My dog Brando, born in April 1996, died today, May 19, in the early morning hours as I slept next to him.
He was Mary's dog ("Our little boy," she would say), but I inherited him when she passed away in 2001. When I woke up, his snout was turned toward me, touching one of my thighs, as was usual for him: I think he felt reassured that he could feel my body next to his as we slept. Mary got him used to sleeping with us, though I think he preferred to sleep next to me: Mary's chronic respiratory condition would cause her to toss while she slept--Brando knew if I moved it was rare and, for some reason, I was always aware of his position in bed as I slept (though I didn't realize he had died until I woke up this morning).
The late poet William Matthews wrote about the death of a dog in the poem "Loyal": At one point, the speaker notes that he wants to weep "steadily, like an adult, according to the fiction that there is work to be done, and almost inconsolably."
I too want to weep, and not so much for Brando but for myself, for he--and his kin--gave the kind of love few humans can come close to equaling: total love despite the flaws of the loved one.
In my chapbook Braille for the Heart, one of the poems is about Brando. I post it here for the twelve-pound wonder who championed love above all else, who now plays with Mary for eternity--and I feel happy for him and for her.
The Myth of the Happy Family: Canine
If my sick self mumbles a prayer,
a faint adagio of
faith might twitch Brando's
donkey-like ears: If dogs tune in earth-
quakes and Spielberg's alien
Edsels, they can sniff
out God's pizza-bearing messengers
who trod the piss-claimed pathways
of the Village Green
Apartments. No tenant knows what sin
might doom him, but Brando's safe;
he'll respond to that
overdue horn blast with a scrolled turd,
mount the blond neighbor's bitch, and
nose into a bowl
of sleep. For no other beast offers
his broad, out of kilter ribs
to me like Brando;
he'll sidle up like a movie star
and shimmy and pant for that
stark bone of love some
people pocket or misplace or lose
altogether. If grace knocks
like rain, if the first
twister of judgment careens like a
Kearney Bowl modified hard-
top in mud, Brando
will likely yawn, yelp, or pass his own
impolite wind as roofs bloom
and human ledgers
vermilion the flesh-spent vale--it's all
explained with a biblical
blink. And in the Book
of Canine, the sequel stars an in-
ept burglar, his jimmied doors
(as foretold) paw-marked.
--Robert Vasquez
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Notes on Writers and the Teaching of Writing, II.
II.
In Women Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, Joan Didion notes that she learned how to write sentences by reading and analyzing Ernest Hemingway's sentences: "When I was fifteen or sixteen I would type out his stories to learn how the sentences worked" (323). Not surprisingly, Didion, like many others writers, finds Hemingway's direct manner of utterance attractive: "I mean they're perfect sentences. Very direct sentences, smooth rivers, clear water over granite, no sinkholes" (323).
Didion contrasts Hemingway's "clear water over granite" with Henry James' "perfect sentences too, but very indirect, very complicated. Sentences with sinkholes. You could drown in them" (323). For anyone remotely familiar with both authors' works, Didion's use of "smooth rivers" and "sinkholes" seems appropriate: Hemingway's audience awareness is in many ways quite different than James' intended audience--and the authors' mannerisms declare what they value.
Their stylistic mannerisms could be analogous to the two main camps in contemporary poetry and writing in general: The Hemingway camp favors austere language and direct syntax, whereas the James' camp loves lush language and syntactic complexity.
For example, when I consider the poets Philip Levine and Rita Dove, I would have to place them in the Hemingway camp; both create poetry that utilizes the language of everyday discourse and syntax. As for Charles Wright and C. K. Williams, their poetry would definitely fit within the James' camp with its "sinkholes."
Does either camp have an advantage over the other? I would posit that the tribe of Hemingway certainly has a greater degree of what's known as relative readability: Their manner of phrasing, their syntactical constructions, would be less stressful to the average reader when it comes to comprehension. This isn't to say that their poetry is simplistic, though the danger does exist; nevertheless, poetry in the Hemingway camp, at its best, can be compared to the best of Shakespeare and Donne.
But the tribe of James also has an advantage: those "sinkholes" permit stylistic leeway and, quite possibly, greater non-linear introspection; the reader can dive into those sinkholes for brief periods, but the danger involves losing track of the writer's initial linguistic leap or arc, so to speak.
When I consider two poets--among many of my influences--whose works I consciously chose to emulate in terms of stylistic mannerisms, I think I was attracted to both partly because they were good examples of those two camps: Robert Bly and James Dickey.
Bly's poetry has tremendous appeal for me precisely because of his austerity; of course, this could have something to do with his and James Wright's adherence to the "deep image" ethos that somewhat echoes Haiku's emphasis on precision to the point of laser-like rendering at a localized level.
Dickey's work also utilizes imagery, but the welter of imagery and the complex syntactical constructions (the clauses can be overwhelming at times) Dickey infuses and wrings out of each poem has great appeal too: The challenge in Dickey's work is to allow the imagination to roam the cosmos but always come back to the journey's center or "purpose" (a word and concept I'm uncomfortable with when it comes to creative writing) which is often simply to enjoy the linguistic excursion itself: the poet as cartographer mapping out a route to some unknown destination.
For me, both camps have their advantages and their potential pitfalls. For poets and writers, the challenge is to work within those camps--or attempt to intertwine them--and avoid the pitfalls.
In Women Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, Joan Didion notes that she learned how to write sentences by reading and analyzing Ernest Hemingway's sentences: "When I was fifteen or sixteen I would type out his stories to learn how the sentences worked" (323). Not surprisingly, Didion, like many others writers, finds Hemingway's direct manner of utterance attractive: "I mean they're perfect sentences. Very direct sentences, smooth rivers, clear water over granite, no sinkholes" (323).
Didion contrasts Hemingway's "clear water over granite" with Henry James' "perfect sentences too, but very indirect, very complicated. Sentences with sinkholes. You could drown in them" (323). For anyone remotely familiar with both authors' works, Didion's use of "smooth rivers" and "sinkholes" seems appropriate: Hemingway's audience awareness is in many ways quite different than James' intended audience--and the authors' mannerisms declare what they value.
