the world spins and I spin too.
So, “The Secret Language of Jazz” has been launched on to the Kindle market. (please contact for free tomatoes to throw at me.) Yes, I know, I know….don’t say it, I know. There is only so much backing into a corner that one can endure until he says “I have never seen the inside of a wall before.” And I have had to rethink my opinions of the concept of the eBook. As a format, ti does not compare to the real book, but the words are there for you to read, to enjoy, the same words. I was out the other day, and had only my iPad on me, and was reading Hamlet (again) and well….I didn’t enjoy it any less. I am teaching Hamlet this term and I have been told that most of the students (it’s a small class in a private school) will be reading the books off eReaders or laptops - while my head filled immediately with thoughts of “well, this marks the end of the world as I know it”, the only response I could come up with “alright”. Because it does not change how I will teach Hamlet, and I don’t believe it will change how they read Hamlet….so…..
I guess my point is: you should read “The Secret Language of Jazz”.
The Secret Language of Jazz chapter 1
Chapter One
“From the lowliest peasant to the mightiest king, everyone is absolutely terrified by death: I suppose in this regard I am better than both” – Alexander Tinovsky Sr.
Like a drum marching soldiers forward, the rain rhythmically beat against her umbrella: rat-ta-ta-tat, ra-ta-ta-tat. The widow stood under her umbrella: a weak black parasol made of silk supported by a wooden frame, partially cracked from use. Rat-ta-ta-tat, ra-ta-ta-tat. The widow supported it with one hand and in the other hand, a child of several months. She was shaking. Rat-ta-ta-tat, rat-ta-ta-tat. She stood fixated on the object of her haunted dreams. Mrs. Natasha Tinovsky – age thirty, chestnut brown hair, pudgy face, well-nourished body – wasn’t sleeping well lately and as she stood staring at the tombstone before her, she knew why she found herself awake at night. The sound of earth falling heavily on wood, her heart pounding waking up in a sweat as she wiped the invisible dirt from her invisible grave. Grabbing her baby and heading out the house to the deserted streets of Kazan, Russia – it was certainly no waking dream. She fell to the ground, kneeling in a puddle (rat-ta-ta-tat, rat-ta-ta-tat), weeping for moments before finding the strength to get up. No, it certainly was no accident: just as it certainly was no accident when her husband was shot through the heart by a man who had none.
His name was Alexander Tinovsky. He would have been forty-seven. He and his wife lived on a farm just outside the city of Kazan. By the time of his death, Alexander Tinovsky had earned many names, but above all he was revered for his skill. His crops grew better than the rest, his animals tamer and stronger than all others in the area. Speculations say that in the long winters when the animals had to be moved into the small house with the husband and wife the animals were treated better than the human inhabitants. Alexander’s neighbours came in search of his knowledge and would never leave empty handed. For these reasons, Lenin, upon initially learning about Alexander Tinovsky, bent his head in respect.
In February 1917 the Russian state was in a state of decay brought upon by the war effort. Weapons were produced in masses while bread was scarce. The Tsar was nowhere to be seen in his empire for he was off fighting in the front. On the morning of February 25th as Alexander sat in his stable grooming his favourite horse, there was a general strike in Petrograd. On February 26th as Alexander sat sheering a sheep in order to make a blanket for his wife, orders came from Tsar Nicholas II to fire on the workers rioting in the streets of Petrograd. On February 28th Alexander and his wife sat outside their house as a messenger rode in the distance, carrying news that the garrisons ordered to fire on the workers had now joined them. Alexander drew his wife close into him, breathed out a heavy cloud of smoke and shook his head as the Provisional government celebrated in the streets of Petrograd.
Lenin returned to Russia on the 3rd of April, 1917, bringing with him violent slogans of retaliation against the Provisional government, whose promises for reform had come to nothing since their establishment a month earlier. Whereas in February they promised to rid Russia of the burden of the war, in April they furthered their war efforts and spent more of Russia’s money on annexing foreign lands; all to the dismay of the people. Lenin’s message of opposition leaked out of Petrograd and found its way to Moscow and inevitably Kazan.
