Ponder College (4)—Spring Break

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Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "Ponder College"
This is an "long post" (大)—click here for an explanation of Round and Square post lengths.

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One year ago on Round and Square 30 March 2013)—China's Lunar Calendar 2013 03-30
One year ago on Round and Square 30 March 2013)—Calendars and Almanacs (f)
Two years ago on Round and Square (30 March 2012): Just Do It Over: Pink Slime
Three years ago on Round and Square (30 March 2011)—Theory Corner: Introduction

[a] Ponder Break RF

It has been a studious week at Ponder College, my alma mater.

It always is. That's how we roll here.

Not much has actually been going on at the college this week. Pretty much everyone has cleared out and headed toward spring break destinations. Students, faculty, and staff are all encouraged to make the most of the week, and the college operates with a pared down, bare bones staff until things start up again. You see, we take autumn and spring breaks very seriously down here at Ponder College, and feel that it is just the slice of relaxation and, well, pondering that makes for healthy students, teachers, and staff members. Almost everyone goes somewhere.

[b] Somewhere RF

How is that possible?...I hear you ask...

Well, thanks to the generous donation of a very wise (and financially well-set) old scholar a few generations ago, there is a sizable endowment for spring break travel at Ponder College. This tends to make our spring break just a little bit different from the Daytona drunkfests that are common in the "literature" about spring break life. Students can apply for up to $2,000 each (this amount is often unnecessary) to go somewhere that will add richness and luster to their educational experiences. Almost as soon as autumn break (also a week) is over, students begin thinking about where they will go in the spring. Almost six months of pondering go into each of these little week-wedges in the otherwise relentless academic calendar.

There is only one rule. 

You have to take "a book."

[c] Golden RF

Yes, and you have to read it and write an essay. This is serious stuff at Ole Pond, and it has been going on since the late-1950s, through times of national introspection, anger, and even musical rebirth. A group of students from the Class of '71 proposed a sophomore trip to a New York farm that was going to sponsor "a few bands." Or so they heard. They planned to bring copies of Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit with them to read amidst the tumult. Then they learned that this "dairy farm music" thing was actually going to happen in August, so they made backup plans (and still went to New York for Woodstock before the '69-70 academic year began—they brought the book, too).

Think about it, though. $2,000 to go anywhere for a week. At Ponder College, almost as much thought goes into "what shall I read" as "where shall I go?"

[d] Auckland RF

A gentle (but très sérieux) jockeying for literary position is a hallmark of the planning stages for these spring breaks. As early as November, students start plotting, planning, and negotiating. The reading choices flow from this learned confusion. Every year, a few students overreach, and are chided by both faculty and fellow students for failing to understand exactly what kinds of readings work in the context of what is really an eight-day break (effectively Saturday-Saturday). Just last year, Brandon Coakley '15 made the mistake not only of choosing Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, but the far more serious one of proclaiming it loudly to all who would listen. He returned from break bent, haggard, and utterly broken in spirit, having failed even to notice the lush Ozark vistas from his rugged little cabin. He just ate frozen pizzas and burritos, drank Coke Zero, and stared at incomprehensible pages.

This year, he has chosen Henry James's The Golden Bowl. He is going back to the Ozark cabin he never left last year, and plans to take a few walks. He has learned something about eight days of learning and reflection.

[e] Winding Down RF

And that is the point of the "break." To learn. To grow. To visit other places. The more trendy among our students and faculty call this "experiential" learning. Galen Grimsrud, Edmund Leach Distinguished Professor of Ethnographic Inquiry, scoffs at this term. "Experiential? That is what learning is. Give me a notebook, a great work of literature, and a setting where I can talk, ask questions, reflect, read, and write...and I'll call that 'learning.' What need have we to add silly little modifiers?"

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So off they went last Saturday—to the far corners of North and Central America, as well as various corners of the globe. It's tricky, though. Think of New Zealand. Traveling for the better part of three days (not counting time lost to jet lag) is not always the best way to spend an eight-day break that is meant for relaxing, reading, thinking, and experiential learning. The funding committee is usually quite generous in its appraisal of these ventures, knowing that the best way to learn from gnawing off too large an itinerary is to have a few overly ambitious souls do so...and then speak loudly enough upon return about their flawed plans to etch it into the Ponder College spring break mythology.

So, rather than Auckland, a group of junior history majors decided to retrace Alexis de Tocqueville's journey across the territory we know today as "Michigan." They read the accompanying essay in the back of the Penguin Classics edition of Democracy in America, and thought about the Michigan frontier (and immensely dense forests) back in the 1830s. It was just about the perfect balance of reading, traveling, and reflection. Just right—like baby bear (and they saw a few of those, too).

