• Notes on Semiotic Mediation, Inner Speech and the Formation of Intimate Aspects of Identity

    Figured Worlds are the cultural spaces in which we as individuals participate. Through our participation, we begin to define ourselves and the worlds we inhabit. Upon entering the world, and overtime, we learn the rules of the “game” ala Vygotsky, eventually internalizing the rules well enough to improvise our moves within the allowed parameters of the world. Eventually we have inculcated the figured world to such an extent that we no longer think about the game, but have become the game.
    I wonder at what point we stop being thinking agents in the figured world and when do we become so enmeshed in the culture of the figured world that we are controlled more by the unspoken aspects of the world than we are improvising agents in that world? Much of the concept of figured worlds reminds me of James Gee’s view of tacit and implicit ideologies. Everyone functions with/in an ideology, it is either an unacknowledged ideology (tacit), or acknowledged ideology (implicit). But no matter which one is in place, the ideology determines the kind of discourse that can take place. The same is true for figured worlds. We define ourselves, and are defined by, the worlds we have entered, or where we have been placed, either as an active participant, as the older members of the AA meetings discussed in Holland, or as hesitant/resistant members as some of the girls in the chapter on romance in Holland. Of course, we create our inner selves with the socially allowed discourses. As Mead wrote, “The mechanism of introspetion is therefore give in the social attitude which man necessarily assumes toward himself, and the mechanism of thought, in so far as thought uses symbols which are used in social intercourse, is but an inner conversation” (Mead 1913, p.377).
    I do wonder how consciously the members of the AA group refigured their narratives to better fit the normative/normalizing narrative to better follow the palimpsest laid down originally in “The Big Book.” Does a person change to enter into a figured world or is he absorbed into the collective, changed by the figured world he is entering? Or perhaps both at the same time; the changer and the change shifting positions in an on going reciprocal relationship.
    Jean-Paul Sartre’s description of the waiter as only being the waiter when he is in the act of waiting on tables, or Martin Heidegger’s hammer is only a hammer when it is being used as a hammer comes to mind, as well, when I read about figured worlds. A person’s existence is made manifest through her action in the world from an existential viewpoint; whereas, the identity of the individual manifests itself through active participation in the norms of the figured world. The participants in the AA meetings became alcoholics only when they accepted the narrative structures of the group. The Chicana/o activists through their similar experiences leading toward a “raised consciousness” (or culturally defined way of knowing), saw themselves and the larger figured world of whitestream society in a new light, thus defining themselves simultaneously in a new figured world, that of the Chicana/o activist, and as an agent in resistance to the oppressive hegemonic whitestream world.

  • Mere Anarchy, an Understatement?

    The Bush administration is busily creating reasons to widen the war by attacking Iran. I am reading Holland et al’s book on Figured Worlds. I wonder how we can allow such a world as Bush and his minions are creating? Is it really as simple as telling the same lies in a slightly different version, order an air strike then say, “Well we’re already involved, so it would be a shame to have sacrificed in vain.” In the New York Times today, there was one article and an editorial that disturbed me. The article described men (sic) who were receiving their science doctorates from reputable universities (Rhode Island and Harvard) who believed in creationism and a young earth. They wrote their dissertations using all the correct science, yet they still believe the earth is no older than 10,000 years and that evolution is incorrect. They use the authority of the programs they went through to grant legitimacy to their religious beliefs; and claim they are being discriminated against because of these beliefs when their science is questioned. The Bible is simply another paradigm from which to see the world. Is this a perversion of postmodernism? Is there an orthodoxy that can question stupidity? (Yes, I know postmodernism is not an anything goes relativism, but it is ironic that the religious positivists demanding that there is “One Big Truth” use a relativistic argument to justify their superstitious myths).
    The second piece an editorial discussing the popularity of using Yeats’ “Second Coming” by various pundits, and their misreading of the second half of the poem. The editorial uses Bloom and Vendler to explain the second part as an oracular vision that questions the accuracy of making predictions. Sadly after reading the paper tonight, the rough beast I see slouching towards Bethlehem to born is one the “fundamentalists” want: the end of the world so their Christ can come and take them to the big country club in the sky.

  • from "My Book of Changes" (1995)

    by

    34. Cartography
    June 6

    I follow a twisted path through
    a tangled wood; I create both
    path and wood. To stray from here
    is to walk Blake’s chartered streets.
    I have the patience and the power
    to blaze a way through my wilderness.

    60. Limitations
    June 7

    Limits come where I do not wish
    to go; choices create limits
    while opening doors. I’m content:
    Ezra, Quinn, and Lilith play
    happily in the living room. I
    have time to read and write.

    38. Inside Outside
    June 8

    Too often, I define myself
    by what I am not. Allowing
    the shore to determine the river’s
    flow. But the river changes
    the earth, gradually going
    her own way through the world.

    55. The Unfolding
    June 9

    Like a vision of a rose – –
    petal by petal a moving form:
    bud to full flower, my life,
    right now, unfolds into a clarity
    seemingly still – – my happiness
    tempered – – this too shall change.

