The other night we watched the movie The Kingdom with Jamie Foxx, Jennifer Garner, Jason Bateman and Chris Cooper as FBI agents who go to Saudia Arabia to find a terrorist who has just blown up a lot of people, many American families among them. Even though it is fiction, the situation is a common one nowadays - mass murder in the name of a religion that has been perverted and co-opted for political means. From the moment the agents set foot into Saudi Arabia the atmosphere is one of tension and fear. We see the terrorists spying on the agents as they go through the rubble trying to decipher how it happened and trying to find out who was behind the devastation. The agents are guarded by the Saudi police under the auspices of the Saudi king, but we feel that this protection cannot hold back the terrorists who are planning another mass murder with the FBI agents as the central victims. The Saudi police colonel who is assigned to protect and assist the agents is played by Ashraf Barhom, a newcomer to me, but a fine actor. I totally believed the difficult position he is in as he is threatened by one of his people for helping the Americans, the fear he has for his family, the distrust he has for the Americans. At first I was unsure whether he was going to help them or hinder them as was Jamie Foxx's character, the lead agent. The tension mounts throughout the film as the terrorists build their new bombs, packed with nails and marbles and the agents slowly piece together the knowledge they need to catch the terrorists. Shooting, car crashes, explosions, and treachery occur, but the Americans and the Saudi colonel learn to trust each other and even to like each other. To see this happen was encouraging; it made me think that it could happen in real life for all of us.
But the point of the film, for me, came at the very end. In the beginning, before the agents left for Saudi Arabia, just after they learn their close friend had been killed in the blast, Jamie whispers something to Jennifer Garner who is clearly quite upset. He is asked what he said in the plane trip to Saudi Arabia, but he won't answer. Near end of the movie as the elderly Saudi who was behind the attacks is dying as his young granddaughter looks on, he whispers to her something we cannot hear. Later, we shift to the Americans going home and Foxx finally tells what he whispered. He says, "I said, 'Don't worry. We will kill them all.'" The scene shifts to the apartment of the terrorist and his family and the mother asks the little girl what her grandfather said. This beautiful little innocent replies, "He said, 'Don't worry, we will kill them all.'" To me, this was the point of the whole movie. To me it is obvious that we cannot kill them all - more generations of terrorists will stand up and fight as others fall. Likewise, more Americans will stand and fight. Trying to wipe each other out is as futile an endeavor as stomping on a giant ant hill to eradicate the ants. Futile, absurd, stupid. Impossible.
So my take-away from this movie is probably not what Hollywood intended. After all, they went to a lot of trouble to make a suspenseful, action-packed, thought-provoking movie, but did the director want me to conclude that fighting terrorists never ends? Don't think so, but that message assaulted me with the force of truth. So maybe it is the point. At least it is my point and I'm sticking with it.
Here is a poem by Carl Sandburg that you may not have seen before.
Killers
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of killing.
Sixteen million men.
Carl Sandburg
And a quote:
We need a new law that owners of SUVs are automatically in the military reserve. Then they can go get their own goddamn oil. ~Jello Biafra, quoted in The Guardian, 3 November 2007
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Truth, Beauty, and Mirrors
I have never been a raving beauty. Oh, I've had my time in the sun - the wolf whistles, the double-entendres, the outright compliments of my hips, my smile, my blah, blah, blah. So while I was never beautiful in the classic sense, I guess I was "attractive" like my mother said when as a teen I asked her if I was pretty. An honest woman was my mother. When she said, "You are attractive," I saw the neon sign, its garish colors broadcasting, "You are not pretty, not beautiful, not, not, not. You will never have a boyfriend. You will never be Homecoming Queen. Never, never, never." Of course I was about 14 at the time, dangerously hyperbolic when considering my worth. And what girl is beautiful at 14, the supremely awkward stage of a girl's life? Maybe Sophia Loren was gorgeous at 14 as she still is at 66.
