I’m so glad that the last class of the week is Language Theory.
It’s actually incredibly fun stuff. For example, there is an assertion by a theorist named Labov that in any discourse, there are always these “propositions” hanging in mid-air. When there is something ambiguous in a conversation, we somehow magically pluck an idea from the ether to fill in the blank, based on a sort of “best-fit” methodology. I think discourse analysis is going to be a really fascinating field of study. Think of it as you walk around: there is stuff out there that only becomes important when you open your mouth. Little language particles, sort of hanging in mid-air waiting to be activated by speech. But you can’t see them. They’re just there. No one teaches you they are there, or explains how to use them. They just somehow they know that they’re needed, and the right kind of language will activate them so that they’ll sweep in to rescue conversation from being incoherent.
I read a revision of Panorama to the expository class this afternoon. I almost skated out of it, but I ended up doing it. I was nervous, after the response in a small group to the draft that was posted here (the online version has been revised, so if you’re a curious person as to what was changed, you’re out of luck if you missed the draft version) I was worried that I’d be greeted by blank stares again. I was amazed. I actually managed to get more than a few laughs. I thought parts of it were pretty funny myself, but I have an odd sense of humor. It wasn’t an essential part of the story, but it was not nearly so serious as the guys in the group thought. What bothered me most was the perception, based on one sentence (now deleted) that the essay was “really” about being kept out of literature classes. They thought I was complaining about people holding me back in college, and it skewed the perception of the entire piece. Mostly, it’s remembering Fred Jacobs and how he tried to teach me. He did, though it might not have been the message he was trying to get across.
Since mine was the last essay read, I felt good about the laughter. Most essays created in this sort of class are “warm and fuzzy feel-good” pieces about what a great childhood people had. I just don’t have that many stories of that type to give. Hey, my childhood was fine, but it’s not what I remember most vividly. I try to avoid Wordsworthian longing for simpler times. Life has always been complicated for me, even when I was a kid. Refreshingly though, one of the essays today was told by an ex-nurse who helped deliver a child in a ghetto in Chicago in 1965. It was a gripping and heart-wrenching story, with no happy endings and lots of reflection about what it really means to be poor. Everyone was really bummed when it was over, and I’m glad I could lighten the mood a bit with my silly story about a teacher. Ok, so it’s not that silly. But compared to the Chicago story, mine was really sweetness and light.