“He says we’re moving backward in time,” one enthusiast said to Alexander, “trading one corrupt power for another.”
“And soon for yet another,” Alexander thought, but said nothing. Russia may have been moving backward in time, but for him, time was constantly ticking forward. The small clock was growing inside his wife, growing larger by the day. Any day now the revolution would come, shaking the foundations of his small life and transforming him into a newly established role: fatherhood.
Alexander Tinovsky’s baby boy was born on Wednesday April 25, 1917.
It was a cold morning: February 22, 1918. Mrs. Tinovsky awoke as always and stumbled over to her baby. A warm breeze caressed the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, sighed, felt her husband’s moustache brush up against her smooth skin. He’s like a cat! She smiled at the thought. Two large arms came around her and drew her back into her husband’s chest. He leaned over her and kissed her. Wrapping her up in one arm, he bent over the crib to pick up his baby.
“Care to dance?” he whispered into her ear. Smiling, giggling, not able to find any words, she pressed against him as he began to move around the room, while in one arm, son in the other. Alexander hummed a pleasant tune: one he had heard on a recent visit to the city. “What is it?” the shop-owner repeated the words when Alexander asked. “It’s Scott Joplin: he’s going to be the biggest thing that ever came out of America, just you watch.” People accused them of listening to dirty music, unpatriotic music, but they didn’t care much for Tchaikovsky or Mussorgsky. They listened to Joplin until he had the melody engrained in his head.
Three horsemen travelled along the frozen road leading into Alexander’s farm. The man in the centre rode a large grey horse and had a tight coat wrapped around him to keep out the biting cold. The men flanking him remained a short distance behind, always vigilant for suspicious activity. Reaching Alexander’s home, they dismounted.
“Gospodin?” asked one of the men, “How are you to go about this?”
“Quietly,” replied the leader, “The last thing we want is an uprising that we
cannot quell.”
“Do you think Diasky will suspect you?”
“Of course he will.”
“What if we blame it on a jealous neighbour? The man does have a reputation.”
“Diasky will not care.”
“Gospodin, are you sure it was Tinovsky who––?”
“Yes!” snapped the leader as he approached the door. Finding it to be locked, and not wishing to knock it down, he took the sensible course of action and knocked. The door opened and he was greeted by a tall slim man who had the face of a peasant but the wardrobe of a king. He had short unkempt hair; the colour could hardly be deciphered.
“Welcome,” said Alexander. He quickly took stock of his familiar guest.
“You know what I think?” said the guest pushing his way through the door, “I think that I should make a law against the possession of door locks.”
“Gospodin,” said the practical farmer, “that would ultimately abolish all sense of privacy. Men would walk into others’ homes without even having to impose.”
“And what is wrong with that?” said the odd guest, “Privacy leads to paranoia, and paranoia is not good for society. The perfect world is one where everyone could trust one another and live together. A perfect world is one which there is a force that brings everyone together and there is no need for privacy or private enterprises, do you not agree?” At this point Mrs. Tinovsky entered the room, baby in hand. She froze when she caught sight of none other than Vladimir Ilyich Lenin standing in her kitchen. Alexander noticed her and politely excused himself for a moment, leading his wife into the next room.
“Are you alright, dear?” he asked his shaky wife.
“The dictator of Russia is sitting at our table. The man who kills with no guilt. Get him out of here!” Mrs. Tinovsky hissed. Alexander assured his wife that he had everything under control and she should take the baby out for a quick walk and he would see that Lenin left quickly. She nodded, wrapped her son up tightly and slipped out the back door. Alexander caught his reflection in the mirror; he did not realize how pale he was. He pinched his cheek and smoothed his hair, bit his lip and forced himself to keep his composure. He graciously offered his guests some coffee.
