Teaching Literature--Where's the Line?

         

           





           Contemporary high school English teachers are faced with a problematic choice: Harry Potter or William Shakespeare? Twilight or Gatsby? Do we teach quality literature that hits all curricular expectations, or do we choose popular literature that will engage—maybe even interest—our students?

            Problematic question. If you think back to your own school days, you might recall that not everyone was a reader. There were always a few kids that it was impossible to bring in, whether the piece was Les Miserables or a Rob Zombie screenplay. That’s an absolute fact, but we’re being bombarded with studies lately that suggest that literacy levels of all Canadians have been on a steady decline since the early 1990s. People are reading less, and fewer of those who are reading are reading what is considered literature, and still fewer are approaching what they read critically or analytically. They’re reading for entertainment.

            Now I could rant about “these days”, but in truth, our whole interest as a people has shifted. Teachers are competing with video games that demand hours and hours of attention for years—we’re just doing it more now. The Internet and social media gobble up reading time like Pac-Man on steroids, and again, the value in our pursuits seems to be entertainment.

            We are teaching in the world of Avatar, where the “greatest” film of the last decade or so was all spectacle and little substance, all flash and dash with no little concern for, y’know, meaning.

            “Writing? Oh, that’s the stuff we use to link explosion scenes.”

            It makes for a conundrum when teaching literature. At the foundation, all provincial curricula in Canada call for a teaching of quality literature that hits the bullets: character, narrative, theme, struggle, language, all of that. Listen, we know that pulling out Hamlet or To Kill a Mockingbird will get us eye rolls—we read them in high school, too—but it’s arduous to find suitable replacements. Many of us have tried out modern(ish) novels such as Life of Pi or Crow Lake, meeting with varying success. The thing about Harper Lee is she really is that accessible, there are tried and true resources abounding, and when attacking a diploma exam or a university course, it’s true that having a “known” text in your bank is advantageous.

            Some teachers bring in high-interest, plot-driven pieces like Harry Potter or Twilight, and as entertaining as they may be, as involving as they may be for kids, they’re hardly literary—and I say that as a huge Rowling fan. They don’t hit those bullets.

            Other teachers—myself included—have tried teaching film as a narrative text. I’m a reformed comic nerd, and so I know the difference between a graphic novel and a comic book, and I’ve toyed with teaching that genre as literature.

            All of these experiments speak to the problem of going down a level rather than attempting to bring our readers up. We begin questioning how many compromises we can make before we’re just teaching “books” instead of “literature”.

            Ah, but it begs the question, just what is literature? Isn’t it just the stuff that pretentious CBC-radio listeners say they read? Isn’t it just writing that is harder to read than fun? Well, no. It is writing that seeks to do something more than entertain you. If literature works, it makes you reassess life; it makes you consider how you think. A good piece of literature should haunt you. I’ve taught Life of Pi a couple of times and find it one of the better new novels to teach because of the discussion it brings. Without ruining the ending, I find that the question “Which story do you prefer?” can tell me more about a student than a three-hour interview.

            As literacy levels continue their gentle sag, as Avatar and Black Ops. continue to be credited as having “great stories” by the masses, need our expectations for our readers be lowered as well? If no, then it’s one of the only disciplines that we’re calling for a regression in. Imagine if we expected Apple to go back to its 1980s computers, or for doctors to start bloodletting again.

            Does it matter that we teach literature or that we teach what kids are interested in, no matter the quality?

Did Mary Poppins Make Me Who I Am?

            Just how much can one piece of cinema affect a young lad’s persona, nurturally speaking?

            I have long suspected that a childhood spent devouring Spider-Man comics had something to do with my love for being the little guy trying to do right, and for caring about the little old ladies in my life.

            A recent re-viewing of Mary Poppins (what? My mom had class)—a film I saw nearly as many times as The Neverending Story and Return of the Jedi—I asked myself just how much this little forty-six year old musical was responsible for the man I is.

            Ponder: the impat of the music is itself a lesson for another time, but the film’s message is staggering with how in sync it is with my own value system. Mr. Banks conversion to the “Fly a Kite” school of philosophy is still one of the more moving in the world of cinema, his loony spouting off random bits of verse to his employers as it overtakes him beauty defined.

            There is a moment where Banks’ son Michael wishes only to spend his precious tuppence on bird seed, but his father pressures him to invest it. When Michael lashes out against a greedy senior partner—my lifelong soft spot for Dick van Dyke starts here—pandemonium runs the day, as everyone within earshot of Michael’s “Give me my money!” cry attempts to withdraw their own savings. The bank closes at the fear of a crash and a polite Georgian riot follows.

