Some excerpts from Chapter 11 of 100 Semesters...

In fact, there were many reasons my peers abandoned their Ph.D. work. Sometimes a combination of forces obstructed--momentarily or permanently--the writing of the dissertation. The lethargy born of several years of a seedy life darkened by the prospect of poverty was the first impediment.A kind of envy was another: of other people our age who went to school and would become doctors and lawyers, to wind up happily living in the suburbs or in townhouses. We seemed to progress only to the next ordeal. (114-115)

Envy. Between that and poverty, it's perhaps the more dangerous of the two, for it prevents one from taking joy from and being content where he is and in what he is doing--always looking elsewhere, always reaching for something else, never satisfied or content. (To be sure, one can be content and yet look and reach, but one cannot be unsatisfied or discontent and not wish for greener pastures--which, by the way, also have cow patties in them.)

But before I [finished the dissertation], I knew that I had to find a job teaching English at a college or university. In those halcyon days, a few years before the iron gates clanged shut and the job market for the humanities became the hugely depressing spectacle it is today, many departments were looking to enlarge their rosters of assistant professors. Colleges and universities had money, and the arts and humanities still enjoyed the considerable prestige that today they have seen ebb away. (117)

Ahhh, feels good having a Ph.D. in the humanities, don't it?

Pragmatism And The Humanities

In his short essay, "The Minister and His Greek New Testament," J. Gresham Machen wrote the following:

The widening breach between the minister and his Greek Testament may be traced to two principal causes. The modern minister objects to his Greek New Testament or is indifferent to it, first, because he is becoming less interested in his Greek, and second, because he is becoming less interested in his New Testament.

The former objection is merely one manifestation of the well-known tendency in modern education to reject the "humanities" in favor of studies that are more, obviously useful, a tendency which is fully as pronounced in the universities as it is in the theological seminaries. In many colleges, the study of Greek is almost abandoned; there is little wonder, therefore, that the graduates are not prepared to use their Greek Testament. Plato and Homer are being neglected as much as Paul. A refutation of the arguments by which this tendency is justified would exceed the limits of the present article. This much, however, may be said—the refutation must recognize the opposing principles that are involved. The advocate of the study of Greek and Latin should never attempt to plead his cause merely before the bar of "efficiency." Something, no doubt, might be said even there; it might possibly be contended that an acquaintance with Greek and Latin is really necessary to acquaintance with the mother tongue, which is obviously so important for getting on in the world. But why not go straight to the root of the matter? The real trouble with the modern exaltation of "practical" studies at the expense of the humanities is that it is based upon a vicious conception of the whole purpose of education. The modern conception of the purpose of education is that education is merely intended to enable a man to live, but not to give him those things in life that make life worth living.

Machen is pointing out a change he saw in his day in how we view education. He wrote this in 1918, presumably about the university, but he could very well have said it in 2007. Or in 1960, for that matter. I've been going through a book by once university president William Chace, 100 Semesters, in part of which he underscores two radically diverging views on education exemplified by his undergraduate alma mater, Haverford, and his graduate university, Berkeley. Berkeley, he was to find out in the 1960s, heralded the "modern conception" of education that Machen mentions, where research grants and practical disciplines trump the humanities in importance, interest, and promised impact on society.

It is this conception that I butt up against with my students nearly every semester: "How will this [e.g., the study of philosophy] be of any practical benefit to me in my life?" Machen warns that we should not answer this question "before the bar of 'efficiency'"--in other words, we should not answer the question on its own terms. Why not? Because the very asking of the question assumes that efficiency and pragmatism are the correct standards by which to judge the matters of life and education. It assumes that the purpose of education is merely to enable a man to live, to get him his white picket fence, his pleather sofa, and all the toys he can amass. With Machen, I agree that something could be said about the practical benefits of studying the humanities, especially philosophy, and I have before laid such benefits before the greedy mind-bellies of my students.

But they remain, for the most part, unmoved and hungry. Why? Because I have not addressed their assumption that unless they can take something as stated in a textbook and use it at the grocery store or the office without having to think too hard about it, then it isn't worth learning. Because I have not addressed their assumption that something must be immediately practical for it to be a worthwhile point of education. So, it is this assumption that gets attacked when they ask their question. I pull this rug out from under them, not to laugh at them as they are rubbing their sore behind or to get them to drop their business major, but to get them to be a bit more self-conscious about just what assumptions are guiding their attitudes toward life and living. Perhaps some of them will come to think less on what will enable them to live and more on what will make that life worth living.

Classroom Community

I've really been enjoying my two upper level classes this semester. Most of the students in there are ones I've had before, so they're familiar with me and how I hold court in the classroom, which helps to create the familiar kind of atmosphere that I like. Lately I've been thinking of the classroom as a sort of community within which learning and inquiry takes place, a community wherein everyone together is inquiring after the subject matter, discussing it with one another, challenging one another. Many of the students have been in other courses together (both mine and other professors' courses), which often leads to their challenging one another and seeking understanding from one another apart from my interaction. I love that.

The idea of community also, and necessarily, involves a certain atmosphere of interaction, a special kind of context within which interaction takes place. Depending on the community in view, this atmosphere can be good or bad, it can be positive or negative, it can be a place where people want to be or a place where they don't want to be. I hope that my classroom is a place where people want to be, where they feel comfortable enough to engage with me and with one another. I suspect that this is the case. Regardless, as a teacher, I think that it is pedagogically important to keep in mind this aspect of the classroom. It seems to be just as important a part of the learning process as the subject matter--it helps to set the tone for discussion and engagement, provides a suitable context within which ideas can flow freely and be challenged without fear of looking stupid.