Their stylistic mannerisms could be analogous to the two main camps in contemporary poetry and writing in general: The Hemingway camp favors austere language and direct syntax, whereas the James' camp loves lush language and syntactic complexity.
For example, when I consider the poets Philip Levine and Rita Dove, I would have to place them in the Hemingway camp; both create poetry that utilizes the language of everyday discourse and syntax. As for Charles Wright and C. K. Williams, their poetry would definitely fit within the James' camp with its "sinkholes."
Does either camp have an advantage over the other? I would posit that the tribe of Hemingway certainly has a greater degree of what's known as relative readability: Their manner of phrasing, their syntactical constructions, would be less stressful to the average reader when it comes to comprehension. This isn't to say that their poetry is simplistic, though the danger does exist; nevertheless, poetry in the Hemingway camp, at its best, can be compared to the best of Shakespeare and Donne.
But the tribe of James also has an advantage: those "sinkholes" permit stylistic leeway and, quite possibly, greater non-linear introspection; the reader can dive into those sinkholes for brief periods, but the danger involves losing track of the writer's initial linguistic leap or arc, so to speak.
When I consider two poets--among many of my influences--whose works I consciously chose to emulate in terms of stylistic mannerisms, I think I was attracted to both partly because they were good examples of those two camps: Robert Bly and James Dickey.
Bly's poetry has tremendous appeal for me precisely because of his austerity; of course, this could have something to do with his and James Wright's adherence to the "deep image" ethos that somewhat echoes Haiku's emphasis on precision to the point of laser-like rendering at a localized level.
Dickey's work also utilizes imagery, but the welter of imagery and the complex syntactical constructions (the clauses can be overwhelming at times) Dickey infuses and wrings out of each poem has great appeal too: The challenge in Dickey's work is to allow the imagination to roam the cosmos but always come back to the journey's center or "purpose" (a word and concept I'm uncomfortable with when it comes to creative writing) which is often simply to enjoy the linguistic excursion itself: the poet as cartographer mapping out a route to some unknown destination.
For me, both camps have their advantages and their potential pitfalls. For poets and writers, the challenge is to work within those camps--or attempt to intertwine them--and avoid the pitfalls.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Good News: Eduardo C. Corral has won the Yale Younger Series of Poets Prize
Some of you are aware of Eduardo C. Corral's poetry and his always interesting blog, Lorcaloca. However, what some of you might not be aware of is that Eduardo has just won the Yale Younger Series of Poets Prize. In fact, he is the first Latino ever to win this prestigious first-book award.
Considering the quality of Eduardo's work, I'm not surprised that the final judge selected his manuscript: Kudos to Eduardo and to the Yale Younger Series of Poets Prize organization!
Considering the quality of Eduardo's work, I'm not surprised that the final judge selected his manuscript: Kudos to Eduardo and to the Yale Younger Series of Poets Prize organization!
Monday, February 14, 2011
MFAs are Terminal Degrees (Even at Two-Year Colleges)
Years ago I passed up two opportunities to accept tenure-track professor positions in English/Creative Writing at two universities, in part because I thought I could have an equally positive impact at the community college level (and especially in Tulare County, for the most recent census has noted that nearly 60% of the county's population is "Hispanic"--I much prefer the term Latino); after all, unlike many four-year institutions, two-year colleges literally accept any adult, and that all-inclusive atmosphere has certainly made my classrooms both lively and memorable. Still, both university job offers came partly because I had at least satisfied one common requirement for tenure-track positions at most publicly funded universities: I had earned the appropriate terminal degree, an MFA, in my area of specialization.
But, when I accepted my current position in 1991 (I had never taught at a community college before 1991: my previous teaching posts were at two University of California campuses--and, yes, I did have to "adjust" my expectations and standards), I was the only MFA degree holder regardless of discipline (i.e., creative writing, 2-D or 3-D art, drama/theater arts, etc.) at College of the Sequoias (COS). In contrast, the majority of faculty who teach at two-year colleges have either an MA or an MS degree. In 1991, I was the lone MFA fish in my pond, so to speak, but graduate programs that confer MFAs have since increased dramatically in number; hence, I'm no longer in that position at COS.
However, the same lack of knowledge I first encountered in 1991 about MFA degrees still seems to be the norm at most community colleges--and that sad fact can have serious implications (that involve life-long earnings and even retirement annuities) for those who've earned these terminal degrees that are the equivalent of PhD degrees.
I first became acquainted with the MFA degree when I took my first creative writing workshop at a community college back in the mid 1970s: My creative writing professor had an MFA from the University of California at Irvine. And he made it a point to explain to us why his degree was quite different than those held by the majority of his colleagues: A PhD holder in English literature or composition is primarily a historian or critic or student of a body of work or an area of study, whereas an MFA holder in English is primarily a creator of literature (often poetry or fiction, though drama and creative non-fiction are also gaining currency in graduate writing programs): the PhD recipient explains works of literature or literary theories by others, but the MFA recipient creates works of literature. Essentially, if one takes literature or theory courses, one examines literature by well-known authors; if one takes creative writing workshops, one produces literature that's critiqued by workshop participants and professors.
Consequently, the goals of those earning such terminal degrees are totally different: a PhD candidate studies literature, an MFA candidate produces literature. And every literature course uniformly adheres to one vital aspect: the students' writings never take center stage in their seminars. In contrast, every creative writing workshop emphasizes the students' writings.
The formal coursework for either an MFA or a PhD candidate usually comprises two years of full-time study (most MFA/PhD degree programs require approximately 54-60 semester units beyond the BA level; in contrast, most MA/MS degree programs require approximately 24-30 semester units beyond the BA level); however, some MFA/PhD candidates may opt to lessen their coursework loads in the face of required teaching duties and writing schedules and, thus, take three or even four years to complete their coursework--this depends on a program's protocols and residency requirements. Still, someone who's quite gifted as a student and as a writer could complete an MFA or PhD in as little as two years (but three to five years is a more commonplace time period for some to earn either an MFA or a PhD).
