Have you noticed my generous use of the first person pronoun so far? During my college years, this practice was actively encouraged in many of my English classes. Reflective writing, was the pedagogical term in vogue.
Reflective writing assignments start with questions such as – how did this make you feel, do you know anyone in your life who, and when was there a time you noticed? I reflected so much if I stood in the sun too long I smelled smoke. Women would face me and apply makeup. I resented it too, mostly because I viewed it as a teaching tactic to get students to write. If I want to talk about myself, I’ll hide it in a story or a poem, thanks. Putting words down on paper for a teacher was never one of my problems. They are the perfect captive audience. Reflective writing also ran counter to how I was taught to write in the lower grades.
Academic discourse is the antithesis of reflective writing, in practice if not in spirit. The first person pronoun should not appear. Notice the word should. That’s good advice no matter where you run across it. Especially when you’re saying it to yourself. The term academic discourse beautifully encapsulates both its power and its failing. Let’s pull that term down to the first grade and you’ll see what I mean. School talk. The language of school. It is the voice of the overmind – cool, detached, impersonal.
Its strengths are mighty. Academic discourse is – highly structured, relies on argument, comparison, observation, a liberal use of evidence (in the form of quotes and page citations, for example), and at its best strives to achieve integration of previously unseen ideas into an innovative, or even unique, perspective. Educators love it because it is a great tool for assessing knowledge.
Its failings are equally mighty. It quickly descends into jargon and is used by the talented lexicographer to obfuscate a scintillating exiguity of perspicacity (those who use big words to hide their bullshit). But most know it by its mightiest failing: It’s boring. Academic discourse is only of interest to a small group of people – those who are made to write it, those who are forced to read it, and those cursed souls who are compelled to it for the same reason the moth loves the flame.
Like knowledge and wisdom, academic discourse and reflective writing are best when combined. That’s why I love literature. At least, what I call literature. Very few of my favorite books are canon. The word canon is jargon. I’m not going to define it for you, if you don’t know it, go look it up (Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary definition 3c). It’s a good word to know. Chances are excellent you have a canon in your profession as well. You sure as hell have one in your church.
I’ve often thought most people learn things like a dry sponge under the tap. Absorption isn’t immediate, especially if you’ve got the water going full blast. The water bounces off, beads, and pools. The sponge actually resists the torrent; if it is really dry you have to give it a good squeeze while soaking it from all angles so the water can penetrate.
Also, I’ve noticed most people don’t learn new things like a full sponge under the tap. No new water can get in, especially if you’ve got the tap going full blast. The water bounces off, beads, and pools. It actually resists the torrent; if the sponge is really wet you have to give it a good squeeze away from the faucet so new water can penetrate.
You’d think the best learning takes place when evaporation and intake are in harmony, a steady drip under the faucet, if you like. This way, you avoid the squeeze. But that way too often leads to a stagnant, smelly sponge.
No, in order to wring the most out of this analogy, you really need the squeeze.
This has nothing to do with politics.
This has everything to do with politics.
This has everything to do with everything.