On teaching and on appropriateness.

I am an open, enthusiastic person. I make a lot of jokes without pausing for a laugh (this style seems particularly liable to misunderstanding by the Midwestern-born. I'm not sure why). I have something to say in response to most questions and comments, and generally I take everything to be related to everything else. So it happens, naturally enough, that I am just that way as a teacher. I discipline myself mainly with syllabi and prepared notes. The occasional self-injunction little avails; like Jane Eyre picturing herself as a missionary in India married to St. John Rivers, I can do it for a little while and without noticing revert to being as I am and acting as I act -- and like Jane Eyre I'm sensible enough to accept that, however deeply I may wish to change, and however much I admire those who do things in another way, that way is too foreign to my nature to figure in my long-term plans. Efforts to enshrine it there end, soon, in self-reproachful reversion. Jane Eyre considers the constant effort of will required, and realizes that even if to live so would be finer than to live according to her nature, she could not succeed, certainly not without a stronger force (St. John Rivers would do nicely) heating and beating and hammering her metal always into that other shape. So it goes. Jane Eyre is choosing how to live her own life. But my decision directly affects many more people than myself, and perhaps impacts some of them more than it does me. So it is particularly incumbent upon me to ensure that I do my best not just as I conceive it, but according also to standards that are set by others and not engrained in me, by which I have agreed to work. I do. I put a lot of work into syllabus, I prepare material thoroughly before class and write out notes for at least the most important points I would like to get to, I solicit conversation and try to manage the debate. That last is in fact not a part of -- though not incompatible with -- the usual standards for teaching such a class as I have been teaching. In a class of up to -- oh -- twenty, perhaps thirty students, student participation is very much the norm. In a larger class, like mine, too large for us to all face each other, it is not so common to devote most of the class to discussion. The students determine the shape and ambiance of any class that is not pure lecture or nearly, and the more students, the harder it is for the teacher to give them all voices. I have been lucky enough to teach remarkably good students always, so far, throughout my brief career. This term in particular they were lovely (though I suppose I say the same nearly every term). Under my supervision, the students built a running conversation. It did absolutely require my supervision, and on occasions when I let control out of my hands I erred. But it was their conversation. I was more than just another participant, but I wasn't on high or separate, either. I was trying to create a space where we could say anything (relevant); and then trying to manage the process of figuring out collectively what counted as relevant. Here is where we come to the topic of the title. I am always eager to let students know they should not be embarrassed to speak: that their comment is likely not "stupid," since if they are unsure of something probably several other people are, but also that a stupid comment is nothing to be ashamed of -- only something to be ashamed of repeating over and over without learning from it. To this end I used my nature, and showed by example that you can do something silly at one moment and be clever and helpful the next. So I made up silly examples, and used my students in them.* I brought in occasional props. I cold-called and told them just to say if they hadn't done the reading. Twice or three times I asked them all to close their eyes and raise their hands if they believed this or were persuaded by that. I often took attendance by having them call out their own names, so that they would learn each other's names and perhaps get more used to speaking in front of each other. I made jokes constantly (that is, I articulated at least half of the jokes that I wanted to make). I declared "Experimental Fridays" and changed things from time to time. And I told them stories. I told them stories about myself, sometimes true, sometimes untrue or elaborated, sometimes patently, outrageously false. I performed the just-linked monologue for them one Experimental Friday, and finished to an ovation, lots of questions, lots of "great class!"es, and came home to four additional, e-mailed "great class!"es. I would never, ever have felt comfortable doing that with a class that hadn't already been interested and willing and comfortable. (Of course I told them at the end that Daniel Dennett had really written the story and not me.) I let my guard down. That, in itself, is what I have struggled with. No particular possible inappropriate behavior. That I let my guard down so with them. That I told them things about myself when they asked me, or for the sake of examples. I wanted to open them up to talking about what they cared about, and to a large extent I succeeded. Several students have told me that this was their favorite class, and one said that writing the final paper had been the most intellectually engaging project of their freshman year. But I don't know. Socrates made himself the show and managed to draw people in to philosophy. It can be done. But I am no Socrates. I do not regret this, not knowing it's so because I do other things besides initiate challenging conversations with people I encounter. (For one, I go home to h, while Socrates does not appear to have been an exemplary family man.) But even Socrates sometimes was too much the show. Think of the view, crudely expressed in the pseudo-Platonic Theages and sophisticatedly in any number of Plato's dialogues -- the Apology and Alcibiades's speech in the Symposium -- that Socrates is magic. Plato rationalizes his magic to logos, to reason, to argument, to things in principle accessible to all of us by our humanity. Or think simply of the terrific differences between Xenophon's and Plato's Socrates. Xenophon's Socrates is magic mainly in being so outstandingly in self-control, in his being so temperate, so moderate, so tolerant of hardship. This isn't unrelated to Plato's view -- both present him as exceptionally the master of himself and his circumstances. And Aristotle's casually proposing him at Posterior Analytics 97ab? for an archetype of greatness of soul suggests that mastery and majesty remained dominant impressions of him. This is sort of drawing people in, but sort of only drawing them to oneself. And even if Socrates succeeds, surely there's something amiss. It might possibly be effective to interest people in a discipline by showing that some people engaged therein are interesting; would that justify it? It was never my intention to do that. But I worry that I may have depended too much on my nature in teaching, and to some students made myself a sideshow, when I only meant to be a ticket-taker. * Along the lines of "Now, S believes in witches, and I don't. So when the crops fail and my sheep are stricken down, and S says it must be because of a spell or a curse, I don't consider that an adequate explanation. But why not? How could S convince me? Well, he could bring me records of all the alleged curses laid on by witches and of all the agricultural problems in the neighborhood, and pick out patterns of similarity. Or he could show me a witch casting a spell, and hope I learn from experience what I wouldn't believe based on testimony. He could point to a particular witch who is now casting a particular spell, predict that it will be fulfilled, and point out when it is. Or he could show that the presence of witches helps us explain other phenomena, too. For instance, on my account, the crop failures have resulted from unexpected weather patterns, the sheep illnesses from bad luck, and the concurrent phenomenon of many local young women acting suddenly quite different than usual in similar ways, I attribute to a trip the girls took together that frightened them or some water they drank that was poisoned. S explains them all with witches. His explanation is certainly simpler and more elegant than mine, and it coheres perfectly well with all the facts we've given ... So should I start believing in witches?"