The dissertations/theses for PhD and MFA candidates have one important commonality: they must be book-length works of publishable quality. As for MA/MS theses, they're often 25-40 page articles--and articles are not book-length works. No wonder many MFA and PhD programs give candidates from five to seven years to complete their degrees. In fact, if one examines the unit requirements for many MFA/PhD programs, one will realize that the majority of PhDs take more than three years to complete their degrees because of the time needed to complete their dissertations: again, formal coursework can usually be completed in two years. Given the fact that PhD candidates rarely take courses that focus on evaluating and improving their writing skills, the plethora of ABDs (all but dissertations) should not be surprising: Most PhD candidates are not formally trained as writers of academic non-fiction prose.
And therein lies the advantage of the MFA candidates: Since most completed multiple semesters of creative writing workshop attendance during their undergraduate years, they can easily transition to and indeed flourish under the writing demands placed upon them at the graduate level. As a result, most MFA candidates have no problem completing their book-length works within two to three years. Rare are the MFA candidates who must take five to seven years--unlike some PhD candidates--to complete their books.
The Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) has long promoted the MFA as the appropriate terminal degree to teach creative writing at the college and university level; more importantly, the AWP has steadfastly supported the position that the MFA is the equivalent of the PhD in literature or composition. Not surprisingly, many of us have benefited from studying with tenured professors who earned MFAs; additionally, many MFA holders currently direct or have directed graduate creative writing programs, including Christopher Buckley, Garrett Hongo, Alberto Rios, David St. John, the late Herb Scott--the list of notable poets and writers goes on and on--and a number of MFA recipients have won a myriad of prestigious awards, including the Pulitzer Prize: Rita Dove, Richard Ford, Yusef Komunyakaa, Philip Levine, and Charles Wright are among such recipients. In short, the overwhelming majority of four-year colleges and universities have long accepted the MFA as the appropriate terminal degree that's equivalent to a PhD for tenure-track positions within the fine arts disciplines, but community colleges for whatever reason have been slow to accept or even understand this over half century-long academic standard (the MFA degree in English has existed since the 1940s)--and that lack of knowledge causes some to rhetorically say, "Well, what do you expect at the junior college level?"
That term, junior, carries pejorative connotations, and when I joined the community college arena, I already knew that many who teach at four-year institutions viewed "juco" schools through rather unflattering lenses. I remember one professor in graduate school who was adamant that I should never teach, even part-time, at a community college: "I guarantee you, you'll regret it," he said, his head angled downward as if he were contemplating one of the circles of hell reserved just for those who teach at community colleges. His main concern--for me and others with MFAs--was the complete lack of institutional reward for faculty at the two-year college level when it comes to publishing; moreover, he made what has come to be a somewhat prophetic comment about terminal degrees at community colleges: "At junior colleges, they don't understand that MFAs are similar to PhDs," and that alone should "scare you away from them." He noted that most who teach at "junior" colleges have MA or MS degrees, and he posited that they're "not eager to admit that MFAs are terminal degrees. You'll only threaten them with your MFA, and that won't be good for you or for the students, especially the students." He later explained that students at "junior" colleges aren't assured of having qualified faculty in their creative writing classes since seniority alone oftentimes determines teaching assignments at the two-year college level, not area of specialization which is the academic norm at the four-year college/university level.
He was certainly right about the lack of knowledge about MFA degrees (I recently asked someone who has an MFA if he had heard that MFAs were the equivalent of PhDs, and he answered emphatically, "No!" Ironically, he earned his MFA at a college that notes in their MFA handbook that the MFA is "the equivalent of a PhD"--and the notation is in bold letters. I don't blame this person or anyone else who thinks that MFAs are not equal to PhDs; rather, this just illustrates that even some with MFAs aren't necessarily aware of the terminal degrees they possess).
However, hope bounds eternal, for a nearby community college district, the State Center Community College District (SCCCD), which comprises Fresno City College and Reedley College as well as other centers, has for years recognized the fact that the MFA is the equivalent of a PhD: the SCCCD gives both MFA and PhD holders the same yearly stipend.
If we can figure out that the earth revolves around the sun and not vice versa, we can surely figure out why some degrees are considered "terminal degrees" and accepted as equivalents to PhD degrees at the vast majority of publicly funded universities; once enlightened, we can use that knowledge accordingly at the community college level and equally recognize and reward those who've earned terminal degrees.
But, when I accepted my current position in 1991 (I had never taught at a community college before 1991: my previous teaching posts were at two University of California campuses--and, yes, I did have to "adjust" my expectations and standards), I was the only MFA degree holder regardless of discipline (i.e., creative writing, 2-D or 3-D art, drama/theater arts, etc.) at College of the Sequoias (COS). In contrast, the majority of faculty who teach at two-year colleges have either an MA or an MS degree. In 1991, I was the lone MFA fish in my pond, so to speak, but graduate programs that confer MFAs have since increased dramatically in number; hence, I'm no longer in that position at COS.
However, the same lack of knowledge I first encountered in 1991 about MFA degrees still seems to be the norm at most community colleges--and that sad fact can have serious implications (that involve life-long earnings and even retirement annuities) for those who've earned these terminal degrees that are the equivalent of PhD degrees.
I first became acquainted with the MFA degree when I took my first creative writing workshop at a community college back in the mid 1970s: My creative writing professor had an MFA from the University of California at Irvine. And he made it a point to explain to us why his degree was quite different than those held by the majority of his colleagues: A PhD holder in English literature or composition is primarily a historian or critic or student of a body of work or an area of study, whereas an MFA holder in English is primarily a creator of literature (often poetry or fiction, though drama and creative non-fiction are also gaining currency in graduate writing programs): the PhD recipient explains works of literature or literary theories by others, but the MFA recipient creates works of literature. Essentially, if one takes literature or theory courses, one examines literature by well-known authors; if one takes creative writing workshops, one produces literature that's critiqued by workshop participants and professors.