“It has been awhile since I had coffee,” said Lenin as he sniffed the drink that was offered to him, “I usually drink what is grown from Mother Russia.”
“The only drink Mother Russia grows,” laughed Alexander, “is vodka.”
“And what is wrong with that?” Lenin said. Alexander sensed his mistake but his guest assured him that he was just having fun. Alexander was in no mood for fun and jumped to the point of Lenin’s purpose.
“Ah yes,” said the dictator taking off his hat and observing it. Lenin gave Alexander a hard look. He explained that he wanted Alexander’s farm, claiming that it would secure his position in this part of the country.
“I mean no disrespect,” started Alexander, “however, I need this farm. Not for myself but for my family. I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t have the farm.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Lenin leaning back on his chair. He sat for a moment and then punched the man to his left. The man toppled off his chair and Alexander, frightened, started to get up to help him. Lenin smashed his fist down on the table and told Alexander to take a seat. Alexander complied.
“I can see you’re not a man for games so I will be clearer. The farm would have endeared you to me, but I see you are too obstinate for that. Tell me; were you faithful to the Tsar?”
“I tend to stay out of politics. As long as I can live my life–”
“You will be loyal to whoever is in charge – I have heard that before.
. So then you would not happen to know a man named Diasky would you?” This was said while Lenin reached into his pocket. Alexander watched as Lenin slowly reached into the pocket of his grey uniform and pulled out the gun.
“Now,” said the increasingly annoyed dictator, “What can you tell me about Diasky?”
Alexander stood up.
“I have never heard the name.” Lenin held the gun at Alexander’s chest. The man stood stiff, his face refusing to betray any emotion. Lenin studied the man for several minutes before lowering the gun.
“I must have been misinformed,” said the dictator and he pocketed the gun. He signalled for his two men to leave. Lenin smiled, replaced his hat on his head and thanked the farmer for his hospitality.
“I believe my wife put your horses in the stables, I shall go get them for you.” Alexander closed the door to the house and headed into the stables. He noticed the three grey horses at the back of the stable and went to release them. As he was opening the gate to where the three horses stood eating grass, as the loud creaking noise of the stable door had caught the horses’ attention, as his wife and child headed for the stables, and as the first cloud of the day made its way across the frosty winter’s sky, as all of this occurred a loud shot rang out. An even louder scream followed, and three laughs after that.
“This is what happens, farmer, when you do business with a traitor and a coward. This is what happens when you place your loyalty with an enemy of Russia! The time of revolution is over farmer, Diasky has come in too late and you must now suffer for his misdeeds. The culprit hides and lets his men die in his stead? Is that the leader a country needs? The country needs me farmer, and I’m afraid you have become a complication.” Alexander heard these words. He clutched at the stable gate, hoisting himself up. Staggering to his feet, the humble farmer turned to face his assailant.
“I live,” he chocked as he turned his dead eyes upon the dictator. With a grunt, Lenin`s man kicked Alexander, who fell to the ground for the final time. Lenin and his men darted off down the road, not even caring for their horses. The horses that were being released came up to the dead man and started to lick the blood that poured from his back. Another loud shriek and Mrs. Tinovsky pushed the stroller as fast as she could to her husband’s side. The baby, at sight of the terrible deed, sat with his finger in his mouth, sucking away. He didn’t know what to make of it, but when his mother started to violently thrust him forward he began to sense that primitive feeling that manifests itself as “bad”. The three horses pushed their way out of the stables. However, they were not as lucky as their owners. Mrs. Tinovsky was unable to supress her rage: she took out the knife she had grabbed off her bureau and slit the three horses open from top to bottom. They gave a shrill whine and fell limply to the ground. The other horses became frantic and neighed in chaotic dissonance.
