’t teach [English]. They teach pupils.” Shall I be in the business of teaching far-off content or in knowing students and encouraging them as they open doors to their own world?
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
A Short Review
Where the Wild Things Are
by Will Pooley, 2009
It sure ain’t easy pleasing everyone in the competitive world of themed restaurants, but the surprising thing is just how well The Texas Roadhouse seems to be doing just that in town. I say ‘surprising’ because both times I have been, the group I was with have ended up sitting in silence, staring at the rubbish-strewn floor as all around us the normally respectable citizens of Logan whooped, hollered and grunted in a scene reminiscent of the worst post-apocalyptic depictions of the decay of humanity. The thing is that in terms of all the important criteria, such as atmosphere, service, entertainment, drinks, food, and price, the Roadhouse seems to hit the spot for a wide public, yet I certainly found myself cringing, if not actively weeping.
You get a feel for this atmosphere before you step through the door. There are never any parking spaces, because the restaurant has opted for the cunning strategy of building a tiny car park, so that they always look busy. The faux Texan building beckoned to us as we walked from the car-park a few miles down the road. Slowly.
The closer we got, the louder the sound of the menagerie within. My dreams of a casual, relaxing, and friendly atmosphere rapidly faded. As we pushed open the door, we were confronted by the zoo itself.
At this point, it is legitimate to wonder how much your experience at the Roadhouse is going to be affected by its apparently widespread popularity. The queue was a long, drawn-out experience involving other people’s children. My eyes flicked between the little boys throwing peanuts at each other and the hunks of flesh proudly displayed under the counter. The waitress pulled me from my violent reverie by cheerily announcing that our table was ready.
As she led us through the restaurant, my worst fears about the atmosphere were realized. The decorations are clearly designed to reflect ‘authentic’ Texicana, but their actual effect is a mind-bending excursion into the debasement of the boundaries between human and animal, authentic and fake. I shuddered as we passed a stuffed armadillo clutching a bottle of beer. His beady eyes fixed on mine, and I think that he whispered, “Welcome to the Roadhouse.” Disbelieving, I reached out to touch his stomach: real hair, and it felt warm. The cacti, by contrast, were plastic, their spines soft and bendy, presumably for the benefit of the ape-children running between my feet. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and the other members of my party explained that the peanuts available in the barrels should be eaten, and their shells dropped directly to the floor.
I have seen this done before, by the chimps at London Zoo.
It has to be said that the waiting staff who served us both times were well skilled. They were friendly and enthusiastic, and tried to be as helpful as possible. Unfortunately, claiming that a particular dish is a ‘House Favorite’ comes off a bit fake when the restaurant has only been open a few days. I had the distinct feeling that the staff were coached in ready-made slippery phrases, such as, “Try the blended Margarita, it’s great!” If you respond to this question by asking what it’s like, their eyes get shifty and they admit that, being good Utah Mormons, they have never actually tried a Margarita, let alone the one in the restaurant which they got a job in a couple of days previously. In my slightly disturbed state of mind, this insincere good cheer appeared not a little ominous. Thoughts of Mini-Man, the satanic muleteer who lured Pinocchio into coming to Toyland and gradually turning into an ass, flashed through my mind. “If you spend long enough in the Roadhouse,” the waiters eyes seemed to say, “you’ll end up on someone’s plate.”
In fact, the waiting staff play the role of the demonic circus masters in this debased amphitheatre. Don’t be surprised if your ribs are delayed because the staff have suddenly put everything down to engage in a mechanistic and thoroughly unsettling line dance. Every forty five minutes, our waiter told us, they were expected to ‘perform’ a dance, though it’s hard to say if the owners of the restaurant expected their staff to do so with the fixed maniacal grins and rigid, robotical body movements which we saw. Still, I suppose the Dance of the Dead was popular with the other diners, who punctuated the display with various yelps and grunts. At one point, I thought that the man across from me was going to jump up and sink his teeth into the flesh of one of the dancers. He looked back at his plate instead, and returned to gnawing a suspiciously human rib bone.