Consequently, the goals of those earning such terminal degrees are totally different: a PhD candidate studies literature, an MFA candidate produces literature. And every literature course uniformly adheres to one vital aspect: the students' writings never take center stage in their seminars. In contrast, every creative writing workshop emphasizes the students' writings.
The formal coursework for either an MFA or a PhD candidate usually comprises two years of full-time study (most MFA/PhD degree programs require approximately 54-60 semester units beyond the BA level; in contrast, most MA/MS degree programs require approximately 24-30 semester units beyond the BA level); however, some MFA/PhD candidates may opt to lessen their coursework loads in the face of required teaching duties and writing schedules and, thus, take three or even four years to complete their coursework--this depends on a program's protocols and residency requirements. Still, someone who's quite gifted as a student and as a writer could complete an MFA or PhD in as little as two years (but three to five years is a more commonplace time period for some to earn either an MFA or a PhD).
The dissertations/theses for PhD and MFA candidates have one important commonality: they must be book-length works of publishable quality. As for MA/MS theses, they're often 25-40 page articles--and articles are not book-length works. No wonder many MFA and PhD programs give candidates from five to seven years to complete their degrees. In fact, if one examines the unit requirements for many MFA/PhD programs, one will realize that the majority of PhDs take more than three years to complete their degrees because of the time needed to complete their dissertations: again, formal coursework can usually be completed in two years. Given the fact that PhD candidates rarely take courses that focus on evaluating and improving their writing skills, the plethora of ABDs (all but dissertations) should not be surprising: Most PhD candidates are not formally trained as writers of academic non-fiction prose.
And therein lies the advantage of the MFA candidates: Since most completed multiple semesters of creative writing workshop attendance during their undergraduate years, they can easily transition to and indeed flourish under the writing demands placed upon them at the graduate level. As a result, most MFA candidates have no problem completing their book-length works within two to three years. Rare are the MFA candidates who must take five to seven years--unlike some PhD candidates--to complete their books.
The Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) has long promoted the MFA as the appropriate terminal degree to teach creative writing at the college and university level; more importantly, the AWP has steadfastly supported the position that the MFA is the equivalent of the PhD in literature or composition. Not surprisingly, many of us have benefited from studying with tenured professors who earned MFAs; additionally, many MFA holders currently direct or have directed graduate creative writing programs, including Christopher Buckley, Garrett Hongo, Alberto Rios, David St. John, the late Herb Scott--the list of notable poets and writers goes on and on--and a number of MFA recipients have won a myriad of prestigious awards, including the Pulitzer Prize: Rita Dove, Richard Ford, Yusef Komunyakaa, Philip Levine, and Charles Wright are among such recipients. In short, the overwhelming majority of four-year colleges and universities have long accepted the MFA as the appropriate terminal degree that's equivalent to a PhD for tenure-track positions within the fine arts disciplines, but community colleges for whatever reason have been slow to accept or even understand this over half century-long academic standard (the MFA degree in English has existed since the 1940s)--and that lack of knowledge causes some to rhetorically say, "Well, what do you expect at the junior college level?"
That term, junior, carries pejorative connotations, and when I joined the community college arena, I already knew that many who teach at four-year institutions viewed "juco" schools through rather unflattering lenses. I remember one professor in graduate school who was adamant that I should never teach, even part-time, at a community college: "I guarantee you, you'll regret it," he said, his head angled downward as if he were contemplating one of the circles of hell reserved just for those who teach at community colleges. His main concern--for me and others with MFAs--was the complete lack of institutional reward for faculty at the two-year college level when it comes to publishing; moreover, he made what has come to be a somewhat prophetic comment about terminal degrees at community colleges: "At junior colleges, they don't understand that MFAs are similar to PhDs," and that alone should "scare you away from them." He noted that most who teach at "junior" colleges have MA or MS degrees, and he posited that they're "not eager to admit that MFAs are terminal degrees. You'll only threaten them with your MFA, and that won't be good for you or for the students, especially the students." He later explained that students at "junior" colleges aren't assured of having qualified faculty in their creative writing classes since seniority alone oftentimes determines teaching assignments at the two-year college level, not area of specialization which is the academic norm at the four-year college/university level.
He was certainly right about the lack of knowledge about MFA degrees (I recently asked someone who has an MFA if he had heard that MFAs were the equivalent of PhDs, and he answered emphatically, "No!" Ironically, he earned his MFA at a college that notes in their MFA handbook that the MFA is "the equivalent of a PhD"--and the notation is in bold letters. I don't blame this person or anyone else who thinks that MFAs are not equal to PhDs; rather, this just illustrates that even some with MFAs aren't necessarily aware of the terminal degrees they possess).
However, hope bounds eternal, for a nearby community college district, the State Center Community College District (SCCCD), which comprises Fresno City College and Reedley College as well as other centers, has for years recognized the fact that the MFA is the equivalent of a PhD: the SCCCD gives both MFA and PhD holders the same yearly stipend.
If we can figure out that the earth revolves around the sun and not vice versa, we can surely figure out why some degrees are considered "terminal degrees" and accepted as equivalents to PhD degrees at the vast majority of publicly funded universities; once enlightened, we can use that knowledge accordingly at the community college level and equally recognize and reward those who've earned terminal degrees.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Satan's Billboards
Along a stretch of Highway 198 just west of Hanford, CA, a billboard proclaims a message supposedly from Satan (he asks people to avoid a certain religious group). Obviously, Lucifer didn't pay for the outdoor space, but the idea of the most famous of all fallen angels utilizing advertising to sway the populace seems appropriate when one considers the angry, blame-oriented tenor of the times.
Lucifer would certainly like a billboard that says, "Don't worry about your neighbor's welfare: Worry about yourself." Preoccupation with one's situation is something every human who once breathed on the planet could understand; even primordial man, hunkered down next to his weakening fire as the rain soaked the world outside his cave, would have been acutely aware of his plight: "Where will I find dry stuff to burn to keep away the cold and the beasts?"