Mrs. Tinovsky took a rose from her coat pocket. She brought it to her eyes. The white rose was withered and sulking as it struggled in the rain like a drowning rat. Mrs. Tinovsky placed it with the others in front of the grave. Thirty roses, both red and white sat side by side encircling the gravestone. Thirty roses to represent thirty nights that Mrs. Tinovsky visited this grave. She wiped the tombstone with her handkerchief and noticed the black markings in the rock. Alexander Tinovsky – God of the Harvest. She wiped her eyes with the dirty handkerchief. She looked down at her child who silently sucked his right index finger.
“Dirty habit,” muttered Mrs. Tinovsky. She stroked the baby gently and sang a soft gentle rag
“My dear Alexander,” Mrs. Tinovsky whispered to the baby. She then turned her face to the tombstone, “My dear Alexander,”
Young or experienced?
There’s a great quote by Umberto Eco. I have it somewhere, I just don’t want to get it. It goes something like this: “This is why I can’t teach anymore. We are living in time when knowledge is ever changing.” If you come across the real quote, it will be nothing like this, but the idea is the same. Back in the day (way, way back many centuries ago….) teaching was fairly static. Early technology changed, industry changed, but knowledge was knowledge. Homer was on the grammar school curriculum from Ancient Rome to late 19th century (or thereabouts). Now knowledge is changing constantly and fast. We may still teach Shakespeare in schools, but certainly not in the same way.
This is in part to the digital world - it has begun to reshape what we value as knowledge. Trivial facts are on their way out because Google holds the key to ANYTHING you ever need to know. This isn’t a bad thing (although there is something to be said about trivial knowledge and I think memorizing poetry should never have been removed from English courses), it’s just a thing.
Besides the whole technology thing, teaching as we know it is a new development. The fact that we need to accommodate students instead of them adjusting to us is revolutionary, and his has created this system in which the way we teach is wholly dependent on ever-changing generations of students. Thus, teachers must be able to keep up with their students in order to teach them and that is why Umberto Eco can no longer teach.
Where is all this going? I was offered a job today (tutoring + 1 high school class starting September) primarily on the basis that I am young, as opposed to experienced. It is a private school following the holistic model of education and this principal prizes mostly the forging of a good relationship between teacher and student. I think this is right where it should be. While the public schools cling on to nearly retired teachers who can hardly connect to students, she believes that a student who can forge a relationship (and please not misread the meaning of relationship) is one who is more willing to learn and thus more likely to succeed. So basically I’m teaching at the Academy of Ancient Greece minus the nudity and gymnastics.
But it really forces this question - what is the line between being a valuable teaching because you have a lot of experience in the profession and being a useless teacher because, as Eco puts it, you cannot keep up in the world of changing knowledge?
Me Teach English, that’s unpossible
This is a bit of venting but still:
So there’s a noticeable trend that when it comes to teachers, English and Social Studies teachers need not apply. Arts teachers - you may apply in specific places. The latter I will not address - this is a budgetary matter: the first thing slashed in any school budget is music and visual art, drama trailing close before it is folded into the English department. Film bobs up and down like a frightened seal.
But English and social studies (History, geography, psych, soc, philosophy, family studies) - we are just unwanted. Why? Because there are too many of us. “Oh, we have all the English teachers we need,” they say, “go to Korea.” Why? Is it because English is the awesomeest and everyone wants to be an English teacher? No. Is it because a large number of English and Humanities students graduate from post-secondary education, become disenfranchised that there is nothing open to them and they wasted four years of their lives and the only path they can choose is to teach? More likely. Is it because most people who have no idea what they want in life see that they have no other choice than to go into English or Humanities. Ah, there’s the rub!
So here’s my ancient complaint - universities are no longer a place of higher learning - cash grab &c. - and because more people are being pushed - yes they are being pushed - into the humanities (because sciences are just too hard they say) - course developers have no choice but to adapt their programmes for the new wave (that or fail many students, lose a lot of money and be shut down). I was doing work in fourth year university, in English, that grade 12s ought to be able to do without much effort. And this has made English teachers undesirable.