But Sophia is the exception. Most of us gradually lose the youthful beauty we once had as the years erase the luster and replace it with wrinkles, sagging skin, warts, and facial hair. Good bone structure of the face may disguise the process, but we all get to the point where, as a friend of mine said years ago, "You need to have a great personality or a great job to get any attention. You can't depend on beauty anymore to open those doors and get those cabs." Or as Bette Davis said, "Old age ain't for sissies."
I've been thinking about those women who get a zillion plastic surgeries. Not the young ones - them I cannot fathom. The older women who are resculpting their faces and bodies in desperate attempts to remain beautiful, young, desirable. I understand the urge, but since I was never so beautiful that I turned the heads of all the men in the room, I do not suffer from quite the identity crisis the lovely ones must be going through. My honest mother told me that accomplishments, ability, generosity of spirit, depth of character were more important than beauty. She said that beauty will fade and if beauty made up all your worth as a person, you weren't going to have anything to stand on when your looks went. And they would go. Doesn't it kill you when Mom is so right?
Have you ever looked at pictures of your mother or grandmother or aunt when they were about 20 or 30? So young and pretty that they take your breath away. Where did those looks go? You may be able to see remnants in the eyes, or the cheeks now, but those pictures are proof that they once had sparkle, beauty, youthfulness. Depending on how old you are, you may hope and pray that you will escape this fading of your looks, but I have become realistic. Without plastic surgery, which I will never have, my eyelids droop, my neck wrinkles need to be covered by turtlenecks, my laugh lines do not smooth out when I am not smiling. And my hair is all gray. I do not look in mirrors as much as I used to. That helps some.
I have noticed that for some people, I do not really exist. Obviously I am not in the dating or baby-making market; nor am I their boss; therefore, I am uninteresting unless I am spending money in their store. Good thing I don't need their validation, but it is annoying when it happens. So now I have to know my own worth by what I've done and what I do, how I treat others, who I love and who I am. Good thing I didn't depend on my beauty to get me through life, but it is sad to see what looks I did have on their way out. Bye, bye, so long, farewell forever, youth and beauty. At least I still have the pictures.
Sylvia Plath says it well.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
But Sophia is the exception. Most of us gradually lose the youthful beauty we once had as the years erase the luster and replace it with wrinkles, sagging skin, warts, and facial hair. Good bone structure of the face may disguise the process, but we all get to the point where, as a friend of mine said years ago, "You need to have a great personality or a great job to get any attention. You can't depend on beauty anymore to open those doors and get those cabs." Or as Bette Davis said, "Old age ain't for sissies."
I've been thinking about those women who get a zillion plastic surgeries. Not the young ones - them I cannot fathom. The older women who are resculpting their faces and bodies in desperate attempts to remain beautiful, young, desirable. I understand the urge, but since I was never so beautiful that I turned the heads of all the men in the room, I do not suffer from quite the identity crisis the lovely ones must be going through. My honest mother told me that accomplishments, ability, generosity of spirit, depth of character were more important than beauty. She said that beauty will fade and if beauty made up all your worth as a person, you weren't going to have anything to stand on when your looks went. And they would go. Doesn't it kill you when Mom is so right?
Have you ever looked at pictures of your mother or grandmother or aunt when they were about 20 or 30? So young and pretty that they take your breath away. Where did those looks go? You may be able to see remnants in the eyes, or the cheeks now, but those pictures are proof that they once had sparkle, beauty, youthfulness. Depending on how old you are, you may hope and pray that you will escape this fading of your looks, but I have become realistic. Without plastic surgery, which I will never have, my eyelids droop, my neck wrinkles need to be covered by turtlenecks, my laugh lines do not smooth out when I am not smiling. And my hair is all gray. I do not look in mirrors as much as I used to. That helps some.
I have noticed that for some people, I do not really exist. Obviously I am not in the dating or baby-making market; nor am I their boss; therefore, I am uninteresting unless I am spending money in their store. Good thing I don't need their validation, but it is annoying when it happens. So now I have to know my own worth by what I've done and what I do, how I treat others, who I love and who I am. Good thing I didn't depend on my beauty to get me through life, but it is sad to see what looks I did have on their way out. Bye, bye, so long, farewell forever, youth and beauty. At least I still have the pictures.