            I recall thinking, “That’s wrong. A bank should be there to serve you, not to make money from you.”

            And, “What kind of sad existence is there in only seeking more money?”

            Childishness, perhaps, but not too far removed from what I hold dearest in my opinions over all things monetary decades later. Banks are a service industry exploiting the common man—have been for centuries, and I don’t like it. The pursuit of money, living and working for the making of it, always seeking the acquisition of more capital, stands to me as a living hell.
            I recently caught a clip of the reality show Dragon's Den. Please keep in mind that I abhor television and I abhor reality television most of all, so there was some bias to begin with. One of these "dragons" was cheing into a prospective entrepreneur saying, "Money doesn't care, money has no love. Money cries no tears." His deep-seeded love for money and his philosophy that it's soulessness is what matters most about it made me pity this man. Rich, yes. Big house, yes. Happy? He'd say he has money. I can't define happiness that way.

            Did it all start with Mary Poppins?

            Bert is the most attractive character in the whole film, morally speaking. Every day a different job, taking adversity with a wink and a cockney smirk, he will die happy—no matter how horribly his accent is delivered.

            When you grow up, you have to shake off some of the black and white idealism of youth. I can’t be Bert. I’m a husband and a father and my responsibilities matter to me. But I’ll sure never be the pre-Poppinsinizationed Mr. Banks!

            My hatred for money’s dominance, my contempt for capitalism, my ire for conformity; my love for a good musical, my interest in Victorian/Georgian London—could it all be tied to a childhood viewing of Mary Poppins?

            If I really was that impressionable, then thank God I didn’t read Ayn Rand as a child.

My Zombie Fab Five

            I’ve always been prone to recurring dreams, but my only recurring nightmare involves zombies. Oh, I can hear you sniggering, but I can’t really control what my subconscious chooses to boogedy me with, now can I? Well, I guess I could try not to continually exacerbate the issue by watching scary movies, but then we’d both be without this blog.

            The dream: I’m at home, I look out the window. Zombies! Slow, shuffling, moaning, coming to my house. They’re at the doors and windows, so with video game reflexes I’m assessing the defensibility of my residence (try it, it’s fun).

            Weapons? Curse my left-leaning pacifism! Alright, where’s my toolbox, then?!

            In a four-level spilt, upon which floor do you make your stand? Basement? No, we all know that plan always goes sour. Top floor? Can I make the jump from bedroom window to garage roof? Dammit! This nightmare was so much easier to manoeuvre when I had a top floor apartment.

            They’re coming in, they’re coming for me—then I wake up. It’s four a.m. I open the curtains and look out at the street until the first car or drunken teenager or Tim Horton’s early bird senior walks by to ensure me that civilization continues, such as it is.

            Cliché? Absolutely, but a guy can’t help what he dreams up.

            It makes me feel so mundane. I mean, they’re everywhere these days, those zombies. Have you been in a book or music store? Parodies, survival manuals, brain recipes. . . . The world’s gone nutty for zombies. It’s so bad that I think if the Zombie Apocalypse (they call it the “Zah” on Twitter) actually happened, it’d last about an hour because we’re so darn prepared for it. Pride and Prejudice, Marvel Comics, Alex Trebek—everything is a zombie these days.

            Why? Well, George Romero, the Granddaddy of the Ghoul, who brought us the modern zombie flick with 1968’s Night of the Living Dead—and has made so many of his own sequels to it that he’s currently working on Dead of the Dead—he’d tell you that he was satirising capitalism and television-viewing. We’re just getting worse, so all the more reason for more send-ups. And, for the idiots out there who are being mocked by these films, they get to make their own flicks that are just about dead people eating brains.

            Anyway, here’s a list of my top five favourite zombie . . . things—because one isn’t a film. Oh, I’m sure if you read this you’ll say that I missed some obscure Japanese cult film that nobody’s seen. Good for—and screw—you. It’s my list.

5. Resident Evil 2 (1998). Don’t know a thing about R.E. 1 or 3 or any of the others. Haven’t seen the films, either. Let me set the scene: it’s the winter term of my last year of university, I have to complete sixteen academic papers in four months, some of them in the 30+ page range. At the end of the day, the last thing I’m feeling like is more reading. I borrow a buddy’s PS1, this game, dim the lights and wrap a blanky around my shoulders. Was my nightly habit for about a month.

