Saturday, March 05, 2005
My Voice
Thinking back on my education, and all the things I've learned, and the privilege I've had of getting a good edumacation, I can't help but wonder about my miseducation.
Many people argue the virtues of education. It can open minds, enlighten, teach tolerance, an ability to problem solve, work in teams, cooperate, and think through complex issues. Education is a way to create a better society.
With all the wonderful facts and study skills that my education has taught me, I've noticed one thing to be almost consistently and painfully lacking. My education has rarely, if ever, cultivated my voice, taught me to be articulate, to communicate a position that is genuinely my own, and to be bold about it. What good is an education that teaches all the facts and figures without equipping people with a way to communicate and apply them?
Looking back on my education, this de-emphasis on communication is what I consider my miseducation. Towards the end of high school, after years of acquiring knowledge, I began to feel myself bursting with ideas about life, people, how things could be. I went out on a limb and got involved in civic life. I spoke out, in school, on the capitol steps, in the senate, with friends. My arguments may have been awkward, unpolished but they were mine, and they came from somewhere deep.
High school wasn't too conducive to developing my voice, but classes were smaller, and discussion was sometimes emphasized. Even then, the scope was often quite narrow, or too focused on summary, fact and fiction, right and wrong.
Coming to college is when I noticed this miseducation kick into overdrive. I found myself sitting in giant lecture halls with 300 other students. Questioning, clarifying, expressing ideas, analyzing was just not possible. I sat, fought off my drowsiness, listened to the professors, and carefully jotted down as much as I could. The lecture style was so popular on campus, even in many of my smaller classes I came to listen to the teachers ramble, slap overheads on the projector, and tell me what I should and shouldn't know.
"College is about thinking critically. You won't be able to memorize facts anymore and hope to get an A." I heard this from professor upon professor. Critical thinking was the buzz word, like a hot commodity. But like most fads, underneath the glitz and the hype there was nothing. Critical thinking was something I was taught not to do. Often times, the thinking just wouldn't flow on its own. E-mails from professors were not always answered; questions were brushed off; the confusion remained the same. I could walk the extra distance and go to office hours, but I found them to often involve playing a cruel game with the TA or professor: kiss up, beg, plead, belittle yourself, and if you're lucky, get the answer.
Come to office hours, ask questions, study, and think about it: think critically. But the reality was quite the opposite. Sit on your ass in class, take notes, be quiet, don't question, don't be seen, don't be heard, grab the grade, get out.
Exams and essays were often my first and last chance to "think critically." In biology, questions appeared that didn't even vaguely resemble things we learned about. "We're asking you to think critically on the test," they told us. The only problem was that we were hardly given a chance to "think critically" in this way before hand. Or in history, after weeks of listening to the professor yack, an essay topic would arrive. "I'm asking you to synthesize the readings and interpret them," the professor explained the assignment. But this was our first chance to synthesize and interpret. Expressing an opinion became a dangerous thing. It meant putting our grade on the line and risking a lot. So the safest thing to do was to repeatedly read my notes until the professor's opinion became clear, and then to recast those thoughts in my own words. We'll make him happy if we agree with him, he'll reward us with a good grade. Besides, professors are supposed to know the right answer; they don't seem too tolerant of disagreements...
So through my miseducation, I tacitly learned to be quiet, to swallow truths I didn't believe, and to force myself hard enough to repeat them like they were my own. I don't think I quite realized the extent to which that was going on at the time. Something didn't feel right, but I wasn't bold enough to make the statements about school I made right now. It was subversive, unorthodox, and most dangerous of all, people would disagree. But I grew discontent. Some life force in me felt suppressed.
That's when I officially started regular postings to this blog. It was a way for me to vent, since no one else wanted to hear it. Problems aren't normal, we don't want to hear them. If you're unhappy something's wrong with you. Venting enabled me to tap into my real feelings and emotions. For a long time, even on this blog I felt scared to be completely honest, or to boldly state my opinions. This self censorship still exists in me, but it's something I'm trying to teach myself to overcome.
Frustration and unhappiness just bred more of the same in bigger and badder quantities. By this year, I realized I've just taken too much shit. It really was time to start reclaiming control over my life and molding it into something I wanted. I started doing just that. This semester I found the courage to spare myself the misery of four science classes. I dug through the course catalogue for courses with material I could respond to: social psychology, writing about American cultural myths, history of American thought and ideology, anthropology of the university itself, and yes (my pleasure class) astrophysics.