Sylvia Plath says it well.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of the little god, four cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Let it Snow...Nooooo, Let it Stop
We are having an unusual winter here in southwest Ohio. We have over 20 inches of snow on the ground and we may break all records for snow in February. Kind of neat since I grew up in Minnesota and Maine where it snowed a lot when I was a kid. I remember playing in the snow, making snow angels, falling backwards off the top of the fence into the soft cushion of deep snow, making snow forts and tunnels, and being dwarfed by huge piles of snow left by the plows. Those piles seemed like they were ten feet tall, at least. I know things appear a lot smaller if you go back as an adult, but I do not want to discover that those snow piles were only 3 feet tall. No way they were that little. I remain faithful in my belief in howling blizzards that left feet and feet of snow on the ground.
Of course now I have to shovel the driveway, especially because my other half has been in Europe the entire time we've had these two storms that dumped on us. I like shoveling the drive - it makes me feel like all my weightlifting and workouts have been for something practical. My back got a little sore during the fifth shovel session in two days, but I'll be fine tomorrow. My carpal-tunnel affected wrists may take a bit more time to heal, however.
It was not all shoveling. I got to take some walks on borrowed snowshoes, following animal tracks one day and searching for them the next because so much snow had fallen in the interim. Snow pelting my face, I found it invigorating to be out in the storm moving through the woods and fields under my own power. I have always loved storms. When I was a teen living on a lake in Maine with my family, I slept on the screen porch. I loved listening to the approaching storms - the thunder rumbling softly in the distance, coming closer across the lake and arriving with the full timpani of crashing thunder and heart-splitting lightning. The whoosh of the rain would drive me off the porch. Liking storms and sleeping in the rain are two different things. I remember once swimming in the rough waves of Sebago Lake as a storm approached. Those waves were so big I body-surfed them for quite some time. After choking on several mouthfuls of lake water, I gave up and came in to shore feeling tired and invigorated at the same time. And once my dad and I sailed our little scow of a sailing barge on our lake in the tailwinds of a hurricane. Yehaa! That little flat-bottomed heavy-weight actually heeled steeply and scooted wildly through the rough lake waters. What fun that was.
Being in a snowstorm feels different from those summer storms. It is quieter even with the wind swirling the snow into my face. It also feels more dangerous. I made sure I had my phone on me in case I fell and broke something. I'm more cautious now than I was when I was 17. That's because I've lived long enough to see many things happen to many people that a seventeen-year-old wouldn't countenance happening to them. The longer you live, the humbler you get. You are no longer protected by the hubris of youth; you know that anything can happen to anyone at any time. But that doesn't stop you from going out into the storm and experiencing nature in her power and beauty.
Good thing I like the snow. We are supposed to get another storm in four days. Even better, I won't be the only one home to shovel.
So many poems about snowmen exist that I was delighted to find this one.
The Snow-Woman by Angela Sorby
Her body's weighty, two snow-balls,
and so white she leeches red paint from the sled.
The whole yard resembles her: white getting whiter
as if it were all in her head.
Yesterday she fell in a trance from the sky.
I gave her buttons and two coal eyes.
She is an ambassador from the Old Order,
from the ice force that carved out the Kettle Moraine.
Her mineral rights are clear: she shares the past
with the stars and carries a stillness so vast it moves
like a glacier across the yard.
She asks nothing of me. I ask nothing in return.
I am genetically closer to mushrooms
than to her. Her roots are elsewhere, like the roots
of the daughter I will never bear,
and so things settle between us.
Angela Sorby
Bird Skin Coat
The University of Wisconsin Press
Of course now I have to shovel the driveway, especially because my other half has been in Europe the entire time we've had these two storms that dumped on us. I like shoveling the drive - it makes me feel like all my weightlifting and workouts have been for something practical. My back got a little sore during the fifth shovel session in two days, but I'll be fine tomorrow. My carpal-tunnel affected wrists may take a bit more time to heal, however.