Many in this country have no such immediate concerns, but the homeless can empathize with such vulnerability; not far from the neighborhood of my childhood in Fresno, dozens of ramshackle tents and cardboard and wood scrap constructions line the asphalt of what was once a bridge from California Street to Van Ness Avenue. The kids called that area "The Hill" and we would ride our bikes down those bridges that rose over the railroad tracks and the nearby Fresno Rescue Mission where "the men of the road" could find a meal and a bed if there was room. Now entire families inhabit that area and must fight poverty, drug addiction, violence--and our nation's collective apathy for their lives.
One of Satan's billboards would surely pronounce, "Apathy is good: To hell with the other guy. If you give him some money, he'll waste it on drink or drugs." Rationalization has a way of dulling the soul to the point of maladjusted pride: "Whenever one of those people asks me for money, I say, 'Get a job!' Jesus!" The irony of such an exclamation is profound, for Jesus would have never rationalized turning away from even the least of his fellow man or woman or child. Yet, millions daily turn away and think they're championing some kind of moral ethic, though if one logically analyzes such a response (to deny someone aid), one would ultimately have to admit that Satan would embrace such an ethos.
Satan's billboards could be direct:
"Don't extend tax cuts unless the wealthy are included too."
"Overturn legislation that gives the poor and the working classes health care."
"Don't spend your taxes on the general masses: That's socialism and communism."
"Privatize all social services: Don't waste money on others."
Now don't get yourself riled up if you agree with the previous statements; however, seriously ask yourself one question: "Would Satan or Jesus support such positions?" If you think Jesus' teachings support such anti-human thinking, please let me know the title, chapter, and verse of the text you've been reading if you consider yourself a Christian.
But Satan's billboards could also be subtle:
"All white or mostly all white juries and hiring committees and neighborhoods don't harm anyone."
"Support the police: They know who to stop."
"Let's take back America!"
Implicit in those statements are those who will be considered guilty until proven innocent, those people of color who won't secure employment even though they're highly qualified, those who will grow up in segregated areas--and even cultivate segregated adult lives--and be conditioned to fear diversity or be intolerant to difference, those who will be wrongfully stopped, and those who will be scapegoated for most of the ills in America.
And in a country where few are trained in or possess critical thinking skills, Satan would appreciate the ultimate effect of such billboards: They work.
Lucifer would certainly like a billboard that says, "Don't worry about your neighbor's welfare: Worry about yourself." Preoccupation with one's situation is something every human who once breathed on the planet could understand; even primordial man, hunkered down next to his weakening fire as the rain soaked the world outside his cave, would have been acutely aware of his plight: "Where will I find dry stuff to burn to keep away the cold and the beasts?"
Many in this country have no such immediate concerns, but the homeless can empathize with such vulnerability; not far from the neighborhood of my childhood in Fresno, dozens of ramshackle tents and cardboard and wood scrap constructions line the asphalt of what was once a bridge from California Street to Van Ness Avenue. The kids called that area "The Hill" and we would ride our bikes down those bridges that rose over the railroad tracks and the nearby Fresno Rescue Mission where "the men of the road" could find a meal and a bed if there was room. Now entire families inhabit that area and must fight poverty, drug addiction, violence--and our nation's collective apathy for their lives.
One of Satan's billboards would surely pronounce, "Apathy is good: To hell with the other guy. If you give him some money, he'll waste it on drink or drugs." Rationalization has a way of dulling the soul to the point of maladjusted pride: "Whenever one of those people asks me for money, I say, 'Get a job!' Jesus!" The irony of such an exclamation is profound, for Jesus would have never rationalized turning away from even the least of his fellow man or woman or child. Yet, millions daily turn away and think they're championing some kind of moral ethic, though if one logically analyzes such a response (to deny someone aid), one would ultimately have to admit that Satan would embrace such an ethos.
Satan's billboards could be direct:
"Don't extend tax cuts unless the wealthy are included too."
"Overturn legislation that gives the poor and the working classes health care."
"Don't spend your taxes on the general masses: That's socialism and communism."
"Privatize all social services: Don't waste money on others."
Now don't get yourself riled up if you agree with the previous statements; however, seriously ask yourself one question: "Would Satan or Jesus support such positions?" If you think Jesus' teachings support such anti-human thinking, please let me know the title, chapter, and verse of the text you've been reading if you consider yourself a Christian.
But Satan's billboards could also be subtle:
"All white or mostly all white juries and hiring committees and neighborhoods don't harm anyone."
"Support the police: They know who to stop."
"Let's take back America!"
Implicit in those statements are those who will be considered guilty until proven innocent, those people of color who won't secure employment even though they're highly qualified, those who will grow up in segregated areas--and even cultivate segregated adult lives--and be conditioned to fear diversity or be intolerant to difference, those who will be wrongfully stopped, and those who will be scapegoated for most of the ills in America.
And in a country where few are trained in or possess critical thinking skills, Satan would appreciate the ultimate effect of such billboards: They work.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
America's Dysfunctional Soul
With each election cycle, the American populace is literally pummeled by political advertisements that often promote greed, hatred, selfishness, and xenophobia--and done so with ever-increasing degrees of mean spiritedness. We've strayed so far from John Kennedy's inaugural plea for altruism ("Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country") that many people don't even know what the term altruism means.
When I consider another term that is bandied about by political candidates and pundits like a beach ball, Christianity, I fear for America's soul, for our public policies at times are antithetical to any of Christ's teachings. Of course, the founders of this country wanted a separation between church and state, but that doesn't prevent politicians from espousing so-called "Christian values" even though one would be hard-pressed to find any reference in Christ's teachings that greed is good, that one should promote hatred for those who don't share your opinions or who are different or "illegal," that selfishness is better than selflessness--I'm puzzled as to which New Testament some politicians supposedly adhere to when they claim to be Christians. I do know that the Bible has over 3,000 references directing us to help the poor, but I can't find any stipulation that corporations and the wealthy should receive corporate welfare or "subsidies."
