Prolegomenon! Svelte! Juxtaposition! And other hard words!
My friend Paul is a musicology professor. He is a bald, slightly roundish man with a very dry wit. The other morning as the students were arriving for class and settling in, the friendly chatter turned to fashion, and he mentioned that he was wearing vertical stripes, because they make him "look so svelte."
"In unison, at least three, probably more, students called out, 'What does svelte mean?'"
"You know," he told them. "Slim. Sleek, like a leopard."
"You know," he told them. "Slim. Sleek, like a leopard."
Crickets.
So, there's the obvious problem here, that an opportunity for a chuckle was lost. (Seriously. I hate it when that happens.) And then there are other concerns, too.
On the one hand, we want students to ask questions, yes? We always say that questions are good, right? Don't be afraid to ask! If you don't know, someone else is probably wondering, too.
But do we really believe that? Because, contrary to what we always hear, that there are no stupid questions, actually, there are. In point of fact, there are very stupid questions. What does svelte mean? isn't stupid, per se, but merely silly. It's the idea that so many students were so quick to ask — that made me wonder. Have we reached a point where we are all so accustomed to instant answers, what with our fancy interwebz skilz, that we don't stop to think a moment?
But do we really believe that? Because, contrary to what we always hear, that there are no stupid questions, actually, there are. In point of fact, there are very stupid questions. What does svelte mean? isn't stupid, per se, but merely silly. It's the idea that so many students were so quick to ask — that made me wonder. Have we reached a point where we are all so accustomed to instant answers, what with our fancy interwebz skilz, that we don't stop to think a moment?
I decided to investigate, wondering if I might be clueless and snobby, and, whether, in fact, svelte is a difficult word. I presented my son, who just turned sixteen, with Paul's story, described the scenario, and asked, "So. Do you know what svelte means?"
"No. But I think I could figure it out. Skinny?"
"No. But I think I could figure it out. Skinny?"
"Like a leopard, baby."
He snorted. Then quietly said, "Please, Mother. Don't call me 'baby.' It's disturbing."
He snorted. Then quietly said, "Please, Mother. Don't call me 'baby.' It's disturbing."
Ha! Disturbing, indeed. It's all disturbing.
Now, I know that some people are naturally curious about language, and some are not. When one of my boys was little, he never asked what an unfamiliar word meant. He filled in the gap with an assessment of whether or not I seemed upset or angry with him. Mommy's happy? No problem. We're good to go!
My other son, however, always perked up when a new word was used, and he'd demand to "See! See!" whatever it was. Once the lens fell out of my glasses when I was driving.
"Oh, shit!"
Straining at the straps in his little car seat, looking out the windows, he excitedly asked, "See shit, Mommy! See shit!"
"Well," I thought, as I pulled over, "Mommy can't see shit. That's the problem." And my second thoughts were something along the lines of, Damn, I hope he doesn't start using the word shit or I am so busted.
So maybe Paul's students were having a knee jerk, "See shit!" moment when they asked about svelte. And, sure, at least they were listening, engaged enough to ask. I'll throw them that bone.
But then Paul told me another story. During the first week of classes, he'd assigned a reading, a journal article entitled "Prolegomena of Any Aesthetics of Rock Music." He began the class discussion with, "So. What does prolegomena mean?" Not a one knew. While these dears had dutifully read the article, as evidenced by the fact that they all, or mostly all, passed a little pop quiz, it apparently did not occur to them to look up the word prolegomena. Hint: at the college level, it's a good idea to look up an unknown word in your readings, especially if it happens to be the first word in the title. Even your professor has to look up words — that would be a second hint.
And! Again, another lost opportunity for a giggle. Not that the idea, the definition of the word, is itself funny, but you don't hear it often, and, shoot, it has a delightful rhythm. (Click on the linky-poo to hear how it's pronounced. If you're feeling a little wild, and if your co-workers or spouse or friends or children are nearby, click again and again and see what happens. Not that I would ever do that to my own family. Of course not.)