    38. Outside
    June 10

    Again, I lock myself in.
    Who is on the outside? Like a
    turtle tucked tight in her shell,
    I worry myself with the wind.
    If I want to find someone,
    I must go out and look.

  • Dancing with Myself

    Teaching is an improvisational act. The teacher needs to be able to improvise what is needed to be taught/shown/demonstrated/talked about on the spot as the need arises. This is not to say that the teacher does not plan for the class; the planning should allow for the possibility of change dependent upon student engagement with the word. Taking advantage of the teachable moment should be something that is built into the day; the teachable moment should be an affordance of the lesson that spontaneously occurs on a regular/daily basis. What tends to happen when a self-imposed lesson/unit is being followed is the teacher feels as if there is a deadline which must be met: we must get to the end of the third chapter by Thursday in order to take a test over that section of the book by Friday. Where the kids want to go with a text, or their writing, is of little importance. The teacher knows how to do this, they are the expert. The student does not matter. Class discussion of longer than a few minutes, real exchanges where the students are constructing an understanding, very rarely occurs, let alone individual instruction with a child about a book the child is reading because they want to read the book, or a specific problem in a piece of writing. While lip service to a child-centered classroom is deriguer at workshops and inservice presentations, the reality is the teacher is the main focus of the room.
    Recently a survey was sent around to the teachers of my school asking for input on how to spend money on technology from some grant the district had received. All of the options were for high tech presentation devices of some kind or another. Cool gadgets for the teacher to use to enhance or replace what they were currently using, like a projector hanging from the ceiling connected to a computer, instead of an overhead with a screen. No mention of more access to technology on a more frequent basis for the students. When the tech consultant for our school tried to set up a secure blog site for the students to begin blogging about their classes where the teacher’s blog was the central hub to which all of the students were linked, the district, afraid of the “dangers” of the web, or just afraid of what the students would write about the school on a public accessible site, shot down the idea before it could get beyond the initial proposal stage.

  • Always Outward, Back Around

    by

    The moon sliver seen
    through clouds becomes,
    across a photographic plate,
    a smudge of light we call
    the Pleiades.

    We always look outward,
    search and explain, then
    look back to see again:

    exhausted from the hunt,
    the summer sun across fields,
    the blood and the dusky return,

    a Celt who listens, through smoke
    clouding the wan moon,
    to the whispers of
    the shaman’s chant.
    1990

  • Life/Death: Who Now?

    by

    One’s own mortality is rarely of interest to anyone else. At risk of becoming another stereotype of the tedious old man, I try not to belabor the deterioration of my body; yet, I am haunted by it nonetheless. Eighteen months ago I had a minor stroke. The doctors don’t call it that anymore it is some string of three letters, which I have lost among the dozens of three letter acronyms they toss about like beads at Mardi Gras. Or perhaps my memory is going: how would I know? Six months ago after twenty years of back pain, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc between the L5 and L4 vertebrae. All I know is that the pain is severe and it doesn’t go away as it did 24 years ago when I first had a “sore” back. For decades my hair has become thinner and thinner, and my height does little to hide the obvious bald spot the way it did years ago. Symptoms of aging might vary in degree, but not in their implications: We are only here for a short while. I think much of this, in addition to finally reaching a point with my family (the kids are old enough not to require constant attention) are the motivational factors in my returning to grad school. George Eliot said that one is never to old to become what one wanted to be. One’s identity is constantly shifting and being formed, I also think one’s past undergoes the same process. We reinterpret what has happened to better fit the present we believe we are in. (Hmmmm: the old joke about the meaning of Phd: piled hip deep comes to mind here).

  • Second day at Home: Ice on Texas

    Today is the second day that school has been cancelled due to ice. I hate the cold, so I stay inside; I am suffering from cabin fever. I have read, although with my new bifocals I am not having an easy time of that. They tell me I will adjust, but as of now, three hours with them, I have not. Impatient as well as being restless do not a good pairing make. My class tonight at UT has been cancelled as well. I know the world does not shut down in parts of the country where cold weather is more of a constant. I know, I know: we are not used to it, we are not prepared to handle it etc. etc. I am safer sitting here at home. Boredom takes over and dominates into inaction. Over the semester break I did get a bit read: The new Jim Harrison novel ( I really like this guy: kind of rambling multi-story lines with deep reflections on life, politics, personal relationships, and religion), Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (Can’t believe it took me so long to finally getting around to reading this; it should be required reading in some class where required reading takes place), Pedagogy of the Oppressed ( a fun read, but coupled with Bury my Heart, becomes oppressive thinking about the powers that be), a large chunk of Lisa Cary’s book, and the first hundred pages of Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown ( a fun book, it has been at least ten years since I read him: wild stuff).

  • where i stand

    by

    today like the sand
    tomorrow drifted from

    only so much to see
    only so much permited
    beneath these veils

    shadows flow about the light
    like fog in the creek bed

  • Once More Into the Breach!

