On the South and High School
I was eavesdropping on a conversation between a guy and girl two days ago in the Reynolds Club. The guy was telling the girl about a road trip him and his friends (some of whom turn out to be acquaintances of mine) took over spring break through the South, something like Tennessee to Alabama all the way through Texas and back up to Chicago. From the way he recounted it, the trip was a study in ironic hipsterism, which included activities like counting how many "Jesus saves" billboards were observed over the course of the route. The guy regaled the girl with tales of whack pro-life stickers ("I'm Glad My Mommy Chose Life") and giant road-side crosses (the one in Texas is the biggest in the Western Hemisphere), to which the girl would respond in awe, "God, that's creepy," or "how scary." And I found myself getting annoyed at these two, especially the girl. Maybe because I just don't consider giant crosses scary. There's a few big ones in South Carolina that I remember passing on the way up to those Queens College summer programs, and they were certainly tacky, and a clear misallocation of the fruit of the offering plate, but they never struck me with a kind of Carrie White's mother fear. Giant crosses are like fanny packs. Anthropologically fascinating but mostly harmless.
I've heard lots of people mention with a kind of pride how they've never been to a "Red State" before. And I must wonder, was anybody saying things like that three years ago?
So I finally went to visit my fiction professor from last quarter. I didn't have any reason to use his office hours for anything else but to make myself feel better about never talking in class. I was visibly nervous yesterday morning before going in, and I'd gone so far as to write down a few pathetic questions that I would ask. I'd even scripted several possible outcomes in my head. But when I finally got there, it was remarkably comfortable. He didn't grab me by the shoulders and announce, "you are my chosen pupil, my most wonderous creation: thee shall be my successor," and nor did he look bored or wave off stupid questions. The man who'd so awed me all quarter was engaging, excessively talkative, looked me in the eye, and smiled the whole time. Outside was a pleasantly sunny view of Classics Quad framed by the quivering ivy that clings to the building, and after a year of avoidance I remembered how simply enjoyable office hours can be. For my part, I stumbled over an expression of my gratitude for the class, I asked for his explanation of New Criticism, I described my newfound love of dead white guys, I was incoherent, naive, excitable--- everything an undergraduate should be, really. Sometimes when I'm looking for pivotal milestones, I get moments that are just good. It was good.
There's one thing he told me that I'm still thinking about though: I was rambling about how there are so many things--- Greek theater, Renaissance poetry, The Wastelands--- that I wish someone had made me read or prepared me for. To this, he told me that I should never beat myself up over what I don't know, but also, that I shouldn't be ashamed of my high school. To which I immediately thought, "wow, did I say that?" Unconsciously, in so many words? That's never what I meant at all. Or did I?
There's certainly nothing about my social experience at Milton that I'm ashamed at. I mean, I had great friends (one of whom I'm still dating) and, by senior year, several years' accumulation of acquaintances with people I liked. Marching band was dorky but without substitute, cross-country was a trial, art was utlimately disappointing, and studio theater continues to influence what I do today. But I must admit that academically Milton doesn't seem to hold much visible sway over me anymore. Mr. Wade, Ms. Davis, and Ms. Crockett were great classes, great experiences, and great teachers. But what they taught me was something else than what I could ever wield confidently in a college course. Even AP US History, intellectually invigorating as it was to me when I was 17, is becoming more like a pleasant memory. And if I'm being even more honest with myself, I have to admit that sometimes I am a little bitter at my secondary education. Usually in every subject there were two teachers who taught the class, and it always seemed to me that I got the teacher who gave the easier assignments, was more laid-back, more easy-going. Variations on a Wade, if you will. Those were great teachers to have, and if you held a gun to my head I would say that I don't regret having them. But at this stage of my education, I find myself wishing more and more that I'd had teachers who made it hard for me, who tested my skills of interpretation, and who instilled in me tools instead of tastes.
My honest perspective on high school is that maybe I didn't take from it as much as I thought I did. I don't know if I like the way I feel about this. I'm not ashamed, but I'm not grateful either.
"Let us inquire into this matter."