It was not all shoveling. I got to take some walks on borrowed snowshoes, following animal tracks one day and searching for them the next because so much snow had fallen in the interim. Snow pelting my face, I found it invigorating to be out in the storm moving through the woods and fields under my own power. I have always loved storms. When I was a teen living on a lake in Maine with my family, I slept on the screen porch. I loved listening to the approaching storms - the thunder rumbling softly in the distance, coming closer across the lake and arriving with the full timpani of crashing thunder and heart-splitting lightning. The whoosh of the rain would drive me off the porch. Liking storms and sleeping in the rain are two different things. I remember once swimming in the rough waves of Sebago Lake as a storm approached. Those waves were so big I body-surfed them for quite some time. After choking on several mouthfuls of lake water, I gave up and came in to shore feeling tired and invigorated at the same time. And once my dad and I sailed our little scow of a sailing barge on our lake in the tailwinds of a hurricane. Yehaa! That little flat-bottomed heavy-weight actually heeled steeply and scooted wildly through the rough lake waters. What fun that was.
Being in a snowstorm feels different from those summer storms. It is quieter even with the wind swirling the snow into my face. It also feels more dangerous. I made sure I had my phone on me in case I fell and broke something. I'm more cautious now than I was when I was 17. That's because I've lived long enough to see many things happen to many people that a seventeen-year-old wouldn't countenance happening to them. The longer you live, the humbler you get. You are no longer protected by the hubris of youth; you know that anything can happen to anyone at any time. But that doesn't stop you from going out into the storm and experiencing nature in her power and beauty.
Good thing I like the snow. We are supposed to get another storm in four days. Even better, I won't be the only one home to shovel.
So many poems about snowmen exist that I was delighted to find this one.
The Snow-Woman by Angela Sorby
Her body's weighty, two snow-balls,
and so white she leeches red paint from the sled.
The whole yard resembles her: white getting whiter
as if it were all in her head.
Yesterday she fell in a trance from the sky.
I gave her buttons and two coal eyes.
She is an ambassador from the Old Order,
from the ice force that carved out the Kettle Moraine.
Her mineral rights are clear: she shares the past
with the stars and carries a stillness so vast it moves
like a glacier across the yard.
She asks nothing of me. I ask nothing in return.
I am genetically closer to mushrooms
than to her. Her roots are elsewhere, like the roots
of the daughter I will never bear,
and so things settle between us.
Angela Sorby
Bird Skin Coat
The University of Wisconsin Press
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Happy Birthday ...and Many More
The other day I had a birthday. It doesn't matter which one but the two digits add up to 10. That leaves a lot of possibilities but 19 and 91 are not among them. Somewhere in between. Old enough to be getting tired of the Christmas hype; young enough to enjoy sledding down the hill in the back yard. Old enough to enjoy a two-year-old's curiosity and exploration of his expanding world. Young enough to help a frail person negotiate icy steps. Too old to eat large meals with impunity but young enough to ride my bike 65 miles a day and enjoy it.
So I guess numbers don't really mean that much. Once again, as in so much of life, it's attitude that dictates enjoyment or its opposite. Thankfully, I still have an attitude that life is precious and interesting. Many things are left to learn and experience. The speed at which technology changes insures that much is left to learn in that area. I have many spots left on my list of places to see, more interesting people to meet and great books to read. In other words, I still love life.
But sometimes I think about family members and friends eventually dying and I wonder how I will react. Then I chastise myself for assuming that I won't die first and therefore miss the sadness and loss that is sure to come. I have lost both my parents and while I miss them tremendously and wish they were still here to provide counsel and see my children and grandchildren, I have survived their loss. So I suppose I will survive other deaths. I hope I will not be diminished by them to the point that I lose the spark that ignites my appreciation of this life. I hope that I will remember those who are close to me now with appreciation, love, and laughter after they are gone. And that makes me think that I have to live in such a way that my friends and family will remember me the same way - with love, appreciation that I was in their lives, and with laughter and good memories. This means I have to live up to those expectations. Well, that should keep me busy.
