Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Open Letter #4, to my future reading students

The department wants me to teach you the difference between fact and opinion.  Here's your first fact: I don't know how to teach you this.  Here's your first opinion: Parsing statements into dichotomous categories like fact and opinion muddies truth and shuts down the mind.

I am supposed to tell you that a fact is knowledge or information based on real occurrences; that it is an event, thing, or experience that can be verified; that it is indisputable.  And you will say, as past students have said, "Oh, fact just means truth," like you've had an epiphany, and I will slam down my dry-erase marker on the desk and shout, "No, no, no!  Don't write that down!" because you will already be scribbling Fact = Truth as if it is this simple.

Then I will tell you all to write down the facts of what just occurred.  JUST THE FACTS.  You will look around the room nervously (which I will discern by the amount of white exposed in your eyes).  Some of you will lick your lips or clear your throat.  But after a few ticks, you will press your pens and pencils to paper because it is a fact that you want to show that you can do this or that you want to pass the class or that you have nothing better to do or that you generally do what you are told.

After a minute or so, one of you will say, "You slammed your marker on the desk."  You will be almost smug when you say this, and some of your peers will give you small smiles or nearly imperceptible nods because they wrote something similar, and others will already know not to trust me, and they will be staring not at you but at me, at the points of my teeth.

"Did I?" I'll ask, staring at you until you turn your eyes down.

But I will press you because I want the truth.

"How do you figure?"

At this point, no one will look at me.  I will have to play the nice-guy just so someone will say something.  "I'm not saying you're wrong.  I'm saying you gotta show your work."

"We all saw it!" one of you will say, trying not to shout.

You have just complicated matters.  You have no idea how much.

"Hold that thought," I'll say, rubbing my temple because the weight of our task is bearing down on me.

"Let me clarify," I'll say.  "Did I slam down the marker?  What does slam mean?"

The sound of a backpack unzipping will fill the air as one of you, probably an A-student, reaches for a dictionary.  "Slam," you'll read.  "To put, throw, or otherwise forcefully move so as to produce a loud noise."

"What's a loud noise?" I'll ask.  And then I'll stomp my foot, startling you.  "Is that a loud noise?"  I'll yank the projector screen down.  "Is that?"  I'll find an audio clip of a bomb going off and play it at maximum volume through the room's speakers.  "Is that?"  I'll bring the marker down on the desk again, and its sound will barely register against the bang of the bomb.

"Let's move on," I'll say.  And you will hate me for not giving you the answer, but we have to discuss what you think you saw.

"Does this marker exist?" I'll say, holding it out in front of me so everyone can see.

You are almost too annoyed to respond.

"Yes or no," I'll demand.

"Yesss," you'll hiss.

I will move the marker behind my back, slowly, like a sloppy magician.  "Does it exist now?"

You will think I'm being condescending or silly, playing peek-a-boo with you like you might play with your babies or your dog.

"Um, it's behind your back," one of you will say, smirking, and many of you will snicker.

"Does. It. Exist," I'll repeat, not deterred.

"Yes. It. Does," you'll mimic.  And one of you, anxious to move on, will say, "We saw it."

"But you don't see it now," I'll say.  "So how do you know it's real?  What made it real when I was holding it in front of you?  Was it?  What makes something real?"

"When it's outside of you, when you can see it," you'll say, and I'll tell you your love isn't real, and you'll backpedal but some of you will wonder if that's true, and I will have touched some childhood wounds, and you will forget the marker as you remember your mother or your father or someone else or the space where he or she should have been.

I will lecture you on Descartes.  I will remind you of classic children's stories, Pinocchio, The Velveteen Rabbit.  Some of you will write frantically, trying to capture every word I say.  Others of you will still be thinking about love.  Some of you will be red in the face, angry that I would suggest love is not real, that I would put love in the same category as the word slam, as a stinky dry-erase marker.

"I'd like to move on," I'll write on the board with my questionably existent marker.  "Fact?  Or opinion?"

"Fact," you will say.

When I say nothing, you will revise your answer.  "Opinion."

When I stare at you blankly, you will grit your teeth, and the sound will be a fact and will express an opinion.

"Go home," I'll say.  "Watch the news.  Watch The History Channel.  Read some philosophy.  Meditate.  Talk to your children.  Play with your dogs.  Sit outside and let the air carry you forward and back.  We'll try again next class."

2 comments:

  1. There were parts to this that made me laugh out loud. Really. And that is rare for me.

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    1. Ha! Thank you for sharing that. I wasn't sure how many people would get that this piece is supposed to be funny. But also poignant...so so poignant...deep...like Descartes...

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