If the poet John Keats correctly noted that the world is a "vale of soul making," America is in a vale of soul destroying.
For example, some want to overturn what they call "Obama Care" as if Congress' constitutional duty to care for "the general welfare" of the populace doesn't include health care. Most industrialized nations of the world provide public health care just as they provide for police and fire services: They are public goods that benefit all and aren't driven by a for profit ethos. In contrast, wealthy people throughout the world can always afford quality health care regardless of the countries in which they live; they can always fly to the best clinics with no concern for costs. Imagine, for a moment, if health care was paid for by our taxes in the same way we collectively pay for police and fire services. Imagine how much less our health care costs would be since the profit motive to provide such services would no longer exist. Let me use an analogy: Which are more expensive, public schools or private schools? Most private K-12 schools require at least $500 a month in tuition ($5,000 a year in tuition--some charge far more) per pupil, yet no one pays $5,000 a year in federal and state taxes just to send one child to a public K-12 school.
When costs for public services--with no for profit emphasis--are widely distributed and shouldered by everyone, costs go down, not up. For example, the city of Los Angeles has a city-owned utility, The Department of Water and Power (DWP); municipal bonds are the primary resource to pay for its operation. Los Angeles residents uniformly pay less in water and power costs when compared to those who pay Southern California Edison (SCE) or Pacific Gas & Electric (PG&E) companies, which are for profit entities, for their water, natural gas, and electricity needs. If Los Angeles' DWP raises its rates, it does so because of rising costs necessary to provide services; as for SCE and PG&E, they must raise rates in part because their stockholders want to make more profits.
Even if we eventually have publicly funded health care, insurance companies will never go away, so one need not worry about them; they'll always do business insuring lives, homes, automobiles, and personal property. And what about medical professionals who want to earn as much money as possible to provide for their families? Hopefully, those who become medical care-givers do so because they have a personal desire to care for others, just as many police officers, firefighters, and educators look to their professions as a means of aiding others. If one is truly motivated by greed, Wall Street brokerage firms and banking institutions are notorious magnets for those so inclined. (Imagine if the recent bailouts went to pay off late mortgage payments and high interest credit card balances instead of providing financial conglomerates the ability to hand out huge bonuses that are often larger than the incomes many people earn in a lifetime: That kind of individual citizen-centered bailout would have truly stimulated our economy by reducing individual debt while still helping financial institutions that issued those mortgages and credit cards.)
Many spiritual texts emphasize love and compassion for fellow human beings, and one way societies have implemented such a directive is via communal programs paid for by taxes. Taxes pay for a myriad of things we take for granted: roads and highways, public schools, college and vocational student grants, housing loan programs, traffic control and street lights, flood control systems and sewage treatment facilities--even the electricity we get from private companies could not have become a commonplace phenomenon had it not been for electrification projects paid for by tax dollars (any good American history text will make clear how various government-initiated, tax-payer funded programs have resulted in the nationwide infrastructure we use on a daily basis).
Nevertheless, politicians have promoted the notion that taxes are evil and hinder your ability to live a fruitful life. Consequently, the common mantras are "no new taxes" and "tax breaks for all." But what if you had to build or repave the roads you personally use because substantial tax reductions wipe out funds for such improvements? What if you had to pay for every time you needed police service or fire department help? What if you had to pay 50% down to buy a home and had only 5-10 years to pay off the remaining mortgage? (Historian and author Stephanie Coontz notes in her essay "A Nation of Welfare Families" that this was the standard home purchasing protocol prior to the creation of the Federal Housing Authority, Fannie Mae, and Ginnie Mae when the federal government went into the business of insuring and backing housing loans.) What if you had to pay for tuition to send your child to a private K-12 school because public schools could no longer accommodate all school-age children due to reduced tax revenues?
Taxes might make us wince when we see the net results of our take-home earnings, but taxes also insure that we can expect certain public services that we wouldn't want to be denied. More importantly, those who make millions each year should pay a minimum amount of taxes every year despite all of the loopholes they currently utilize: Who would feel sorry for someone who makes millions of dollars a year--or even one million dollars a year--and would have to pay at least half of his or her earnings in taxes? I wouldn't feel sorry for someone who would have to live on $500,000 a year--who would? If I were in a position to make millions each year, I wouldn't feel somehow less of a human being if half of my income went to help the general populace; if anything, I would feel good that I'm helping to reduce the taxes of those whose incomes are far less than mine (remember "Ask not what your country can do for you..."?) while improving and sustaining the country's infrastructure.
Keats was right: The world is a "vale of soul making." Instead of scapegoating the poor, the undocumented, and the unionized workers in this country (unions came about largely because of greedy business owners who didn't care about the working conditions, health, and welfare of their poorly paid employees), we need to realize that our country's soul depends upon our collective ability to integrate our spiritual awareness into our public policy awareness. If we're truly committed to "acknowledge Him in all thy ways" (and I'm fairly sure all means all), we must incorporate altruism in every aspect of our lives, including our political lives and our public policies.
When I consider another term that is bandied about by political candidates and pundits like a beach ball, Christianity, I fear for America's soul, for our public policies at times are antithetical to any of Christ's teachings. Of course, the founders of this country wanted a separation between church and state, but that doesn't prevent politicians from espousing so-called "Christian values" even though one would be hard-pressed to find any reference in Christ's teachings that greed is good, that one should promote hatred for those who don't share your opinions or who are different or "illegal," that selfishness is better than selflessness--I'm puzzled as to which New Testament some politicians supposedly adhere to when they claim to be Christians. I do know that the Bible has over 3,000 references directing us to help the poor, but I can't find any stipulation that corporations and the wealthy should receive corporate welfare or "subsidies."
If the poet John Keats correctly noted that the world is a "vale of soul making," America is in a vale of soul destroying.
