Fish Goes to Public School

A few months ago, Stanley Fish came to speak to students at Teachers College, Columbia University.  I was in attendance.  His talk consisted of his reading from a manuscript that was to be published this year and taking questions from the audience occasionally.  The thrust of his argument has been repeated many times before and since in his op-ed pieces and blogs for the New York Times.  It goes like this: “there are some college and university teachers who mistake the classroom lectern for a political platform and thereby substitute indoctrination for instruction. But, I argue, this need not happen — it is not an inevitable consequence either of our fallible natures or of certain subject matters — and when it does happen, it should be labeled as wrong and regarded as a reason for discipline by the school’s administration” (http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/06/08/politics-and-the-classroom-one-more-try/).   This argument, which Fish has resurrected in the wake of the University of Colorado’s raising of funds to appoint a Chair in Conservative Thought and Politics, states that the classroom is not a political forum; it is a place of knowledge acquisition, of objective discourse.  On that evening, something bothered me about Fish’s argument.  I couldn’t put my finger on it then, and it was only after a few glasses of wine with my wife and our friend that it occurred to me.  It seems to me that Fish’s position falls apart when applied to public school classrooms.  His audience that night was made up of mostly secondary school teachers (current or pre-service) and the difference between the private college setting and the public classroom went unsaid.

So, I’ll say it now.

Fish’s primary concern is that there are a breed of professors who pass off their political views for course content, or, who prey upon their students’ captive attention.  The classroom is not place for politics.  The professor’s job is to convey his expertise to the students, who are to study it, grapple with it, and produce some original response to it.  It is apolitical.  Now, this group that he was talking to, remember, were soon-to-be public school teachers, many of whom express a desire to change students’ lives or even society through their teaching.  For many, and one such friend sat beside me on the edge of his seat with near anger at what Fish was saying, teaching is necessarily political--the books you choose to use in your classroom and the way you read them, how you assess students’ learning, and even how the students address you.  All is political.  And the self-aware teacher uses the politics of the classroom for good instead of evil. 

The college student is not the public school student.  The public school teacher is necessarily political, that is to say, the public school teacher works for the city or state and, as such, has certain responsibilities that extend well beyond content expertise.  From taking attendance (for which a teacher can be held legally accountable) to reporting certain observations to guidance counselors or the police are just a couple examples.  Let’s look at the latter more closely.  Imagine Professor Fish giving a lecture on Book II of Paradise Lost, in which the various fallen angels debate how to retaliate against God for ousting them from heaven.  A student walks in late and sits in the first row.  As she sets up her place for note-taking, Professor Fish notices that she has a black eye.  In such a scenario, the professor may continue his lecture, which, again, is his job: to convey knowledge.  He might ask her to stay after class and ask her about it.  But it’s not his job. 

A public school teacher must report it.  Legally.  This is a crucial point of difference between Fish’s no-politics-in-the-classroom argument and teaching in a public school.  My students aren’t yet adults.

That having been said, I’m not in favor of rampant political manipulation (or intellectual manipulation for that matter) in the classroom either.  Teachers have tremendous influence on their students.  The wearing of political pins, sharing of personal anecdotes, and even likes and dislikes must be considered professionally.  Recently, I sought to teach students about allusions in Milton’s writings.  In order to explore the concept before applying to the literature, I played an excerpt from Jay-Z’s song “A Dream” in which he samples his predecessor Notorious BIG’s voice, and repeats lines or snippets from BIG’s song “Juicy.”  My point was that when one artist alludes to another artist or text, the allusion carries with it history and even culture.  You get two texts for one, and you get it simultaneously. 

The next day, one student showed me that he had bought “A Dream” and had it on his iPod. 

Is this political?  Not necessarily.  But does it point to the subtlety of influence that teachers have on their students?  Yes, it does.  Influence, however, does not mean politics.  Granted, Fish has certain blatant scenarios in mind—University of Colorado, currently.  But short of professors or teachers using explicit political language in their classrooms, aren’t we talking about basic professional responsibility?  Pedagogues should model thoughtfulness for their students.  Fair enough.  Perhaps if politicians had better models of thoughtfulness our students—in New York City, for example—would have the attention, resources, and physical space to learn.  Perhaps Professor Fish could advise those politicians.  In an op-ed, of course, not his classroom.

Misplaced Homer

On the campus of Columbia University is Butler Library.  Its neo-classical design, with fourteen imposing columns supporting the names of famous ancients, immediately draws the eye of any passerby. The names etched into stone above these columns are of great classical writers: Homer, Herodotus, Sophocles, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Cicero, and Vergil.  Interestingly, one of these names is not like the others: Homer.  Homer's name appears carved into the building because its designers thought him to be a great ancient writer.  Homer, most historians now agree, was no writer.  He was a singer--an oral poet--and probably the amalgamation of many bards over many years.  I use Homer as an example because his eternal presence on the facade of the library bespeaks a point of tension in the histories of education and literature, not to mention the current culture of the prior.  Why has speech--orality--become so marginalized in education?  What has happened to the heard spaces of the ancients?  Have they disappeared, or perhaps subverted the dominant written culture in which we educators now find ourselves? 

To understand why Homer's presence is of such interest, it's worth noting whose name is missing.  While both Plato and Aristotle are inscribed, doubtless for their foundational contribution to western philosophy, their predecessor, Socrates, is suspiciously absent.  How could both Plato and Aristotle be so lauded, and Socrates, who died for philosophy, be left out?  One compelling reason is that the building is a library, that is, a place for written words.  Socrates famously denounced writing, saying it had deleterious effects on the memory.  Socrates' absence from the walls of Butler Library point our attention to the status of its inscribed figures as writers.  If Socrates' orality denies him a place on Butler, it's fair to say Homer's presence is in error.  

I draw attention to this error because I think we in education--and literacy especially--live with the effect of a similar error.  Somewhere in the twists and turns of history, orality became marginalized and literacy prized.  There are, I can already imagine, many example of this, not the least of which include our priveleging of writing in classrooms, our yen for silent reading, and our dependence on literate modes of communication for assessment.  

Reading Music, Reading Literature

My friend Brian is back from Japan.  He's a music teacher, about to begin work at a new school on Long Island.  Last night, he and I began comparing the teaching of music with the teaching of English.  I shared with Brian my concerns around reading in my own English classroom--how a teacher can never actually know if a student has read a given assignment.  My argument goes as such: reading is a purely internal act, and while teachers can indeed give students quizzes about a reading or ask them to produce an essay about a reading, these assessments can be completed successfully even if a student didn't read.  What teachers often assess isn't a student's reading; they are assessing students ability to produce something not necessarily related to the act of reading at all.  Literary works, for example, are layered, nuanced, and subject to myriad interpretations.  Any type of reading assessment will fall way short. 

Brian replied that in teaching students to sing, he doesn't focus on the sight-reading of music.  For him, sight-reading is an advanced skill, only valuable after students have mastered the act of singing.  And to master it, they need a model who coaches them.  His description is one of physicality, and performance. 

I wondered, if applied to teaching literature, what Brian's pedagogical value means.  What if, for example, the English teacher prioritized physicality, performance?  How would a curriculum that reserved the reading of literature for only advanced grades affect students' learning?  What if students, after having learned a certain set of basic reading and writing skills, then had to master oration and rhetoric?  Would this be a return to the medieval trivuum?