I started out by responding via the Diigo Group Annotations for #CCourses that we have set up (totally open to join here), but as happens so often for me the annotations got longer and longer until they grew into a quasi/semi/pseudo/crypto post. Hence the spillover here. Besides, how was I going to get my snake pix in here otherwise. Yes, this blog now involves snakes so that makes this officially akin to the snakes on a plane–without the cussin’.
After beginning his grand narrative, Simon begins to draw the truth from the parable of the zoo. He writes, “I would like to imagine that in the future our children will look at the enclosures in which past generations were kept as absurd anachronism.” I recall the first time I used blogs in the secondary high school in 2002 it felt like I was not only opening up the cages, but also knocking holes in the walls so that no one could ever use them as cages again. At least for the students who I was working with, I think this was true. Once they tasted that freedom there was no going back.
Then he gets to the big question: whatever happened to grand narrative?
Well…maybe it’s all grand narrative all the way down. For example, I had a grand day outside. Frost was expected so we had to dig our peanuts and check out the sweet potatoes to see if they were ready to dig (tradition here is to dig them after a frost).
I think we are going to get about a five to one return on the peanuts (yield per pound planted) and God knows on the sweet taters. That is a grand narrative isn’t it? One of the grandest narratives. Agriculture. (And it is one that is not without its…dark side.)
I was introduced to a grander narrative only a short while after we had battened down the garden to save the tomatoes and peppers and flowers from frost. My wife discovered a corn snake trapped in bird netting.
Corn snakes are the glory of the constrictors round these parts. Bright orange with diamonds patterns and black and white bellies. Astonishing. If you catch sight of of one in the wild you cannot believe that such a creature could hide from anything. Too bright. Too shiny. Yet…I have seen them slither away and disappear like the Cheshire Cat. We cut the netting away from her. Took her away from where the chickens might do her harm (chickens are notorious snake enemies) and released her.
She immediately serpentined about in a threatening “s” to let us know that she was not to be anthropomorphized. Three feet of grand narrative, millions of years old, with a legacy that lives on in one of the parts of our triune brain. I was unconsciously sweating the whole time I was cutting her away from the netting with scissors. I could not help it.
That narrative is a potent legacy, not to be thrown off by a rational self that told me over and over that there was no danger. That is a grand narrative that leads me to a question– is anyone an island entire unto herself? Should we not consider the unveiling of connection to be the great new story that Thomas Berry speaks of in his book , The Dream of the Earth ? Is the corn snake another revealed link just like reading and annotating Simon’s post and all of it part of a larger scheme?
Simon notes how appalled he felt as he observes how his young friends “appeared to have their lives mapped out” much like the animals of Zootopia. I don’t think that there is anything inherently wrong with those maps into the future. The danger is in thinking that any cartographer could draw one for us. We are not alone in the struggle to map out our own territory, but perhaps Simon is suggesting that we need to be more like Daniel Boone when it comes to blazing our own trail. Any other map just might be the wrong one pulled from someone else’s cosmic junk drawer, the Procrustean one that will make us fit, a soul’s death by a thousand cuts
Or as Simon put it fast forwarding decades into the future, his ‘mapped out’ friends had become too dependent on their own comfort, their own faith in the map. I was reminded of a paradoxical phrase “risks may be our safeties in disguise” that I thought might have come from a John Berryman sonnet. Uncertain of the origin, the phrase sent me on a Google search. Instead, I was taken to a post I had written in Blogger in 2001. In it I am looking for a map that was calling out to be blazed:
My eyes are shot. I have been sketching approaches to on-line classes all day when I realized that what I want is a website that will supplement what I am doing in the classroom. I want projects, resources, and information that my students can use outside of class to make their learning richer. I want interaction. But I also want something a home-bound student or a home-schooled student could pick up and go with. All the web development sites and resources tell me that is the wrong way to go about building a web site. But a big, sprawling site feels right to me. I am thinking about an old bookstore I used to haunt in downtown Louisville, Zimmermans. His books were sometimes stacked neatly, sometimes in boxes, sometimes in great tall stacks with their spines turned so that you had to unstack them. That’s how I feel about this prefab notion of building a learning environment. I would prefer to grow a learning tree. Some parts die, some parts grow. Sometimes a storm blows the whole freaking mama to the ground.
That brings me to change. Part of me is appalled by the philosophy of constant change. Why the hell should I, for example, concern myself with an article about e-books. It’s a crappy technology that is nearly stillborn. Yet… I know some version of electronic portability will be born and grow. And so it means climbing the learning curve every day with no guarantee that the hard-won knowledge won’t be lost like some Sysyphean stone that crushes the life out of you. That is real teaching… the opportunity to constantly regale your friends with the depth and breadth of your foolishness. Teachers must be early adopters, they must struggle with new ways of learning no matter how feeble because they might just grow from a palsied childhood to greatness. It takes real courage to say to yourself that nothing you do will ever be good enough. But I hate change… I think John Berryman once said in a sonnet that risks may be our safeties in disguise. I put my hope in that paradox. I put my heart in the safety of change.
So… Simon, is this the grand narrative? Do we un-write the old story and spin a new one from partly old thread and partly new? I think maybe E.M.Forster’s admonition in Howard’s End might hint at the new fabric we need,
Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon.
Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted,
And human love will be seen at its height.
Live in fragments no longer.