English needs to be reclaimed as an important and challenging subject! We should not have to dumb our courses down to suit the need of those who were forced into university because someone wanted more money!
There is a dangerous loop: the more we dumb down our university English courses, the more we dumb down our high school English courses. Students are expected to do less and less as curriculum reforms continue and English is sliding into what many politicians (*cough cough* Obama) want to make of it - an inferior study to the maths, sciences and technologies. You know what this is? This is the bloody 19th century - when the study of English was considered the “feminine” study (and this was used derisively) for it was not as demanding as the other subjects suited to men.
Bring back ENGLISH! Bring linguistics into the classroom - make students work and see the study of English as they see maths: texts must be engaged with not passively absorbed so students can go on SparkNotes and bullshit their way through an essay. This is ruining English, cramming people into universities and prompting employers to say “Oh, we have enough of you English teachers. Go away.”
You may have noticed that Social studies dropped from my rant - the same basic principles apply.
The right of the wrong
What is it to be right? Is there a right answer to anything? 2 + 2 = 4? Maybe. But if I convince a group of unsuspecting children otherwise and no one corrects them, and they pass down from generation to generation, somehow, that 2+2=5 - does this then become right? Is there a point where we can say “there is no right” - some socio-dadism? Surely there is the “accepted” - a codified system so that we as humans can pass down information from generation to generation. Where would we be if language was not codified? But there must be a paradigm shift - whatever that really means - the whole concept seems paradoxical - but more on that later. Instead of “right” and “wrong”, we should have “accepted” and “nonsense” For example:
2+2=4 - accepted
squa twobal muck mushmush fomomal ma pufmu - nonsense.
The first is progressive - propelling us forward into a sphere of knowledge which we can take and build upon. The other is there for the sake of being there - that block in Tetris that falls to punish you for doing poorly: you can’t do anything about it. Nonsense has its place, but we try to contain it.
But what’s the distinction between “right” and “accepted” and how can this benefit students? “Right” implies ownership of knowledge. If I am right about something, I control that something, figuratively speaking. My student must aspire to be that same degree of “rightness” in order to feel any sense of accomplishment. If we switch to the word “accepted” it implies a reflection. This does not have to just apply to literary interpretation or philosophic inquiry. Instead of accepting that fact that 2+2=4 and moving on because it is the “right” answer, students may go further. 2+2=4 is “accepted” - why? Why cant it be otherwise? 2+2=4 because 1+1+1+1=4 - this is just a numerical construction. Just as someone decided that a comes before b and b before c, so someone said “1 is the name of this single entity and 2 is the name of 1 and 1 &c,” So really, the order of numbers is arbitrary and thus 1+1 does not equal two but is symbolized by the figure 2, and thus 2+2=4 is nothing but a series of arbitrary symbols, some Baudrillardean hyper-reality if you will. There is no inherit “rightness” to them at all.
So why do we as teachers try to hold our “rightness” above our students? Because they demand it. They are the child crying for attention - their cries sounding “grade me! Grade me!” This can only happen if we are right, in their minds. If we are not right - if there is no right - how are we to grade our students? Get them in this corner and you have forced them to see a world beyond grades. Have them realize that there is no such thing as a 95% but just a random symbol based on an accepted ordering of numerical values. Strip away the meaningless symbols and uncover what is really there - in order to progress from the nonsense to the accepted, you have to discover why something is accepted - you have to learn! You have to engage with the material and get at the root of the “why” about it - whatever it is. You have to grow. And if you can strip away the meaningless symbol of the grade, the nonsense, if you can strip away “right” and “wrong” - growth will occur. maybe. this might be nonsense. this might be accepted. But I am making it my new mission to not use the words “right” (in this context) and “wrong” anymore.
Musings, thoughts, but mostly questions dealing with matters of education as related to the human experience. Nonsense abounds! But I am working towards the Accepted.