On retail.

1. Dear Momofuku Milk Bar cashier,

If (a) you can hear; and
(b) you can read; and
(c) a customer says "I am a vegetarian. Please tell me what has gelatin in it so I can avoid it"; and
(d) you no longer sell non-packaged food, and the packages contain ingredient lists; and
(e) that same customer asks "what is in the grasshopper pie?"; and
(f) you answer that it is "just a minty brownie"; and
(g) the customer finds, having already purchased and left, that the thing contains marshmallows and the package clearly indicates that it contains gelatin: then
C. you're not doing it right.

Sincerely,

Implacable Logic

P.S. When you were still selling unpackaged goods the cashier I spoke to could tell me what had gelatin in it.


2. Dear dried fruit guy at Sahadi's,

It is not acceptable to respond to successive requests for cashews and wasabi peas with "Ooh, nice and naughty. I like it." Nor, when the customer replies that the peas are for her husband, to respond: "You're always doing things for others. You need to do something for yourself."

It is not acceptable repeatedly to refer to a customer as "my love." Nor to give her free samples because "you need to be spoiled, my love." Nor to suggest that the dried apricots purchased will help her to win kissing contests (!). Nor to ask as she is walking away: "What's your secret?" and when she says in flusterment "uh, to what?" to continue: "Your secret to being so beautiful. You're gorgeous, you know. ... Well, whatever it is, keep up with it and stay beautiful."

None of this would have been acceptable if you had only done it once and not then reminded this customer why she'd been doing without Sahadi's exceptionally good dried fruit for months. None of it would be acceptable if you were less than twice my age. Even flirting-to-sell can be dubious. This is far beyond dubious.

Sincerely,

The Laws and Customs of Society as a Whole

On space and spaciousness.

I grew up in Brooklyn and have mostly lived in urban areas, and when I am away I notice how my sense of space has been formed by that experience. In Chicago and Toronto the streets seem impossibly broad, there are no tall buildings in Paris, any place not on the water feels lonely and stranded. I don't know how to look at a field; they all look the same to me, though trees and flowers don't. I hate the way farm animals smell and the centralized planning (via zoning laws, community boards, and community pressures) of practically every American suburb.