The rest of the clientele genuinely seem to consider the whole affair good fun. The men tap their feet, wag their tails and paw at the available surfaces, the drool dribbling down their stubbly chins. The children crawl around under the tables, or stare glassy-eyed at the sports on the big screens, until, as if from nowhere, a mock horse is produced for someone’s birthday. Suddenly jeers and shouts go up from the surrounding tables, as the ‘lucky’ celebrant is bullied into riding the mock horse. Didn't the primitive populations of peasant Europe use to do this to adulterers? The ringmasters’ role in this proceeding is crucial. They stand on nearby tables, shouting orders at the compliant herd, who stomp and roar in return.
I didn’t find this mood appealing, but you can’t judge a restaurant by its bestial clientele and hellish atmosphere alone. In terms of the actual products that they serve, I wouldn’t recommend shelling out on the drinks since the Margaritas, for instance, are distinctly lacking in alcoholic content, and the beer list is fairly unexciting. I cannot imagine anyone drinking a glass of wine here, but if they did, I like to think it would be served to them in an animal’s skull. However, the food, on the other hand, is really worth the trip. The Roadhouse serves huge portions of meaty treats. Their website declares a simple mission: ‘great steaks, killer ribs and ice-cold beer at a price that families across America [can] afford’ (The Texas Roadhouse). The half rack of ribs could feed one of these hypothetical families for a year, and the pulled pork is of similarly huge dimensions. Both are sweet, meaty and soft, with big, brash American flavours. As I swallowed my first mouthful I screamed, “Yeehah!” (In my interior monologue, you understand.)
The sides are also impressive, providing a caricature of southern cuisine. Sweet potato comes with caramel and marshmallow loaded on top (?), and an ordinary baked potato comes with so many optional toppings that it would make an oversized meal on its own. The salads were crunchy and fresh, and the fries were hot and crisp. I think that it would be quite a feat to finish a whole main course and sides on your own, not least since even the most restrained nibbler will undoubtedly have tucked into a couple of those peanuts before their food arrives. I defy any human to resist the cinnamon rolls which are baked before the eyes of the customers waiting in the queue and then rushed to the tables. These rolls are soft, sweet and hot. Best of all, the supply of them is unlimited. If it was my restaurant, I would be tempted to call it the ‘Texas Roll and Ribs Place,’ but there’s probably a reason why I don’t own a franchise with over ‘310 locations in 44 states’ (The Texas Roadhouse). In the final say, it would be impossible to ignore the fact that even with a beer and a tip, you can leave the Roadhouse with change from $15. If, like some of my friends, you share one of the ample main courses, you can be in and out for under $10. Considering the quality and portion size of the food, this really is excellent value.
There’s a reason why the horde have made the Roadhouse their home. The quality of the food, and the value it represents must be important considerations for the families who make up most of the clientele. Who knows, maybe the hellish circus atmosphere of anthropomorphic animals and bestial humans even appeals to them. For me, this atmosphere and the whole style of the place is distinctly unsettling. Sitting at the table full of silent, despondent English majors, I wondered if this kind of thing isn’t aimed at people who don’t know how to make their own fun. Looking across at the perfectly normal looking young woman screaming and wobbling on the table next to us, I wondered if this is where librarians come to let their hair down.
by Will Pooley, 2009
It sure ain’t easy pleasing everyone in the competitive world of themed restaurants, but the surprising thing is just how well The Texas Roadhouse seems to be doing just that in town. I say ‘surprising’ because both times I have been, the group I was with have ended up sitting in silence, staring at the rubbish-strewn floor as all around us the normally respectable citizens of Logan whooped, hollered and grunted in a scene reminiscent of the worst post-apocalyptic depictions of the decay of humanity. The thing is that in terms of all the important criteria, such as atmosphere, service, entertainment, drinks, food, and price, the Roadhouse seems to hit the spot for a wide public, yet I certainly found myself cringing, if not actively weeping.
You get a feel for this atmosphere before you step through the door. There are never any parking spaces, because the restaurant has opted for the cunning strategy of building a tiny car park, so that they always look busy. The faux Texan building beckoned to us as we walked from the car-park a few miles down the road. Slowly.