    Work is back in session. The seniors went to a meeting where they were given packages for their graduation gowns and all the ephemera that goes along with it. The cost is outrageous; the cheapest package is 260 dollars. Of course they could just buy the gown for 30 bucks, but they are sold on the idea that they need all of invitations, and memory books etc. I wonder about the ethicacy of bringing in a company like Herf-Jones to sell class rings one year followed by the gowns et al the next. These things are not cheap. I wonder also if the school gets a cut. I know when I taught journalism at the middle school that I was able to get a percentage of the money from the school pictures for the yearbook. It enabled me to sell the book cheaper. The various photographers would court me each year trying to get the contract for the next year, offering different deals. If the school does get a percentage off of the gown sales, shouldn’t that be stated up front? Could the price be lowered if the school took a smaller amount? If they do get a cut, where does the money go? Of course all of this is conjecture since I have no clue whether or not the school gets any money or not from the sales. I see all of this graduation stuff with a very cynical eye. Of course, I can go on about the importance of ritual in society, but that will have to wait until another day.

  • ice

    by

    another sigh follows the first
    an unvoiced prayer I read once
    so prayer piles on prayer to heaven

    not so much the worry as the cliched
    reaction and response from myself
    and others: maybe it’s not true

    maybe if the word isn’t spoken
    the spirit will not be called
    the stroke will remain yet to fall

    I sigh yet again worrying
    the smallest ache, the slightest
    difference into a panalopy of symptoms

    the words, all words, are cliché
    meaning trails in an icebreaker’s wake
    ice fragments jostling for reformation

  • Late Night Rambling

    It’s late. My daughter and her friend from down the street are playing their Christmas music from band. Today we all went and cut a tree down for Christmas at the Elgin Christmas Tree Farm. It takes a bit longer , but it is something we have been doing for the last 15 years with our kids. We sit in a trailer of hay pulled by a tractor out to the fields where we wander about looking at hundreds of trees. It is goofy, but fun in a middle america kind of way.
    I started reading “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” a couple of days ago; it is good, but depressing. Kind of like reading Holocaust books: you know how it ends, but you read it anyway to the inevitable end. It is nice to read something because I chose it rather than what I have to read for classes. I like the books for class, but I would rather read what I want. I have a list that I will attempt over the Christmas break, and before class starts up in the spring. I am always more ambitious than I really have time for, but a valiant effort will be made anyway. It reminds me of when I was little and would pile my plate at family Christmas gatherings because everything looked great. My mom always warned me that my eyes were bigger than my stomach. Now my plans are bigger than my head. With luck it will not be like the diner in “The Meaning of Life:” just one more mint, what can it hurt?

  • a windy day

    the door into the garage whistled incessantly
    I wanted to read and sleep
    curled on the couch in the back room
    dream of other things less focused
    instead I wrote a paper for class
    ambition trumping desire

  • End of Semester Reflections

    My students are taking their midterms. For the last couple of weeks they have been asking me if I was giving a midterm. (I thought it was required). When I said yes, they would look at me quizzically and ask, “Over what?” It amuses me still that they think they don’t do anything in my class. They read self-selected texts, they write on self-selected topics; they freely confess that they have read more books this semester than they have read their entire high school career; yet, they still think they don’t do anything. It is only a real English class, I guess, if they are doing vocab worksheets, and all reading the same text that the teacher has to explain to them before they write the same formulaic essay about the symbolism of the whale, or the rose, or the crucible. Ez came home the other day and confessed that he hated English, and had no interest anymore in it. Ez reads voraciously, since he was in third grade. He writes well, although he doesn’t think so. He and his friends exchange books at Christmas and give each other book store gift cards on birthdays. Yet, somehow the AP program they are all in has killed any of the pleasure they find in texts. Which brings me back to my midterms, my students have to answer two out of three essay quesstions, one is about the books they have read this semester, one is about the writing they have done, and one asks them to think about how the reading and writing they have done has influenced the way they read and write. At first they are stunned, but when I read them, they have written some of the most thoughtful pieces they have done all year. They know what they have done; as do we all.

  • A Lttle Christmas Cheer

    by

    Every year about this time, the student council at my school does what they call adopt-a-child. Many of the students at the elementary schools that eventually feed to my high school are low ses. Many of the classes sponsor an elementary child, the students in each of the participating classes, donate money, then, in the case with my seniors, they go and buy clothes and toys and stuff for the child for Christmas. This year 76 ( a new record, although I don’t know why some classses don’t participate) elementary studens were sponsored. My class had a 5 year kindergarten boy, who came over today. My students thew a party and gave him his gifts. it was cute. They bought him a bike, a soccer ball, several sets of clothes, several pairs of shoes, and little cars. At one point he was in the hall outside my room kicking his soccer ball with three of the varsity soccer boys. Each year it amazes me how sweet my students can be around the children that come over. It is easy to forget how close they are to still being small children.

  • After Being Apart, Burlington Airport 1989

    I wandered aimlessly about the terminal
    early
    with little to do

    I found the gate again
    checked arrival and departure times
    again

    watched the model airplanes,
    the history of flight,
    that hung above the terminal floor

    I returned to the gate
    sat next to a pillar near the escalator
    I waited, pretending to read

    then there they were again
    her eyes I fell into
    years before