I have lived in smallish towns of ~20,000-30,000 and found them more congenial: a small walkable area, streets and structures grown up haphazardly, reflecting their centuries; quiet spaces discovered only by the diligent; people of different ages passing and mingling on the streets; real neighborhoods, different in feel from block to block; and much else that is inaccessible but impressive. Distinctly, an overall devotion to pleasant liveability -- by my parochial urbanite's standards, anyway.

These towns (college towns, I should note) have accepted the principle of organized space and spontaneous growth. That is the city principle -- the suburbs are arranged so as to ignore unintended consequences, but cities live and die on the unintended, the planners outwitted by time. When I say that cities grow spontaneously I of course do not mean that they have wills of their own, but that order simply can't be imposed thoroughly for long on such a large number of people and such a large number of groups of people. You can't control all of the changes all of the time.

So the spontaneity of urban growth after all has something of freedom in it. Like weeds bursting through the cracks in a sidewalk the citizens reshape what was given to them.

On privacy as power.

Rather, on the power that comes with publicly unquestioned presumption of privacy.

When I was small I hated to put on a coat. I hated to do things because others asked it of me, and I was not cold, and I was proud, very proud of my resistance, in the manner of a republican Roman -- Catiline who subjected himself to cold and hunger to train himself in case he should be subjected to cold and hunger, Scaevola ("Lefty") who acquired the name after having plunged his right hand into a fire just to show (off to) his barbarian captor that he could not be pressured. I was not quite that -- I did not harm myself for the sake of showing that harm meant nothing to me, or my body -- but I was closer than I now think right: I would not put on a coat when I felt cold because they (not my parents, others) would have me put it on even when I was not cold. That is perversity, and I appreciate that my parents let me work through it for myself.

Others were not so inclined. For instance the strangers who said: "Excuse me! Do you know that your daughter is not wearing a coat!" as if my father had not been holding my hand. I learned from this how easy it is to forfeit the presumption of privacy.

Violation of norms of etiquette -- though not of moral norms per se -- constitutes forfeiture of the presumption of privacy. Hence: "your child is screaming." "Did you dye your hair that color on purpose?" "What happened to your tights?" "Is that a man or a woman?"

Being with child or with a child constitutes forfeiture of the presumption of privacy. Hence: "Can I touch your stomach?" "Can I see your stomach?" "Your child is screaming." "I don't know why some people let their children leave the house looking like that."

Being beautiful constitutes forfeiture of the presumption of privacy; or being with someone beautiful. Hence: a man rolling down his automobile window to shout at my sister, approvingly and mockingly, "Yeah! White is right!" (!) A driver telling my other sister in Arabic that she is a camel (jimal), to her great puzzlement; and when she tries to extricate herself with a pun -- "not jimal but jamila, beautiful" -- responding: "Yes, you are very jamila"; and later resuming the subject with her to assure her that he had called her jimal qua "a very beautiful animal." (But this was in Jordan.)

Sometimes just being a woman is enough or sometimes just being with a woman; and often enough just being out with someone of the same sex in a possibly romantic context. Hence: walking down Spring Street one summer day I have been whistled at by not one nor two but a whole group of sailors together. And: standing with me on a street corner late one Saturday evening after a movie, a friend was accosted by an approving shout from a light-stopped car of "Yeah! Take that ----- home, bag her, and ---- the ---- out of her." Really. (Yes. Really.) And: no one needs my help to come up with instances of people harassed for the appearance of less than fully heterosexual romantic activity or inclinations.

Being fat constitutes forfeiture of the presumption of privacy. Hence: "Hey, big guy." "I have a terrible sweet tooth, and -- oh, well I'm sure I don't need to tell you!" And -- remarkably -- in the souk in Marrakech, a man managed to combine this with several of the above by bodily poking h in the stomach and declaring: "Couscous! Tagine!" and then looking over at my ashen face and adding (in English): "She is so beautiful, but she never smiles!"

Being exceptionally small or exceptionally tall constitutes forfeiture of the presumption of privacy. Hence the awkward caught-gawking "....how tall are you?", hence the "Sorry ... I've just never seen someone that size," even "Are you a midget?" and "I bet you're really good at basketball." Other unusual bodily features, too: "Where'd you get that scar?" "Can I sign your cast?" "Are those real?"

We don't decide to harass other people -- well, not in all of these cases -- but because we see them as different, or as natural wards of the state, or as our natural inferiors, we have to teach ourselves to respect their privacy -- since we are not taught so from the beginning.