The closer we got, the louder the sound of the menagerie within. My dreams of a casual, relaxing, and friendly atmosphere rapidly faded. As we pushed open the door, we were confronted by the zoo itself.
At this point, it is legitimate to wonder how much your experience at the Roadhouse is going to be affected by its apparently widespread popularity. The queue was a long, drawn-out experience involving other people’s children. My eyes flicked between the little boys throwing peanuts at each other and the hunks of flesh proudly displayed under the counter. The waitress pulled me from my violent reverie by cheerily announcing that our table was ready.
As she led us through the restaurant, my worst fears about the atmosphere were realized. The decorations are clearly designed to reflect ‘authentic’ Texicana, but their actual effect is a mind-bending excursion into the debasement of the boundaries between human and animal, authentic and fake. I shuddered as we passed a stuffed armadillo clutching a bottle of beer. His beady eyes fixed on mine, and I think that he whispered, “Welcome to the Roadhouse.” Disbelieving, I reached out to touch his stomach: real hair, and it felt warm. The cacti, by contrast, were plastic, their spines soft and bendy, presumably for the benefit of the ape-children running between my feet. The floor was littered with peanut shells, and the other members of my party explained that the peanuts available in the barrels should be eaten, and their shells dropped directly to the floor.
I have seen this done before, by the chimps at London Zoo.
It has to be said that the waiting staff who served us both times were well skilled. They were friendly and enthusiastic, and tried to be as helpful as possible. Unfortunately, claiming that a particular dish is a ‘House Favorite’ comes off a bit fake when the restaurant has only been open a few days. I had the distinct feeling that the staff were coached in ready-made slippery phrases, such as, “Try the blended Margarita, it’s great!” If you respond to this question by asking what it’s like, their eyes get shifty and they admit that, being good Utah Mormons, they have never actually tried a Margarita, let alone the one in the restaurant which they got a job in a couple of days previously. In my slightly disturbed state of mind, this insincere good cheer appeared not a little ominous. Thoughts of Mini-Man, the satanic muleteer who lured Pinocchio into coming to Toyland and gradually turning into an ass, flashed through my mind. “If you spend long enough in the Roadhouse,” the waiters eyes seemed to say, “you’ll end up on someone’s plate.”
In fact, the waiting staff play the role of the demonic circus masters in this debased amphitheatre. Don’t be surprised if your ribs are delayed because the staff have suddenly put everything down to engage in a mechanistic and thoroughly unsettling line dance. Every forty five minutes, our waiter told us, they were expected to ‘perform’ a dance, though it’s hard to say if the owners of the restaurant expected their staff to do so with the fixed maniacal grins and rigid, robotical body movements which we saw. Still, I suppose the Dance of the Dead was popular with the other diners, who punctuated the display with various yelps and grunts. At one point, I thought that the man across from me was going to jump up and sink his teeth into the flesh of one of the dancers. He looked back at his plate instead, and returned to gnawing a suspiciously human rib bone.
The rest of the clientele genuinely seem to consider the whole affair good fun. The men tap their feet, wag their tails and paw at the available surfaces, the drool dribbling down their stubbly chins. The children crawl around under the tables, or stare glassy-eyed at the sports on the big screens, until, as if from nowhere, a mock horse is produced for someone’s birthday. Suddenly jeers and shouts go up from the surrounding tables, as the ‘lucky’ celebrant is bullied into riding the mock horse. Didn't the primitive populations of peasant Europe use to do this to adulterers? The ringmasters’ role in this proceeding is crucial. They stand on nearby tables, shouting orders at the compliant herd, who stomp and roar in return.