For example, some want to overturn what they call "Obama Care" as if Congress' constitutional duty to care for "the general welfare" of the populace doesn't include health care. Most industrialized nations of the world provide public health care just as they provide for police and fire services: They are public goods that benefit all and aren't driven by a for profit ethos. In contrast, wealthy people throughout the world can always afford quality health care regardless of the countries in which they live; they can always fly to the best clinics with no concern for costs. Imagine, for a moment, if health care was paid for by our taxes in the same way we collectively pay for police and fire services. Imagine how much less our health care costs would be since the profit motive to provide such services would no longer exist. Let me use an analogy: Which are more expensive, public schools or private schools? Most private K-12 schools require at least $500 a month in tuition ($5,000 a year in tuition--some charge far more) per pupil, yet no one pays $5,000 a year in federal and state taxes just to send one child to a public K-12 school.
When costs for public services--with no for profit emphasis--are widely distributed and shouldered by everyone, costs go down, not up. For example, the city of Los Angeles has a city-owned utility, The Department of Water and Power (DWP); municipal bonds are the primary resource to pay for its operation. Los Angeles residents uniformly pay less in water and power costs when compared to those who pay Southern California Edison (SCE) or Pacific Gas & Electric (PG&E) companies, which are for profit entities, for their water, natural gas, and electricity needs. If Los Angeles' DWP raises its rates, it does so because of rising costs necessary to provide services; as for SCE and PG&E, they must raise rates in part because their stockholders want to make more profits.
Even if we eventually have publicly funded health care, insurance companies will never go away, so one need not worry about them; they'll always do business insuring lives, homes, automobiles, and personal property. And what about medical professionals who want to earn as much money as possible to provide for their families? Hopefully, those who become medical care-givers do so because they have a personal desire to care for others, just as many police officers, firefighters, and educators look to their professions as a means of aiding others. If one is truly motivated by greed, Wall Street brokerage firms and banking institutions are notorious magnets for those so inclined. (Imagine if the recent bailouts went to pay off late mortgage payments and high interest credit card balances instead of providing financial conglomerates the ability to hand out huge bonuses that are often larger than the incomes many people earn in a lifetime: That kind of individual citizen-centered bailout would have truly stimulated our economy by reducing individual debt while still helping financial institutions that issued those mortgages and credit cards.)
Many spiritual texts emphasize love and compassion for fellow human beings, and one way societies have implemented such a directive is via communal programs paid for by taxes. Taxes pay for a myriad of things we take for granted: roads and highways, public schools, college and vocational student grants, housing loan programs, traffic control and street lights, flood control systems and sewage treatment facilities--even the electricity we get from private companies could not have become a commonplace phenomenon had it not been for electrification projects paid for by tax dollars (any good American history text will make clear how various government-initiated, tax-payer funded programs have resulted in the nationwide infrastructure we use on a daily basis).
Nevertheless, politicians have promoted the notion that taxes are evil and hinder your ability to live a fruitful life. Consequently, the common mantras are "no new taxes" and "tax breaks for all." But what if you had to build or repave the roads you personally use because substantial tax reductions wipe out funds for such improvements? What if you had to pay for every time you needed police service or fire department help? What if you had to pay 50% down to buy a home and had only 5-10 years to pay off the remaining mortgage? (Historian and author Stephanie Coontz notes in her essay "A Nation of Welfare Families" that this was the standard home purchasing protocol prior to the creation of the Federal Housing Authority, Fannie Mae, and Ginnie Mae when the federal government went into the business of insuring and backing housing loans.) What if you had to pay for tuition to send your child to a private K-12 school because public schools could no longer accommodate all school-age children due to reduced tax revenues?
Taxes might make us wince when we see the net results of our take-home earnings, but taxes also insure that we can expect certain public services that we wouldn't want to be denied. More importantly, those who make millions each year should pay a minimum amount of taxes every year despite all of the loopholes they currently utilize: Who would feel sorry for someone who makes millions of dollars a year--or even one million dollars a year--and would have to pay at least half of his or her earnings in taxes? I wouldn't feel sorry for someone who would have to live on $500,000 a year--who would? If I were in a position to make millions each year, I wouldn't feel somehow less of a human being if half of my income went to help the general populace; if anything, I would feel good that I'm helping to reduce the taxes of those whose incomes are far less than mine (remember "Ask not what your country can do for you..."?) while improving and sustaining the country's infrastructure.
Keats was right: The world is a "vale of soul making." Instead of scapegoating the poor, the undocumented, and the unionized workers in this country (unions came about largely because of greedy business owners who didn't care about the working conditions, health, and welfare of their poorly paid employees), we need to realize that our country's soul depends upon our collective ability to integrate our spiritual awareness into our public policy awareness. If we're truly committed to "acknowledge Him in all thy ways" (and I'm fairly sure all means all), we must incorporate altruism in every aspect of our lives, including our political lives and our public policies.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Notes on Writers and the Teaching of Writing, I.
I.
Those of us who've been formally trained as writers, who've been the beneficiaries of writing workshops taught by respected practitioners who discuss issues of craft line by line, syllable by syllable, often have to witness or tolerate naive notions about writing and the teaching of writing; such naivete is a constant emanation from colleagues in the teaching ranks or from administrators or even from students who "profess" to know what works best to help students become better writers.
But that last word, writers, is a major irritation because of its broad umbrella, for those of us who've spent a large part of our student and adult years actually working at becoming writers--to the point of publishing, winning awards, and/or accepting visiting or tenured positions as writers in academe--are quite different than the majority of students and composition instructors whose formal coursework didn't help them become writers who publish or win acclaim as poets, fiction writers, or non-fiction writers.