            I’m not much of a gamer, but I do know that this thing handled zombies perfectly; it’s the only time I’ve actually jumped from fear playing a video game. Every shot was a scene, and it was always unsettling when you entered a room and heard a moan and a shuffle step.

4. Dawn of the Dead (2004). Yes, the remake. Yes, Romero’s 1978 version is better because it’s simpler, and I’ll correct the error you might feel I’m making when I get to #2, but this film scared the beejezus outta me in a way nothing but #1 did—and in a whole new way. Romero’s social commentary was better, but this one freaks me out so badly because of the speed. The zombies sprint. Yikes! They move as fast as we do, and that makes for a whole new game. Now, officially I don’t approve of running zombies because I think it misses their symbolism (see:  http://vikingpaul.blogspot.com/2010/05/i-like-my-undead-evil-thanks.html ). However, on the scare scale, this sucker transcends Romero. That first ten minutes (right through the opening credits with Johnny Cash’s own genius remake of “The Man Comes Around” playing over society gobbling itself up) is enough on its own for a dozen sleepless nights. Plus, Sarah Polley is awesome as usual.

3. Shaun of the Dead (2004). This work of genius sends up every zombie standard going, often doing it better than many straight zombie flicks (especially better than the crap made in the Splatterin’ 80s). It’s also genuinely scary in its own right at times. When buddy gets pulled through the window and torn to blood puddin’ and kidney pie—damn! As with Rick Mercer and John Stewart, parody often does a better job than what is being up-sent. I could have also picked Zombieland, which is a damn fin yuk/yuck flick, but Shaun is just a bit wittier. Maybe it's the English accents versus the Texan ones that makes it seem smarter. Regardless, Simon Pegg is a gift the world doesn’t deserve.

2. Night of the Living Dead (1968). I need to ask your forgiveness. My zombie phobia began with the viewing of the 1990 remake of this gem. That was enough for nightmares. Years later, I went back to the source. Black and white, chocolate sauce and barbecued ham, budget of pocket change, unbelievably poor sound, and sketchy fight choreography all aside, this forty-two year old Romero masterpiece still gives me the friggin’ willies. I have no nostalgia bias, either. I’m never big on saying first is best if the re-do is better (Batman movies, Brannaugh’s Shakespeare films), so I don’t cotton to the commentary that this is good because of what it inspired. That’s like saying John Lennon’s mom is the reason the Beatles were the Beatles. This movie is just that effing terrifying.

1. 28 Days Later (2002). The purists will say I should have #2 as #1, as this is not technically a zombie flick. Eat brain, purists. Rules? This is horror fantasy. Half the zombie movies out there don’t even explain how the Z.A. started, they just skip to the frontal lobe nibblin’. It doesn’t matter that these are “humans with rage” rather than bonafide living dead. This sucker is bone chilling because, again, zombies that run cause different problems, but mostly because Danny Boyle is good at movies, where Romero is just good at horror movies, bless him. My viewing of this led to the worst few years of nightmares I’ve ever had. The sequel was iffy, though still disturbing at times (beaten to death with machine gun—shown from perspective of night vision scope on said gun). One of a kind, and just as good in the critical social commentary department because it shows just how bad we’ll get once the zombies are in control.

Brains! 

The Future of Elections? Here's Hoping

It’s a sad state of politics in this country that when Calgary and many of the municipalities in Alberta held elections last night, people celebrated huge turnouts at the polls, but those numbers revealed that only about half of eligible voters turned up.

About half. Hurrah for democracy at work.

In Calgary, and in some towns such as Okotoks, Airdrie and Strathmore, voter turnout was high because the races were tighter, ferocious, and highly publicized. People got angry, people got interested. People did something we’ve been seeing less and less of in this country of late: they exercised their democratic right.

In our last federal election, Stephen Harper’s Conservatives won a minority government with thirty percent of the vote of the just less than sixty percent of the country that voted. More people voted against this government than for it, but in a multi-party system, that’s life. Doesn’t it make you wonder what would’ve happened had the other forty-some percent of the country shown up at the polls. A Harper majority? A completely different government?

About a year ago I commented on my Facebook page about voter apathy, and some of the most disturbing replies to this came from intelligent people who have given up on our system. They don’t believe in our democracy at all. “It’s useless; they’re corrupt; they just fight and holler; they’re more concerned with keeping power than with governing.”

Disturbing, especially when I find myself inclined to agree with the last two statements.