Death is a heavy subject but it seems to be one that naturally accompanies birthdays beyond, oh - 50 or so. In contemplating the end of life I find inspiration to live the rest of my life the best way I can. Maybe that's a sort of birthday in itself.
The following poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of my favorites.
Dirge Without Music - Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel
they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
So I guess numbers don't really mean that much. Once again, as in so much of life, it's attitude that dictates enjoyment or its opposite. Thankfully, I still have an attitude that life is precious and interesting. Many things are left to learn and experience. The speed at which technology changes insures that much is left to learn in that area. I have many spots left on my list of places to see, more interesting people to meet and great books to read. In other words, I still love life.
But sometimes I think about family members and friends eventually dying and I wonder how I will react. Then I chastise myself for assuming that I won't die first and therefore miss the sadness and loss that is sure to come. I have lost both my parents and while I miss them tremendously and wish they were still here to provide counsel and see my children and grandchildren, I have survived their loss. So I suppose I will survive other deaths. I hope I will not be diminished by them to the point that I lose the spark that ignites my appreciation of this life. I hope that I will remember those who are close to me now with appreciation, love, and laughter after they are gone. And that makes me think that I have to live in such a way that my friends and family will remember me the same way - with love, appreciation that I was in their lives, and with laughter and good memories. This means I have to live up to those expectations. Well, that should keep me busy.
Death is a heavy subject but it seems to be one that naturally accompanies birthdays beyond, oh - 50 or so. In contemplating the end of life I find inspiration to live the rest of my life the best way I can. Maybe that's a sort of birthday in itself.
The following poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of my favorites.
Dirge Without Music - Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel
they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Digital World Has no Room for Books
I saw Digital Nation last night for the first time. What a mind-blower. They were discussing a subject near and dear to my heart: reading books and...not reading books. Those on the program contended that with the fast-paced changes in digital technology, the Internet, and video games, students of all ages do not want to read anything long - like say, a book. College professors say they cannot assign anything over 200 pages. (There goes A Prayer for Owen Meany, most of Dickens, Austen and any of the Victorians although I always thought they were a bit verbose anyway.) No more Moby Dick, (I hear thousands of hands clapping). Even a lot of modern novels are over 200 pages long. Wow. If college kids aren't reading those "long" books, how do we expect high schoolers to read anything over 150 pages?
The fact is, we can't. We can beg them to read; we can bribe them. We can try to make reading a game - exciting and fast-paced. We can try a lot of things, but the truth is, many, if not most of them, will not read more than a few pages a night if they even do that. They will go online and read the synopses which are abundant. They may even read the commentary or criticism if they want to impress their teachers. They will find the sites that provide tests and quizzes. They will go to great lengths to disguise purloined essays from the Web. But they will not read the entire book. Uh uh, no way, nada. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing substitutes for the real thing. Synopses are but pale ghosts of the lives and emotions depicted in a good book.
Why won't they read books? Digital Nation says that it isn't because they cannot concentrate for any length of time. They can play video games for hours and watch long movies diligently. But they want their literature fast, short, and they want it easy to read and understand. To take the time to read a long chapter and actually think about any nuances or message or theme? Come on, there are games to play, messages to text, music to download. The digital world is too seductive to resist and many parents are too busy to control their children's time. Some parents even think that letting Junior play video games until 2 a.m. will help him get a great job someday.
And it might. The armed services use drones in Iraq and Afghanistan which are controlled from the United States. The pilots wear cammies and report to duty every day and are able to return home to their families after work is over. Yes, it's safe and that is good, and most of these people actually know how to fly a plane. However, the TV show last night mentioned that in the near future, they will not be required to have ever flown a real plane. They just need to be good with the computerized controls they sit before. They may not even have to do sit-ups and push-ups and run. Wow. So all those hours Junior sat in front of his flickering screen playing war games will enable him to get a job. Mind-boggling.