See, these academic words are humorous. Well, particularly if they're used by people who take themselves too seriously. Also, please. The juxtaposition of "Rock Music" and "Prolegomena" is amusing. If students can't bring a little curiosity and delight to the table in a class about the history of rock 'n roll, for crying out loud, they've got a tough slog ahead of them.
And that right there is what concerns me: where is the curiosity, the delight? And what about all those devices? How quickly could those kids have found the definition of prolegomena? Quickety-snip, I'll betcha.
My brilliant 20-something friend Jamie and I were wondering about this. She wrote me:
See? Jamie is asking the right questions, the next questions. The people I love and admire the most are relentlessly curious. They have developed habits of inquiry, an expression I love, and they seek deep delight.
And that, I guess, is my hope for Paul's students, that they begin to learn to use the tools they have at their disposal, wonderful tools! And ask the next questions. And seize every opportunity for delight and bemusement they can.
Now, I know that some people are naturally curious about language, and some are not. When one of my boys was little, he never asked what an unfamiliar word meant. He filled in the gap with an assessment of whether or not I seemed upset or angry with him. Mommy's happy? No problem. We're good to go!
My other son, however, always perked up when a new word was used, and he'd demand to "See! See!" whatever it was. Once the lens fell out of my glasses when I was driving.
"Oh, shit!"
Straining at the straps in his little car seat, looking out the windows, he excitedly asked, "See shit, Mommy! See shit!"
"Well," I thought, as I pulled over, "Mommy can't see shit. That's the problem." And my second thoughts were something along the lines of, Damn, I hope he doesn't start using the word shit or I am so busted.
So maybe Paul's students were having a knee jerk, "See shit!" moment when they asked about svelte. And, sure, at least they were listening, engaged enough to ask. I'll throw them that bone.
But then Paul told me another story. During the first week of classes, he'd assigned a reading, a journal article entitled "Prolegomena of Any Aesthetics of Rock Music." He began the class discussion with, "So. What does prolegomena mean?" Not a one knew. While these dears had dutifully read the article, as evidenced by the fact that they all, or mostly all, passed a little pop quiz, it apparently did not occur to them to look up the word prolegomena. Hint: at the college level, it's a good idea to look up an unknown word in your readings, especially if it happens to be the first word in the title. Even your professor has to look up words — that would be a second hint.
And! Again, another lost opportunity for a giggle. Not that the idea, the definition of the word, is itself funny, but you don't hear it often, and, shoot, it has a delightful rhythm. (Click on the linky-poo to hear how it's pronounced. If you're feeling a little wild, and if your co-workers or spouse or friends or children are nearby, click again and again and see what happens. Not that I would ever do that to my own family. Of course not.)
See, these academic words are humorous. Well, particularly if they're used by people who take themselves too seriously. Also, please. The juxtaposition of "Rock Music" and "Prolegomena" is amusing. If students can't bring a little curiosity and delight to the table in a class about the history of rock 'n roll, for crying out loud, they've got a tough slog ahead of them.
And that right there is what concerns me: where is the curiosity, the delight? And what about all those devices? How quickly could those kids have found the definition of prolegomena? Quickety-snip, I'll betcha.
My brilliant 20-something friend Jamie and I were wondering about this. She wrote me:
For my part, I've been very interested in smart phone technology because of how immediately we're able to answer our questions. I can't tell you how many times I've been sitting with someone in a bar and said 'No way! Look it up on your magic phone!' We use them to find out everything from that one guy who was in that one movie with Angelina Jolie to the definition of 'indigo children' and the (pseudo-)psychological basis for the new age solutions to living on the autism spectrum (real and recent examples).Ding, ding!
So where does that leave us if the curiosity and immediate satisfaction isn't translating over into the true academic sphere? Is it laziness or disinterest? Can we reconcile smart phone and internet intrusiveness with traditional academic goals, and is that something we want?
See? Jamie is asking the right questions, the next questions. The people I love and admire the most are relentlessly curious. They have developed habits of inquiry, an expression I love, and they seek deep delight.
And that, I guess, is my hope for Paul's students, that they begin to learn to use the tools they have at their disposal, wonderful tools! And ask the next questions. And seize every opportunity for delight and bemusement they can.
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