Could it be that the childishness of our governing officials, the petty finger-pointing and playground “he did it first!” mentality has turned Canadians off of a system the rest of the world has so admired for decades?

Yeah. Duh.

It’s been bad for a while now. I can remember a time it wasn’t this bad, where every single statement in the House of Commons wasn’t met with caterwauling from the benches across the way, but maybe it’s because back then I was younger and ignorant. Or perhaps those were the days of crushing majorities so the Opposition just couldn’t voice its pettiness to the same levels of immaturity they can today.

Calgarians woke up this morning to a new mayor, a man whose Obama-like rise to glory overshadows the fact that he could be just as petty as the rest of them during this past election. I’m glad for Calgary, glad they elected an intelligent, educated man, a younger mayor whose status as a visible minority may do much to erase the taint of being “the Whitest City in the West.” However, when the mud was there to be slung, Mr. Nenshi was willing to come up with mitt-fulls to huck into the faces of opponents eventually defeated not so much for their policies as for their status as representing the old guard.

I am overjoyed at the new involvement, at the news of line-ups at polls and that the third place mayoral candidate would’ve won any election in the past with her number of votes. I am saddened that at the municipal level we are seeing the seeping of the slimy partisan politics that are making a mockery of Ottawa. We are seeing attack ads, character vilifications, and basically the same levels of Us and Them idiocy that has stained the Houses of Parliament for the last decade or so.

I hope that the new interest is a start, and that the numbers continue to climb. I hope that our new mayors, respectively, can live up to a few of their promises. I hope most of all that people are voting because it’s the right thing to do, not because of the spectacle that has been created.

I Guess I'm Old

This weekend, I spent a total of ten hours in my car with four people younger than me by at least seven years. It was illuminating. I have an eighteen-year-old sister-in-law whose text addiction borders on the pathetic. I say that with nothing but love. I have just been around her in the desperate wee hours of battery life when her world was pulling a true 2012.

Okay, the car ride. I spent the entirety of the last five hours listening--no matter how loud I turned my music--to the thappety thappety thappety of all four of these individuals texting. Constantly. Freely admitting that the conversations mostly involved "Haha" and LOL and "What are you . . ." Sad, sez he born in the 1970s.

One of them tried to defend it to me, to tell me it was cheaper than calling, and more convenient than calling, and easier when your friends live in different time zones. No sale. It was an alarming look at just how lame our communication has become.

But the most disturbed I was came when I hooked up my iPod and set it in the middle of the vehicle and said, "Have at 'er." When it was my turn, I put on an album. If we made it through eight songs, I was happy. When one of the kids took over, though, we'd hear a song or two by an artist, followed by another song or two by another. Not so bad. What drove me INSANE was the stopping of songs after less than two minutes for a new search.

That was my muffugging breaking point. Text away, lazy communicators. Facebook and Tweet to your heart's delight, you quintessential narcissists. Play only singles from the new Black Keys and I'm cool. But, DAMMIT, seriously. Let the whole song finish! It's a song, a lyrical rhythmic narrative. Am I such a dinosaur that getting on the other side of a guitar solo and bridge dates me? Chaysis!

Highway of Heroes

            Let me be clear: I am opposed to Canada’s participation in the war in Afghanistan. I disagree with adorning our vehicles with yellow ribbon magnets and I don’t think “support our troops” means support the war. Anyone who tells me that Canada had an obligation to topple the Taliban I ask: “Where was Canada during the Taliban’s rise to power amid fundamentalist oppression during the 1990s? Did we forget that the CIA trained Osama to fight the Soviets then left him and his starving nation cold?” In October 2001, we were nothing but toadies following Bush’s America—awash in 9/11 hysteria—into a war when everyone felt we needed to lash out against somebody. And, yes, I do realize it wasn’t a Conservative Canadian government that made that call.

            Yep, I oppose the war, I hate that we’re there—but careful for when reality makes conviction go poof.

            For me, four things—really three—came together to bring me the pause that inspired these words:

1)     A custodian.

2)     A song.

3)     A kid.

4)     A mother.

1)     Pam, the lady who cleans my classroom after school every day, is a sweetheart. She

tries to move desks in my room without making a noise and only speaks when spoken to, as if marking or planning are sacred affairs she dare not interrupt. For at least a year, I had no idea that this smiling, unassuming wonder of a woman drove the giant F350 that towered over our back parking lot, its endgate adorned with pro-Forces decals.

            Support Our Troops

            Enjoying your freedom? Thank a soldier!