Finally, I found classes with readings I can sink my teeth into. Readings that will make my blood boil a bit again. Readings that will make me respond with an opinion and find the passion to roar. But like I wrote in an earlier post, this is still college and it's still business as usual. Suppression is still more of the rule than the exception, which might even be worse with subjects that make ya want to dissect, analyze, and rally.
But today the energy bubbling in me finally burst to the surface in my history class. We have a discussion session a meager once a week where we are supposed to discuss some 300 pages of weekly readings full of powerful ideas in 50 minutes. This week's reading was Reinhold Niebuhr, a Theologian during the early 1900s who wrote in one book about social injustice, revolution, making the world more equal--stuff that makes me want to roar. We were heading down the regular track that discussions go down... students "disagreeing" (that's what's fashionable these days) with the text and not seeing any point.
"I don't see what his point is. I just don't agree with him," one girl began, "maybe I'm just a capitalist. I think it's fine to be rich. I don't see anything wrong with it, as long as I'm being a good person, so what?" And another girl added, "Yeah, I'll admit it. I love my BMW."
This was going downhill fast, and I wasn't having it. I waited my turn and spoke. I wasn't rude or impolite and I didn't tell the girls, "I disagree." I told them about the point of the readings, what he's getting at, how his argument applies to exactly the situation they're talking about: "you can be a perfectly moral person by society's standards, but it's the system that you're a part of, tacitly supporting, reinforcing, replicating with every compliant action you take that is the problem." For once I spoke and I felt it coming from the heart. My hesitations and stuttering ironed out into smooth-flowing, confident speech. I didn't cut myself off, I kept on going. I noticed those two girls nod in understanding, I could see a light bulb turn on. The teacher began to take notes on what I was saying, something she reserves only for rare occasions.
I finished. I felt a bit shaken, but I felt great. No, amazing. Then a light bulb of my own turned on. That was my voice, right there. I think it's been years since I've heard it come out with such force, confidence, suasion, and dare I say a touch of eloquence. It went contrary to much of what I had learned in the last few years. If you don't agree, don't say anything. Nod in silence, or spit out insignificant nonsense that you don't really believe. Ask a question, pretend you don't understand. No, I think I like it this new way a lot better. It's time to start dusting off that voice box; I plan on starting to make some good use of it.
Many people argue the virtues of education. It can open minds, enlighten, teach tolerance, an ability to problem solve, work in teams, cooperate, and think through complex issues. Education is a way to create a better society.
With all the wonderful facts and study skills that my education has taught me, I've noticed one thing to be almost consistently and painfully lacking. My education has rarely, if ever, cultivated my voice, taught me to be articulate, to communicate a position that is genuinely my own, and to be bold about it. What good is an education that teaches all the facts and figures without equipping people with a way to communicate and apply them?
Looking back on my education, this de-emphasis on communication is what I consider my miseducation. Towards the end of high school, after years of acquiring knowledge, I began to feel myself bursting with ideas about life, people, how things could be. I went out on a limb and got involved in civic life. I spoke out, in school, on the capitol steps, in the senate, with friends. My arguments may have been awkward, unpolished but they were mine, and they came from somewhere deep.
High school wasn't too conducive to developing my voice, but classes were smaller, and discussion was sometimes emphasized. Even then, the scope was often quite narrow, or too focused on summary, fact and fiction, right and wrong.
Coming to college is when I noticed this miseducation kick into overdrive. I found myself sitting in giant lecture halls with 300 other students. Questioning, clarifying, expressing ideas, analyzing was just not possible. I sat, fought off my drowsiness, listened to the professors, and carefully jotted down as much as I could. The lecture style was so popular on campus, even in many of my smaller classes I came to listen to the teachers ramble, slap overheads on the projector, and tell me what I should and shouldn't know.
"College is about thinking critically. You won't be able to memorize facts anymore and hope to get an A." I heard this from professor upon professor. Critical thinking was the buzz word, like a hot commodity. But like most fads, underneath the glitz and the hype there was nothing. Critical thinking was something I was taught not to do. Often times, the thinking just wouldn't flow on its own. E-mails from professors were not always answered; questions were brushed off; the confusion remained the same. I could walk the extra distance and go to office hours, but I found them to often involve playing a cruel game with the TA or professor: kiss up, beg, plead, belittle yourself, and if you're lucky, get the answer.