[f] Paleozoic RF

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Faculty members have access to the fund pool, too, and often make action-packed trips to the areas in which their research and teaching is based. This spring, Jeremy Baustian, Associate Professor of Arabic and Swahili, made a whirlwind (and, as he notes, utterly exhausting) trip to Kenya and Tanzania to look at the East African sources of travel for an unlikely explorer from Doylestown, Pennsylvania, a century ago. "He started the trip in Mombasa, and crossed the heart of central Africa—all without knowing really a word of any relevant African language. He was a strange man." Professor Baustian brought that traveler's 1904 book A Yankee in Pigmy Land with him, and winced repeatedly at the confident colonialism of yester-century.

Chris Chrislie checked himself into an anger management clinic. "If I don't get this anger thing under control," he muttered to no one in particular, "I'll never be a dean." He brought the Daodejing with him, and pondered messages of flowing with the Way.

[g] Journey RF

Even President Andrea Blume took a trip—almost like a mini-sabbatical in a swirling calendar of fundraising. She went to Vancouver Island, and brought a copy of Rousseau's Second Discourse with her. "There is no direct relationship between my chosen location and the book I read," she cautioned. "I learned early in my presidency that you can overthink these things, and get too "cute" with the relationship between observation and travel, on the one hand, and reading, on the other. I usually pick a book and a location almost (and that almost is key here) independently of each other."

But students enjoy these trips as much as anyone. Indeed, seniors have worked the breaks down to an art form. No longer trapped in the vise of surreptitious alcohol consumption, they apply themselves to creating the perfect spring break capstone. This year, a large group of anthropology majors read both Genesis and Darwin's Origin of the Species. And they visited the Creation Museum in Kentucky. "This trip was about learning...asking questions, listening," said recently returned Katrina Schuman '14. "It might seem that we had an 'agenda,' but we (emphatically) did not. We just wanted to think about key areas of disagreement in our society. We watched, we listened, we read, and we learned. That's all."

[h] Scuba RF

So think about it. Eight breaks—one in the middle of each of the eight semesters. Eight "books" (we'll talk more about that as autumn break approaches next October). Eight trips. As a unit, they form one of the most distinctive (and appealing) aspects of a Ponder College education, and the fund is continually replenished and expanded as alumni who have valued their own experiences give back to the college.

And now—today—it is over.

Everyone is filtering back and, by Sunday night, each student will be starting preparations for Monday classes, post-midterm papers, and the inexorable march toward finals. No one can ever take that trip away, though, and dreams of the next one will begin almost immediately.

NEXT
Sunday, 7 April 2014
Ponder College (5)—One Wheel, One Dream
A Ponder College education only looks like it is "skewed" towards academics to outsiders who do not understand. From the top down (and "bottom" up), Ponder faculty, staff, and students reject this categorization.

[i] Twilight RF

The New Yorker and the World (3)—Fiction: Bobbie Ann Mason, "Shiloh"

One year ago on Round and Square (14 September 2011)—Elaine Flies Coach
Click here for the introduction to the Round and Square series "The New Yorker and the World"

[a] Up-down RF

Over the next few months, I plan to post a little bit of the "content" from the first-year seminar I am teaching on "The New Yorker and the World." I will introduce several writers—fiction and nonfiction—and will give at least a snippet from the pages of the magazine, along with some of the context that I give while teaching the material. The next few days will feature some of the fiction writers who brought fresh perspective to The New Yorker short story in the 1970s and 1980s.

I have been writing about some of the authors who made me subscribe to—and renew—The New Yorker in the mid- to late-1970s. It all started with the terrific fiftieth anniversary issue in February 1975. From that day on, I read both fiction and nonfiction from an array of writers that made me want nothing more than to spend my life reading, thinking, exploring, and writing. The first dozen or so posts in this series will be devoted to authors who changed my life. If that seems a little self-indulgent, I urge you to bear with me. We'll get to both the earlier history of The New Yorker and today's magazine soon enough. It is not so much self-indulgence that I am embracing here as specificity. Just about everyone who reads the magazine regularly has stories about how the relationship went from just sorta likin' it to falling in love with it. These first few posts are merely my own story. By the late 1970s I had read every Donald Barthelme and Garrison Keillor story I could find; I was beginning to swoon.

[b] Almost Home RF

And then Bobbie Ann Mason walked through the door. 

Her first story, called "Offerings," was published in the February 18, 1980 issue. I just reread it the other day, and vaguely remember it. On the reread, I can see the outlines of a compassionate, fictional ethnography of lower middle-class people in Mason's native western Kentucky. The biggest difference (and I am by no means the first person to point this out) was the compassion. Back in the day, The New Yorker wrote of American life beyond Manhattan in painful fits and starts that said more about the sheltered life of the writers and editors than the rest of the country. Let's just say that treatment of rural life tended to be a bit condescending. As we have seen, that began to change with writers who shook up fictional forms, such as Donald Barthelme, and others who wrote vividly about life far beyond the city, such as Garrison Keillor. 