            That truck had set my teeth on edge every time I saw until I learned it was Pam’s—then I convinced myself it was her husband’s, and in her shame she parked it in the back.

2)     One of my favourite Canadian groups is the Trews. I love their guitar-driven

grooves, their infectious melodies, their goll-danged Canadian-ness! The most political they’ve ever been is on the song “Gun Control.” They favour it, all you hot-buttoners.

            This last spring, they released a ballad called “Highway of Heroes” about the section of the 401 Highway soldiers’ bodies are driven down after landing at CFB Trenton—the song was inspired by the death of a female soldier from Ontario.

            I wasn’t sure I was into the fact they made this song—too open a declaration. May as well have called the song “Support Our Troops.”

3)     I happened upon the video on Youtube last month and did a double take when I saw

a former student  from my school playing a drum during the Celtic bridge. Cool, I thought, and passed the link on to my staff—all of them, custodians included.

4)     The next time I saw her, Pam thanked me for passing along the link. Her son, it

turned out, was readying to depart on his second tour in Afghanistan. She couldn’t give me many details and I’ll give you none, but I could tell she was struggling with his decision to return. She supported him because he was her son, but not because she wanted him there.

            “We’re proud,” she said. “Glad? No, but proud. Worried and proud.”

            Conviction can be a characteristic of the wilfully ignorant. Life is never simple enough for anything to be certain, ‘cept death and taxes, I suppose I’ll hear.

            I was disgusted with the Trews at first, then overjoyed at my discovery at a kid done good. The proceeds of the song are going to the Hero Fund.

            Heroes? Once I scoffed at calling a person who died in a stupid war a hero. Call me cold. I know a handful of people who’ve joined the Forces and a few of them have been social outcasts, sometimes with an angry streak. The type of person the Army can mould and brainwash into perfect obedience.

My conversation with Pam—who I know would happily leave me to my anti-war soapboxing—brought me pause, and I considered what this song was about. Put right in my face, it didn’t change my opinion, but it made me think about how we choose to deal with that which we cannot change. Pam has chosen pride; the Trews have decided to call a black hearse on Canada’s busiest stretch of highway a vehicle for a hero.

Conclusions?

I’m glad they wrote the song.

I hope Pam’s son comes back safe.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QrkgV5bl7kQ

Ridereligion

In Moose Jaw, there’s a thirty-five year old computer tech who has never caught or thrown a ball in his life. In Wynyard, there’s a sixty-three year old grandmother with a Danielle Steele collection laid out reverently in alphabetical order. In La Ronge there’s a thirty-four year old hippie who runs an organic farm that’s been without a television or phone in three years.           

The connection is that they’re all passionate Saskatchewan Roughrider fans.

That’s the Riders to those of us who bleed green.

To many of us, it’s not just about football, and to some it’s never been about the game at all. I would guess that nearly half the Rider nation can only name a half dozen players and sees maybe three games per year. Many consider the CFL a joke—it’s the league you leave when you get too good and come back to when you’re old. This doesn’t matter, because the snoozefest that is the NFL doesn’t come with a packaged sense of identity.

That gorgeous green t-shirt bearing the S that’s flanked by those subtle grey wheat drums is less a statement of squad support than it is a declaration of who we are. When someone purchases Rider swag, they’re not doing it just to back the team. Many of you shake your heads wondering why we’re as rabid to rally in losing seasons as winning. Rider merch is a proud assertion of who we are, as bold and recognizable as a kilt or a beret or Brazilian flip flops. It says everything without us having to say anything: “Go Riders,” yes, but more importantly, “I’m from Saskatchewan.”

There’s no ignoring that it’s our way of being David thumbing his nose at the Goliath of more populous cities and provinces; it’s our only professional sports team so many view it as quaint and a little pathetic how obsessive we get over it—but it’s blossomed into something so much greater than football. It unites all of us living there or away—much to the annoyance of our cousins when we converge on their homes in Calgary, Edmonton or Winnipeg, where cheering is respectable but hardly on the level of zealotry it is from the fans in green. It’s fun to attend a game in these cities and look at the frustrated locals who feel they’re at an away game.

Saskies are loud and proud and spread across this nation like some thick green peanut butter. Don’t like watermelon helmets, Pilsner flags and John Deere t-shirts? Well, just be thankful they never gave Newfoundland a team—can you imagine what those people would be like given a chance to fill McMahon Stadium with kissing cods and screech? We look pretty tame now.