Come to office hours, ask questions, study, and think about it: think critically. But the reality was quite the opposite. Sit on your ass in class, take notes, be quiet, don't question, don't be seen, don't be heard, grab the grade, get out.
Exams and essays were often my first and last chance to "think critically." In biology, questions appeared that didn't even vaguely resemble things we learned about. "We're asking you to think critically on the test," they told us. The only problem was that we were hardly given a chance to "think critically" in this way before hand. Or in history, after weeks of listening to the professor yack, an essay topic would arrive. "I'm asking you to synthesize the readings and interpret them," the professor explained the assignment. But this was our first chance to synthesize and interpret. Expressing an opinion became a dangerous thing. It meant putting our grade on the line and risking a lot. So the safest thing to do was to repeatedly read my notes until the professor's opinion became clear, and then to recast those thoughts in my own words. We'll make him happy if we agree with him, he'll reward us with a good grade. Besides, professors are supposed to know the right answer; they don't seem too tolerant of disagreements...
So through my miseducation, I tacitly learned to be quiet, to swallow truths I didn't believe, and to force myself hard enough to repeat them like they were my own. I don't think I quite realized the extent to which that was going on at the time. Something didn't feel right, but I wasn't bold enough to make the statements about school I made right now. It was subversive, unorthodox, and most dangerous of all, people would disagree. But I grew discontent. Some life force in me felt suppressed.
That's when I officially started regular postings to this blog. It was a way for me to vent, since no one else wanted to hear it. Problems aren't normal, we don't want to hear them. If you're unhappy something's wrong with you. Venting enabled me to tap into my real feelings and emotions. For a long time, even on this blog I felt scared to be completely honest, or to boldly state my opinions. This self censorship still exists in me, but it's something I'm trying to teach myself to overcome.
Frustration and unhappiness just bred more of the same in bigger and badder quantities. By this year, I realized I've just taken too much shit. It really was time to start reclaiming control over my life and molding it into something I wanted. I started doing just that. This semester I found the courage to spare myself the misery of four science classes. I dug through the course catalogue for courses with material I could respond to: social psychology, writing about American cultural myths, history of American thought and ideology, anthropology of the university itself, and yes (my pleasure class) astrophysics.
Finally, I found classes with readings I can sink my teeth into. Readings that will make my blood boil a bit again. Readings that will make me respond with an opinion and find the passion to roar. But like I wrote in an earlier post, this is still college and it's still business as usual. Suppression is still more of the rule than the exception, which might even be worse with subjects that make ya want to dissect, analyze, and rally.
But today the energy bubbling in me finally burst to the surface in my history class. We have a discussion session a meager once a week where we are supposed to discuss some 300 pages of weekly readings full of powerful ideas in 50 minutes. This week's reading was Reinhold Niebuhr, a Theologian during the early 1900s who wrote in one book about social injustice, revolution, making the world more equal--stuff that makes me want to roar. We were heading down the regular track that discussions go down... students "disagreeing" (that's what's fashionable these days) with the text and not seeing any point.
"I don't see what his point is. I just don't agree with him," one girl began, "maybe I'm just a capitalist. I think it's fine to be rich. I don't see anything wrong with it, as long as I'm being a good person, so what?" And another girl added, "Yeah, I'll admit it. I love my BMW."
This was going downhill fast, and I wasn't having it. I waited my turn and spoke. I wasn't rude or impolite and I didn't tell the girls, "I disagree." I told them about the point of the readings, what he's getting at, how his argument applies to exactly the situation they're talking about: "you can be a perfectly moral person by society's standards, but it's the system that you're a part of, tacitly supporting, reinforcing, replicating with every compliant action you take that is the problem." For once I spoke and I felt it coming from the heart. My hesitations and stuttering ironed out into smooth-flowing, confident speech. I didn't cut myself off, I kept on going. I noticed those two girls nod in understanding, I could see a light bulb turn on. The teacher began to take notes on what I was saying, something she reserves only for rare occasions.
I finished. I felt a bit shaken, but I felt great. No, amazing. Then a light bulb of my own turned on. That was my voice, right there. I think it's been years since I've heard it come out with such force, confidence, suasion, and dare I say a touch of eloquence. It went contrary to much of what I had learned in the last few years. If you don't agree, don't say anything. Nod in silence, or spit out insignificant nonsense that you don't really believe. Ask a question, pretend you don't understand. No, I think I like it this new way a lot better. It's time to start dusting off that voice box; I plan on starting to make some good use of it.