I didn’t find this mood appealing, but you can’t judge a restaurant by its bestial clientele and hellish atmosphere alone. In terms of the actual products that they serve, I wouldn’t recommend shelling out on the drinks since the Margaritas, for instance, are distinctly lacking in alcoholic content, and the beer list is fairly unexciting. I cannot imagine anyone drinking a glass of wine here, but if they did, I like to think it would be served to them in an animal’s skull. However, the food, on the other hand, is really worth the trip. The Roadhouse serves huge portions of meaty treats. Their website declares a simple mission: ‘great steaks, killer ribs and ice-cold beer at a price that families across America [can] afford’ (The Texas Roadhouse). The half rack of ribs could feed one of these hypothetical families for a year, and the pulled pork is of similarly huge dimensions. Both are sweet, meaty and soft, with big, brash American flavours. As I swallowed my first mouthful I screamed, “Yeehah!” (In my interior monologue, you understand.)
The sides are also impressive, providing a caricature of southern cuisine. Sweet potato comes with caramel and marshmallow loaded on top (?), and an ordinary baked potato comes with so many optional toppings that it would make an oversized meal on its own. The salads were crunchy and fresh, and the fries were hot and crisp. I think that it would be quite a feat to finish a whole main course and sides on your own, not least since even the most restrained nibbler will undoubtedly have tucked into a couple of those peanuts before their food arrives. I defy any human to resist the cinnamon rolls which are baked before the eyes of the customers waiting in the queue and then rushed to the tables. These rolls are soft, sweet and hot. Best of all, the supply of them is unlimited. If it was my restaurant, I would be tempted to call it the ‘Texas Roll and Ribs Place,’ but there’s probably a reason why I don’t own a franchise with over ‘310 locations in 44 states’ (The Texas Roadhouse). In the final say, it would be impossible to ignore the fact that even with a beer and a tip, you can leave the Roadhouse with change from $15. If, like some of my friends, you share one of the ample main courses, you can be in and out for under $10. Considering the quality and portion size of the food, this really is excellent value.
There’s a reason why the horde have made the Roadhouse their home. The quality of the food, and the value it represents must be important considerations for the families who make up most of the clientele. Who knows, maybe the hellish circus atmosphere of anthropomorphic animals and bestial humans even appeals to them. For me, this atmosphere and the whole style of the place is distinctly unsettling. Sitting at the table full of silent, despondent English majors, I wondered if this kind of thing isn’t aimed at people who don’t know how to make their own fun. Looking across at the perfectly normal looking young woman screaming and wobbling on the table next to us, I wondered if this is where librarians come to let their hair down.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Sunday 03/04 Appleman
I wish that I had Deborah Appleman’s Critical Encounters in High School English before I started teaching. Not being greatly exposed to critical theory, certainly not in high school, I flirted with including feminist theory, but I was teaching a heavy dose of formalism and reader response. This book, especially with its appendices and chapter eight – reminding me that this is not just for “advanced” students or future English majors, guides a teacher mucking through purposes and their own insecurities a great deal of help and insight, offering a springboard into the kinds of classes I would think most teachers would hope for: room for thinking to happen, interaction, and growing awareness of all involved. Then again, like much of what I’ve been learning this year, I don’t know if I would have been ready for this out of the gate. Could I have really anchored myself to teaching literature this way? Would I have the impetus to creating some of my own learning experiences, or would I simply be throwing out handouts of other, more enlightened teachers?
Not only do I appreciate the possibilities and anecdotal evidence provided, but I also admire that Appleman would provide warnings and cautions. I would not be ethical to sing the praises of this orientation of teaching only to let teachers figure out, through trial and error, all of the problems associated with introducing theory in the high school setting. In reading the book, I was busy thinking critically about my own students, and although I began to consider some ways in which they might have lashed back, I was not deterred from this approach all together for the students’ sake. Her book provides a better version of the praises of an approach during a teacher inservice and pointing out its flaws for the student population during lunch and in the halls as teachers make their ways back to their rooms.
I have trouble with the deconstructivist point of view anyway, but the treatment of Donne’s “Death Be Not Proud” seemed unjust. I credit this with my own lack of understanding of the theory (and I think this might be a turn-off to many teachers) and my affinity for Donne. To deconstruct without the context of who Donne is and who he is writing to, out of grave purpose, doesn’t sit well with me. Perhaps that was covered, but in the student responses, it appeared that the reading of the text was a misreading due to the focus of deconstructionalist criticism.