The vast majority of composition instructors aren't trained as writers per se; rather, they are trained either as literary theorists/historians/critics or as teachers of composition (they take courses mainly in composition pedagogy and theory: they learn certain protocols or methods to utilize in a classroom, such as peer-editing, holistic grading, computer-assisted instruction, journal writing or "free" writing exercises, and other non-craft-oriented teaching methods and theories). True, they do write papers, but so do students in sociology, history, and math classes. To use an analogy, music appreciation or art history instructors are trained in specific histories or theories that correspond to various musical pieces or artworks or composers/artists, but they aren't trained to become creators of music or art. But when educational institutions look for faculty to teach piano or 2-D/3-D art classes, they don't look for music appreciation or art history degree holders; rather, they look for well-educated practitioners who've dedicated years to learning their respective crafts. In short, they look for people who can do and teach.
In fact, English departments rarely require composition applicants to even demonstrate their writing skills, let alone require in-depth training as writers. For most faculty members on hiring committees, the only document they look at to determine if one has some facility with written discourse is the dreaded letter of application--not the best piece of evidence when one considers how such letters must address various job announcement criteria, and I wouldn't be surprised if some composition applicants seek out the help of professional resume writers and services to help them fine tune such documents.
As a result, teachers of composition often aren't publishing, award-winning practitioners in any genre, yet they supposedly can teach writing despite their relative lack of training as craftspeople. No wonder some institutions rely on group portfolio programs, holistic grading, and "norming" sessions for their composition faculty--which is quite unheard of among those who teach creative writing workshops: I've yet to come across a well-trained, publishing poet or fiction writer who says he or she needs norming because he or she has doubts about "standards" or "learning outcomes" or "craft concerns." How absurd! I can't imagine Phil Levine or Pete Everwine or Mike Ryan or Terry Hummer or Jim McMichael or Ken Fields or Cynthia Huntington or Simone DiPiero or the late Denise Levertov saying to themselves, "Gee, I don't know what to say about this piece of writing--I should ask my colleagues for help!" Of course,
I wouldn't expect them to hold the same opinions about different pieces of literature, for art by necessity constantly evolves; to paraphrase Terry Hummer, purity in art simply doesn't exist: all art is impure. Writing, like painting and music, is not a hard science, yet the communal need for "norming" sessions among some composition teachers illustrates a definite communal lack of expertise. And that lack does not bode well for composition students.
When we use the term writer, we should delineate between academic, non-publishing, temporary "writers" found in most classrooms (most students and, sadly, many teachers fall into this group) as opposed to writers like William Carlos Williams or Octavio Paz or Cynthia Ozick; the former as a group generally writes for a grade or a position and often does so in a rather hurried, mechanical manner, whereas the latter and their peers, past and present, write for eternity--and eternity is the harshest of critics and isn't pressed for time.
Those of us who've been formally trained as writers, who've been the beneficiaries of writing workshops taught by respected practitioners who discuss issues of craft line by line, syllable by syllable, often have to witness or tolerate naive notions about writing and the teaching of writing; such naivete is a constant emanation from colleagues in the teaching ranks or from administrators or even from students who "profess" to know what works best to help students become better writers.
But that last word, writers, is a major irritation because of its broad umbrella, for those of us who've spent a large part of our student and adult years actually working at becoming writers--to the point of publishing, winning awards, and/or accepting visiting or tenured positions as writers in academe--are quite different than the majority of students and composition instructors whose formal coursework didn't help them become writers who publish or win acclaim as poets, fiction writers, or non-fiction writers.
The vast majority of composition instructors aren't trained as writers per se; rather, they are trained either as literary theorists/historians/critics or as teachers of composition (they take courses mainly in composition pedagogy and theory: they learn certain protocols or methods to utilize in a classroom, such as peer-editing, holistic grading, computer-assisted instruction, journal writing or "free" writing exercises, and other non-craft-oriented teaching methods and theories). True, they do write papers, but so do students in sociology, history, and math classes. To use an analogy, music appreciation or art history instructors are trained in specific histories or theories that correspond to various musical pieces or artworks or composers/artists, but they aren't trained to become creators of music or art. But when educational institutions look for faculty to teach piano or 2-D/3-D art classes, they don't look for music appreciation or art history degree holders; rather, they look for well-educated practitioners who've dedicated years to learning their respective crafts. In short, they look for people who can do and teach.
In fact, English departments rarely require composition applicants to even demonstrate their writing skills, let alone require in-depth training as writers. For most faculty members on hiring committees, the only document they look at to determine if one has some facility with written discourse is the dreaded letter of application--not the best piece of evidence when one considers how such letters must address various job announcement criteria, and I wouldn't be surprised if some composition applicants seek out the help of professional resume writers and services to help them fine tune such documents.
As a result, teachers of composition often aren't publishing, award-winning practitioners in any genre, yet they supposedly can teach writing despite their relative lack of training as craftspeople. No wonder some institutions rely on group portfolio programs, holistic grading, and "norming" sessions for their composition faculty--which is quite unheard of among those who teach creative writing workshops: I've yet to come across a well-trained, publishing poet or fiction writer who says he or she needs norming because he or she has doubts about "standards" or "learning outcomes" or "craft concerns." How absurd! I can't imagine Phil Levine or Pete Everwine or Mike Ryan or Terry Hummer or Jim McMichael or Ken Fields or Cynthia Huntington or Simone DiPiero or the late Denise Levertov saying to themselves, "Gee, I don't know what to say about this piece of writing--I should ask my colleagues for help!" Of course,
I wouldn't expect them to hold the same opinions about different pieces of literature, for art by necessity constantly evolves; to paraphrase Terry Hummer, purity in art simply doesn't exist: all art is impure. Writing, like painting and music, is not a hard science, yet the communal need for "norming" sessions among some composition teachers illustrates a definite communal lack of expertise. And that lack does not bode well for composition students.
When we use the term writer, we should delineate between academic, non-publishing, temporary "writers" found in most classrooms (most students and, sadly, many teachers fall into this group) as opposed to writers like William Carlos Williams or Octavio Paz or Cynthia Ozick; the former as a group generally writes for a grade or a position and often does so in a rather hurried, mechanical manner, whereas the latter and their peers, past and present, write for eternity--and eternity is the harshest of critics and isn't pressed for time.
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