And this is scary to me, a former English teacher. I knew we were losing the grammar battle years ago. I know that our language, one of the richest in the world, is losing its richness and texture to sloppiness and laziness. Who uses the past perfect anymore? I had taught many classes before my eyes and ears were opened to the truth. Most people don't want to take the time to express themselves carefully and clearly, let alone eloquently. It just doesn't matter anymore.
Don't get me wrong. I still wage the battle. I still fight the good fight. I simply know that the trenches I fight from are getting smaller with fewer fighters every year. In a world where a person with an extensive and well-used vocabulary is considered musty and boring and sometimes even incorrect by the masses, the language can't help but be diluted. In a world where people won't read books, the intellect becomes diluted and dulled. We need words to express how we feel, what we think, or how to solve problems. The poorer our vocabulary becomes, the weaker our thoughts, because we cannot express them to any degree of exactness. I would have used the word "exactitude" but I don't want to be considered hoity-toity.
Last night, the participants, all experts in their fields of education and digitalness, admitted that some things are lost as technology speeds on. But they didn't seem concerned. To them the future is bright because it is moving toward us and becomes the present in a dizzying whirl of development and new devices to "help" us or entertain us. Seductive, yes. But the Sirens were seductive, and they caused the deaths of many Greek argonauts who listened to their beautiful voices and couldn't resist getting close enough for a look.
I don't think we are heading for destruction with our technological developments - well, most of them anyway. But I do think we are losing some very important skills - reading, writing, and thinking things out in depth. Yes, some people will still read and think and do great things, but what about the masses? What about Trevor and Ellie sitting in their classrooms watching the movie of To Kill a Mockingbird instead of reading the book? Will they be able to discern when our political or financial leaders are lying to us? Will they know history and try to avoid it happening again? Will they know human nature well enough that they can make informed judgments? Maybe Second City can teach them about human nature. I sure hope so.
To counter the tone of the above post, I enclose a poem that isn't so serious about technology.
Remember When by James S. Huggins (Site: Refrigerator Door)
A Poem About Technology
A computer was something on TV
From a sci fi show of note.
A window was something you hated to clean
And ram was the cousin of goat.
Meg was the name of my girlfriend
And gig was a job for the nights.
Now they all mean different things
And that really mega bytes.
An application was for employment.
A program was a TV show.
A curser used profanity.
A keyboard was a piano.
Memory was something that you lost with age.
A CD was a bank account.
And if you had a 3 1/2" floppy
You hoped nobody found out.
Compress was something you did to the garbage
Not something you did to a file.
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for a while.
Log on was adding wood to the fire.
Hard drive was a long trip on the road.
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived.
And a backup happened to your commode.
Cut you did with a pocket knife.
Paste you did with glue.
A web was a spider's home.
And a virus was the flu
I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
And the memory in my head.
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash,
But when it happens they wish they were dead.
And finally, a quote I found on a page that held a poem about technology that was, get this, too long to publish today. Maybe tomorrow. But here's an interesting quote from this page.
One of the seductive things about the internet is its immediacy.
It kind of demands immediate involvement but our lives have
priorites and often we must set the internet aside and do what
is important and let the immediacy go. So time between
communication is just time spent on those real events that
fill out our lives. John Peterson, Publisher, PoeticMatrix.com
The fact is, we can't. We can beg them to read; we can bribe them. We can try to make reading a game - exciting and fast-paced. We can try a lot of things, but the truth is, many, if not most of them, will not read more than a few pages a night if they even do that. They will go online and read the synopses which are abundant. They may even read the commentary or criticism if they want to impress their teachers. They will find the sites that provide tests and quizzes. They will go to great lengths to disguise purloined essays from the Web. But they will not read the entire book. Uh uh, no way, nada. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing substitutes for the real thing. Synopses are but pale ghosts of the lives and emotions depicted in a good book.
Why won't they read books? Digital Nation says that it isn't because they cannot concentrate for any length of time. They can play video games for hours and watch long movies diligently. But they want their literature fast, short, and they want it easy to read and understand. To take the time to read a long chapter and actually think about any nuances or message or theme? Come on, there are games to play, messages to text, music to download. The digital world is too seductive to resist and many parents are too busy to control their children's time. Some parents even think that letting Junior play video games until 2 a.m. will help him get a great job someday.