Bobbie Ann Mason stormed onto The New Yorker's fiction pages with her second story about Leroy and Norma Jean Moffitt; it ran in the October 20, 1980 issue. I read it three times right after I slid the magazine out of its brown paper wrapper, and I still did not have enough. It was the first time that I ever saw the potential for fiction—the short story in particular—to do accomplish something similar to what is found in the very best ethnographies. Only better. She clearly had an eye for detail that was wrapped in knowledge of and affection for her characters. I read it again...and then one more time for good measure. I was determined to be like her, and started a set of "fieldnotes" about the Norwegian Lutheran heartland of the Red River Valley. It was one of the transformative moments in my reading life, and it all began with a disabled trucker named Leroy, building Popsicle houses amidst a rebuilding a marriage and a time of change.

[c] Home again RF

Bobbie Ann Mason
Shiloh (1980)
Leroy Moffitt's wife, Norma Jean, is working on her pectorals. She lifts three-pound dumbbells to warm up, then progresses to a twenty pound barbell. 

Standing with her legs apart, she reminds Leroy of Wonder Woman. 

          "I'd give anything if I could just get these muscles to where they're 
           real hard," says Norma Jean. "Feel this arm. It's not as hard as the 
           other one."
           "That's 'cause you're right-handed," says Leroy, dodging as she swings 
             the barbell in an arc.
           "Do you think so?"
           "Sure."

     Leroy is a truckdriver. He injured his leg in a highway accident four months ago, 
     and his physical therapy, which involves weights and a pulley, prompted Norma 
     Jean to try building herself up. Now she is attending a body-building class.
     Leroy has been collecting disability since his tractor-trailer jackknifed in 
     Missouri, badly twisting his left leg in its socket. He has a steel pin in his hip. He 
     will probably not be able to drive his rig again. It sits in the backyard, like a 
     gigantic bird that has flown home to roost. Leroy has been home in Kentucky
     for three months, and his leg is almost healed, but the accident frightened him
     and he does not want to drive any more long hauls. He is not sure what to do 
     next. In the meantime, he makes things from craft kits. He started by building
     a miniature log cabin from notched Popsicle sticks. He varnished it and placed
     it on the TV set, where it remains. It reminds him of a rustic Nativity scene. Then
     he tried string art (sailing ships on black velvet), a macramé owl kit, a snap-
     together B-17 Flying Fortress, and a lamp made out of a model truck, with a 
     light fixture screwed in the top of the cab. At first the kits were diversions, 
     something to kill time, but now he is thinking about building a full-scale log 
     house from a kit. It would be considerably cheaper than building a regular
     house, and besides, Leroy has grown to appreciate how things are put 
     together. He has begun to realize that in all the years he was on the road he
     never took time to examine anything. He was always flying past scenery.

          "They won't let you build a log cabin in any of the new subdivisions," 
           Norma Jean tells him.
          "They will if I tell them it's for you," he says, teasing her.

     Ever since they were married, he has promised Norma Jean he would build her 
     a new home one day. They have always rented, and the house they live in is 
     small and nondescript. It does not even feel like a home, Leroy realizes now.

     Norma Jean works at the Rexall drugstore, and she has acquired an amazing 
     amount of information about cosmetics. When she explains to Leroy the three 
     stages of complexion care, involving creams, toners, and moisturizers, he thinks 
     happily of other petroleum products—axle grease, diesel fuel. This is a 
     connection between him and Norma Jean. Since he has been home, he has felt 
     unusually tender about his wife and guilty over his long absences. But he can't tell 
     what she feels about him. Norma Jean has never complained about his traveling; 
     she has never made hurt remarks, like calling his truck a "widow-maker." He is
     reasonably certain she has been faithful to him, but he wishes she would celebrate 
     his homecoming more happily. Norma Jean is often startled to find Leroy at home, 
     and he thinks she seems a little disappointed about it. Perhaps he reminds her too 
     much of the early days of their marriage, before he went on the road. They had a 
     child who died as an infant, years ago. They never speak about their memories of 
     Randy, which have almost faded, but now that Leroy is home all the time, they
     sometimes feel awkward around each other, and Leroy wonders if one of them 
     should mention the child. He has the feeling that they are waking up out of a 
     dream together—that they must create a new marriage, start afresh. They are 
     lucky they are still married. Leroy has read that for most people losing a child 
     destroys the marriage—or else heard this on Donahue. He can't always 
     remember where he learns things anymore.[1]
        [Continue on The New Yorker website]

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Leroy keeps building and repairing, and the couple endures the critical gaze of Norma Jean's mother, Mabel. By the time the story ends, they find themselves picnicking on the Civil War battlefield of Shiloh. It is crisp, lonesome ethnographic fiction. I knew I wanted to read...and even write...more.

[d] Subdivision RF

Bobbie Ann Mason, “Shiloh,” The New Yorker, October 20, 1980, 50-57.