On page 11, Appleman brought a point from James Baldwin that drew out a verbal agreement from me in the midst of reading: that students would be “able to critique their own society intelligently and without fear”! This whole premise set the book up for me with great expectations. I did however continue to wonder about the texts I would use and what that time spent looks like. My fear is not that students are incapable of thinking through theoretical lenses, but that they are likely to resist reading. If a student comes to class when we are to work through one of these literary criticism theories, they have to have read the text. If there is no common text, then what am I interpreting? I would be giving my own, uninformed opinion. And although I appreciate the view that through this, we are teaching ways of reading, how does this work alongside teaching students to read. Simply giving a lens with which to interpret will not make reading for understanding increase. However, I do take the transformation of student reading very seriously, and the class and gender criticisms (I agree with the removal of the labels, similar to the title of a poem, that can lead to instant resistance) got me happy as I read. On page 69, Appleman lists these effects in how students’ reading transforms through gendered reading: “How students view female characters and appraise the author’s stance toward those characters; how students evaluate the significance of the gender of the author in terms of its influence on a particular literary work; how students interpret whole texts within a feminist framework; and finally, and perhaps most important, how students read the gendered patterns in the world.” These transformations work on the levels I want to see student’s affected: they can recognize the situation of the text (author, historical context, fictional context) and their situation within/without the text.
Oh, to be alert and interactive with something to say and do in this world and hardly spend so much energy focused on self. You may get there before I do, but please try not to bother me while I am looking in the mirror – that man is such a captive audience.
Not only do I appreciate the possibilities and anecdotal evidence provided, but I also admire that Appleman would provide warnings and cautions. I would not be ethical to sing the praises of this orientation of teaching only to let teachers figure out, through trial and error, all of the problems associated with introducing theory in the high school setting. In reading the book, I was busy thinking critically about my own students, and although I began to consider some ways in which they might have lashed back, I was not deterred from this approach all together for the students’ sake. Her book provides a better version of the praises of an approach during a teacher inservice and pointing out its flaws for the student population during lunch and in the halls as teachers make their ways back to their rooms.
I have trouble with the deconstructivist point of view anyway, but the treatment of Donne’s “Death Be Not Proud” seemed unjust. I credit this with my own lack of understanding of the theory (and I think this might be a turn-off to many teachers) and my affinity for Donne. To deconstruct without the context of who Donne is and who he is writing to, out of grave purpose, doesn’t sit well with me. Perhaps that was covered, but in the student responses, it appeared that the reading of the text was a misreading due to the focus of deconstructionalist criticism.
On page 11, Appleman brought a point from James Baldwin that drew out a verbal agreement from me in the midst of reading: that students would be “able to critique their own society intelligently and without fear”! This whole premise set the book up for me with great expectations. I did however continue to wonder about the texts I would use and what that time spent looks like. My fear is not that students are incapable of thinking through theoretical lenses, but that they are likely to resist reading. If a student comes to class when we are to work through one of these literary criticism theories, they have to have read the text. If there is no common text, then what am I interpreting? I would be giving my own, uninformed opinion. And although I appreciate the view that through this, we are teaching ways of reading, how does this work alongside teaching students to read. Simply giving a lens with which to interpret will not make reading for understanding increase. However, I do take the transformation of student reading very seriously, and the class and gender criticisms (I agree with the removal of the labels, similar to the title of a poem, that can lead to instant resistance) got me happy as I read. On page 69, Appleman lists these effects in how students’ reading transforms through gendered reading: “How students view female characters and appraise the author’s stance toward those characters; how students evaluate the significance of the gender of the author in terms of its influence on a particular literary work; how students interpret whole texts within a feminist framework; and finally, and perhaps most important, how students read the gendered patterns in the world.” These transformations work on the levels I want to see student’s affected: they can recognize the situation of the text (author, historical context, fictional context) and their situation within/without the text.
Oh, to be alert and interactive with something to say and do in this world and hardly spend so much energy focused on self. You may get there before I do, but please try not to bother me while I am looking in the mirror – that man is such a captive audience.
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