And it might. The armed services use drones in Iraq and Afghanistan which are controlled from the United States. The pilots wear cammies and report to duty every day and are able to return home to their families after work is over. Yes, it's safe and that is good, and most of these people actually know how to fly a plane. However, the TV show last night mentioned that in the near future, they will not be required to have ever flown a real plane. They just need to be good with the computerized controls they sit before. They may not even have to do sit-ups and push-ups and run. Wow. So all those hours Junior sat in front of his flickering screen playing war games will enable him to get a job. Mind-boggling.
And this is scary to me, a former English teacher. I knew we were losing the grammar battle years ago. I know that our language, one of the richest in the world, is losing its richness and texture to sloppiness and laziness. Who uses the past perfect anymore? I had taught many classes before my eyes and ears were opened to the truth. Most people don't want to take the time to express themselves carefully and clearly, let alone eloquently. It just doesn't matter anymore.
Don't get me wrong. I still wage the battle. I still fight the good fight. I simply know that the trenches I fight from are getting smaller with fewer fighters every year. In a world where a person with an extensive and well-used vocabulary is considered musty and boring and sometimes even incorrect by the masses, the language can't help but be diluted. In a world where people won't read books, the intellect becomes diluted and dulled. We need words to express how we feel, what we think, or how to solve problems. The poorer our vocabulary becomes, the weaker our thoughts, because we cannot express them to any degree of exactness. I would have used the word "exactitude" but I don't want to be considered hoity-toity.
Last night, the participants, all experts in their fields of education and digitalness, admitted that some things are lost as technology speeds on. But they didn't seem concerned. To them the future is bright because it is moving toward us and becomes the present in a dizzying whirl of development and new devices to "help" us or entertain us. Seductive, yes. But the Sirens were seductive, and they caused the deaths of many Greek argonauts who listened to their beautiful voices and couldn't resist getting close enough for a look.
I don't think we are heading for destruction with our technological developments - well, most of them anyway. But I do think we are losing some very important skills - reading, writing, and thinking things out in depth. Yes, some people will still read and think and do great things, but what about the masses? What about Trevor and Ellie sitting in their classrooms watching the movie of To Kill a Mockingbird instead of reading the book? Will they be able to discern when our political or financial leaders are lying to us? Will they know history and try to avoid it happening again? Will they know human nature well enough that they can make informed judgments? Maybe Second City can teach them about human nature. I sure hope so.
To counter the tone of the above post, I enclose a poem that isn't so serious about technology.
Remember When by James S. Huggins (Site: Refrigerator Door)
A Poem About Technology
A computer was something on TV
From a sci fi show of note.
A window was something you hated to clean
And ram was the cousin of goat.
Meg was the name of my girlfriend
And gig was a job for the nights.
Now they all mean different things
And that really mega bytes.
An application was for employment.
A program was a TV show.
A curser used profanity.
A keyboard was a piano.
Memory was something that you lost with age.
A CD was a bank account.
And if you had a 3 1/2" floppy
You hoped nobody found out.
Compress was something you did to the garbage
Not something you did to a file.
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for a while.
Log on was adding wood to the fire.
Hard drive was a long trip on the road.
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived.
And a backup happened to your commode.
Cut you did with a pocket knife.
Paste you did with glue.
A web was a spider's home.
And a virus was the flu
I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
And the memory in my head.
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash,
But when it happens they wish they were dead.
And finally, a quote I found on a page that held a poem about technology that was, get this, too long to publish today. Maybe tomorrow. But here's an interesting quote from this page.
One of the seductive things about the internet is its immediacy.
It kind of demands immediate involvement but our lives have
priorites and often we must set the internet aside and do what
is important and let the immediacy go. So time between
communication is just time spent on those real events that
fill out our lives. John Peterson, Publisher, PoeticMatrix.com
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