All in all, it's been a good time, as difficult as it is sometimes to be prepared in terms of subject matter for the lectures. But with a stable context of community in place, it makes being unprepared much easier to deal with.

The Power of Technology

I gave the first quiz of the semester to my ginormous Intro to Philosophy classes this week. The nice thing about these quizzes is that technology made it possible for me to give 200 quizzes without using up one sheet of paper; it took 10 seconds to grade them all; from the comfort of my own home. A decidedly good thing. The power of technology as a tool.

But technology has also made it possible to give students instant access to me in the comfort of my own home from the comfort of their own homes. When I think about it, this is a rather strange thing. A new thing. A powerful thing that has the capacity to redefine how we conceive of the teacher-student relationship. Students emailed telling me that their time ran out on the quiz and that they didn't want to get a bad grade because of it. They emailed telling me about internet problems at a dorm. They emailed telling me that they didn't read the quiz directions correctly and were freaking out because they got a 0. They email me telling me that they are sick, that their grandmother is sick, that they had a family emergency, that the dog ate their blasted homework.

Frankly, I don't want to hear it. Frankly, these aren't my problems. These either are results of failing to be responsible or are things that I have no reason to know about (apart from excuses from the Health Center, which can't be emailed). The thing that most interests me about these emails isn't so much that they exemplify a truly astounding example of nearly-instantaneous written communication; what interests me is why students felt like they had permission to fill my inbox with their insecurities. Yes, I think permission is the word I'm looking for. With such nearly-instantaneous communication comes an expectation of nearly-instantaneous reply to said communication. And this is not a permission that I'm willing to grant. It is an expectation that becomes an imposition. It imposes upon me certain behaviors that I am expected to act out and certain characteristics that I am expected to possess, by definition, as the teacher of this course.

Consider: the teacher is supposed to be available to the students. This is a characteristic that the teacher is expected to--and should--possess; it reflects a certain level of concern for the student that the teacher should himself reflect. A certain level of concern. This characteristic is reflected by the college professor in having what are called "office hours," times set apart during the week for students to have a little one-on-one with their teacher. But email as a technology imposes a much higher expectation, a much higher level of concern that the professor qua professor must have for their students. It imposes an expectation that ought not to be a requirement for office.

I recently heard a story of a high school teacher who, during school hours, is often bombarded with emails from her students' parents. And, get this, the parents took it as a personal affront when the teacher did not respond as quickly as they thought she should. Here is that expectation once again, an expectation that is produced by the technology rather than by the relationship. Since when was it part of the teacher-parent relationship that the teacher, during school hours no less, is responsible for the arrogance of the parents. Yes, I think responsible and arrogance are the words I'm looking for. The teacher is now responsible because, after all, she is the teacher and teachers must show a concern for their students by placating the students' parents. The parents are arrogant by demanding such a silly and outlandish thing.

What interests me about all of this is the power of technology to shape these relationships. Once upon a time, communication between teachers and students and between teachers and parents was shaped by assumed and accepted conceptions of the relationships between them. Communication followed the conception of the relationship. I suspect that the tide has turned, that the conception of the relationship is being shaped by the mode of communication, by the technological medium in which the communication is taking place. That's the power of technology.

My existentialism class was hilarious today, even though we were talking about the meaninglessness of life and the connection of this belief with suicide, Camus-style. They were slap happy from having had to turn in papers and not having gotten enough sleep as a result, but it was, surprisingly, a good discussion. Somebody mentions a connection between Husserl and Camus, I get some furrowed brows at the mention of Husserl, so I write "Husserl" on the board. One of the previously-non-furrowed browed students suddenly transforms into a furrowed browed student, so I raise my brow in query.

"Doesn't 'Husserl' have an umlaut, or am I just wrong about that?" he asks.

"It doesn't have an umlaut, so I guess you're just wrong," I respond. He's had me before, so he's pretty used to being told that he's wrong. "It's different from this," I say as I begin writing something else on the board under "Husserl."

At the same time that I begin writing, I hear a former student blurt out, "Don't write 'Husker Du'," which is, of course, precisely what I am in the process of writing. Ahh, they know me so well! Then things just go nuts for about 5 minutes.

Another student exclaims, "Let's really mess with the next class that meets in here. Make a connection between Husserl and Husker Du!" The door has been opened. I rush in. I proceed to circle "Husserl," underline "Husker Du," and draw a big, thick double arrow from the former to the latter. Under "Husker Du" I list "Mould," "Hart," and "Norton" on different lines, put a double-underlined "phenomenology" next to "Husserl" and draw an arrow from it to "Mould." "Sugar" (band Mould was in after his brief first solo career) gets put next to "Mould," "Nova Mob" (band Hart was in after his brief solo career) next to "Hart," "chef" (which I hearn Norton had become after leaving Husker Du) next to "Norton," and "Hart" and "Norton" get bracketed with a "}" for no reason in particular.

I stand back, admiring the creation, the students admiring my work as well. They are pleased. I am pleased. A former student says someone should take a picture of it. We go back to talking about absurdity and suicide.