I was eavesdropping on a conversation between a guy and girl two days ago in the Reynolds Club. The guy was telling the girl about a road trip him and his friends (some of whom turn out to be acquaintances of mine) took over spring break through the South, something like Tennessee to Alabama all the way through Texas and back up to Chicago. From the way he recounted it, the trip was a study in ironic hipsterism, which included activities like counting how many "Jesus saves" billboards were observed over the course of the route. The guy regaled the girl with tales of whack pro-life stickers ("I'm Glad My Mommy Chose Life") and giant road-side crosses (the one in Texas is the biggest in the Western Hemisphere), to which the girl would respond in awe, "God, that's creepy," or "how scary." And I found myself getting annoyed at these two, especially the girl. Maybe because I just don't consider giant crosses scary. There's a few big ones in South Carolina that I remember passing on the way up to those Queens College summer programs, and they were certainly tacky, and a clear misallocation of the fruit of the offering plate, but they never struck me with a kind of Carrie White's mother fear. Giant crosses are like fanny packs. Anthropologically fascinating but mostly harmless.
I've heard lots of people mention with a kind of pride how they've never been to a "Red State" before. And I must wonder, was anybody saying things like that three years ago?
So I finally went to visit my fiction professor from last quarter. I didn't have any reason to use his office hours for anything else but to make myself feel better about never talking in class. I was visibly nervous yesterday morning before going in, and I'd gone so far as to write down a few pathetic questions that I would ask. I'd even scripted several possible outcomes in my head. But when I finally got there, it was remarkably comfortable. He didn't grab me by the shoulders and announce, "you are my chosen pupil, my most wonderous creation: thee shall be my successor," and nor did he look bored or wave off stupid questions. The man who'd so awed me all quarter was engaging, excessively talkative, looked me in the eye, and smiled the whole time. Outside was a pleasantly sunny view of Classics Quad framed by the quivering ivy that clings to the building, and after a year of avoidance I remembered how simply enjoyable office hours can be. For my part, I stumbled over an expression of my gratitude for the class, I asked for his explanation of New Criticism, I described my newfound love of dead white guys, I was incoherent, naive, excitable--- everything an undergraduate should be, really. Sometimes when I'm looking for pivotal milestones, I get moments that are just good. It was good.
There's one thing he told me that I'm still thinking about though: I was rambling about how there are so many things--- Greek theater, Renaissance poetry, The Wastelands--- that I wish someone had made me read or prepared me for. To this, he told me that I should never beat myself up over what I don't know, but also, that I shouldn't be ashamed of my high school. To which I immediately thought, "wow, did I say that?" Unconsciously, in so many words? That's never what I meant at all. Or did I?
There's certainly nothing about my social experience at Milton that I'm ashamed at. I mean, I had great friends (one of whom I'm still dating) and, by senior year, several years' accumulation of acquaintances with people I liked. Marching band was dorky but without substitute, cross-country was a trial, art was utlimately disappointing, and studio theater continues to influence what I do today. But I must admit that academically Milton doesn't seem to hold much visible sway over me anymore. Mr. Wade, Ms. Davis, and Ms. Crockett were great classes, great experiences, and great teachers. But what they taught me was something else than what I could ever wield confidently in a college course. Even AP US History, intellectually invigorating as it was to me when I was 17, is becoming more like a pleasant memory. And if I'm being even more honest with myself, I have to admit that sometimes I am a little bitter at my secondary education. Usually in every subject there were two teachers who taught the class, and it always seemed to me that I got the teacher who gave the easier assignments, was more laid-back, more easy-going. Variations on a Wade, if you will. Those were great teachers to have, and if you held a gun to my head I would say that I don't regret having them. But at this stage of my education, I find myself wishing more and more that I'd had teachers who made it hard for me, who tested my skills of interpretation, and who instilled in me tools instead of tastes.
My honest perspective on high school is that maybe I didn't take from it as much as I thought I did. I don't know if I like the way I feel about this. I'm not ashamed, but I'm not grateful either.
"Let us inquire into this matter."
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