Superstars Present: The Benefits of Term-End Performance

                   

     The usual last meeting of a college class looks like a torture chamber: Students sit, as if trapped in the clutches of desk seats; they are forbidden, as prisoners are, to contact each other, or to touch; they hover over blue books, moiling away at tests; only when they are finished are they granted parole. Most look miserable, some panicky, others resigned.  A-students might be the most desperate of all, on a rescue mission for their perfect GPA. Some students are devising escape plans, finding ways to access answers through cleverly disguised hard-copy or digital cheat sheets.  One by one, students hand in their tests to the teacher enthroned at the front of the room—a teacher who is dreading the process of grading. Once surrendering their tests, the students hook in their earbuds, pull out their phones, and either bolt or slink away. After a whole semester of meeting the same teacher and students, this is indeed a sad way to cap what is supposed to be an educational adventure. It’s symptomatic of assessment-focused courses where passing the test— and not learning something memorable and enriching—is the point.  No wonder students rarely remember so much as the name of their instructors, once the ordeal of the final exam is over.

           About 30 years ago, I started to produce term-end opportunities for students to showcase their semester’s work for an audience limited to their classmates. In those first performances, students would sidle up to the front of the room, read off the page, and scurry back to seats—still the final exam get-it-over-with mode.  But they weren’t trapped in pockets of misery, as they would be with tests.  Everyone applauded appreciatively, and there was a mood of celebration.

            When retailers can’t sell an item at a certain price, they raise the price. So I ramped up the scope of these performances.  I found a public space, sometimes off campus, where students would be performing for family, friends, and the public.  Now the stakes were higher—and illustrated that what they learned and accomplished in class was part of the larger world; that, in short, it mattered.  We rehearsed in class, students memorized their work, some surprised us with antics to enhance their work.  One student jumped up on a desk and rode it like a surfboard while he recited his poem about ocean adventures.  Some students employed friends not in the class to perform with them—playing a guitar or, really, a tuba; enacting a night scene from The Great Gatsby with flashlights; dancing an interpretation of an Emily Dickinson poem, while another played the flute. Four women dressed up as witches to interview Macbeth on The View.

            We all need to be seen.  We all need some public project to realize ourselves.  We all need to be creative and to show off.  We all need a sense of ritual and closure to mark literally, stages in our lives—such as the end of a semester’s work. Somehow that’s supposed to stop in a “serious college class.”  But, as physician and writer Alfred Mercier once said, “What we learn with pleasure, we never forget.”

            Over the years, I have expanded the scope of these performances.  Now, all of my classes for the semester meet in a school auditorium to regale each other.  “They’re your cousins,” I tell them, “through me.  They’re looking forward to meeting you.” I limit each student to two minutes of performance time, which accumulates if they present with others—six minutes, say, for three students.  I ask only that they stay for about twenty minutes to support each other—although many students come early and stay to enjoy the last student up. Each class devises a special cheer for itself, which the whole audience learns and delivers with each new performer from that class (often with hand motions): “Land the Helicopter,” “Not now: I’m meditating,” “Quack! Quack! Take me back!”  All in-groupy kinds of phrases that capture something essential and intimate about a family of students in a class. And the main objective of the performance, I tell them, is to show others how valuable/fun/enriching their learning experience has and continues to be.  “Inspire others to read Shakespeare,” I say, “Inspire others to write their own poetry.”

In our most recent Superstar Performance, Mali and Matt, reinterpreted the roles of Helena and Demetrius from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  In a memorable performance, Mali and Matthew re-enacted a memorized scene in which, despite Demetrius’s repeated verbal abuse of her, Helena persists in pursuing him. Mali wore a dog’s collar, gave Matt a whip and paddle to use on her, and then handcuffs.  No one of us will ever forget their interpretation, nor the fun we had laughing through their antics.  Nor will they forget Willy’s stunning dance interpretation of Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy (while Lisa from another class held up a phone to the microphone, so we could hear Michael York’s recitation of the speech.

Term-end performances or presentations can be produced for all disciplines and departments. We learn best what we teach, and preparing for a performance helps students to better learn subject matter.  They won’t forget the opportunity to acknowledge their courage and creativity in putting themselves forth.  Nor will they forget the crucial message that these performances embody—that the word “education” derives from the Latin for ‘being lead out of darkness.’  That education should move us forward and out of our Platonic caves.   If you’re going to be a Superstar, you’ve got to show up and show off to others.  Tell us about your Superstars Present experience!

                                                          

First A. I. D. for Writers

               

                                                                                                                                             

(1)   “She was upset.”

(2)  “Brigit pitched her favorite Precious Moments Birthday Angel against the wall above Arlen’s head.”

(3)   “A vein suddenly streaked red across the white of Brigit’s right eye, like blood lightning."

(4)   “‘This is the last time,’ Brigit hissed.”

            These are four ways we might capture a moment in fictional Brigit’s life: 

(1) is merely exposition—telling us, in general, what’s happening.  It is a gray throwaway sentence that could be applied to so many people and situations that it doesn’t mean anything. A key way to tell that you’re writing a sentence in an exposition mode, is that there’s no Action, Imagery, or Dialog.  Often, you can replace an important part of a sentence with almost any other word(s) and transfer the same nothing information.  The three sentences “He was upset.” “The dog was upset.” “The thing was upset.” are all forgettable yawns.

(2) is Action that clearly embodies Brigit’s emotional state.  Action is delivered through juicy verbs.  Notice that example (1) has the boring and general “was” as its verb.  (2), (3), and (4) all scintillate (like “scintillate” does) with vibrant verbs: “pitched,” “streaked,” “hissed.” 

(3) is a physical Image of how anger can manifest. Imagery appeals to our senses—the five in our heads and hands and the ones in the rest of our bodies. In (3), we literally see red, as Brigit does.  The word “lightning” strikes us with shapes and velocity.  Notice that Action and Imagery often coincide: Action is embodied in Imagery, and Imagery is relayed by bright Action verbs.

             (4) is a moment of Dialog—a direct quote of words or thoughts embodied in words.  Sometimes, it is most effective to forefront the words themselves, and just write “she said.” As in the case of our example, a more specific characterization of the speech act can amplify the dialog.  With all the sibilant consonance of s’s in “This is the last time,” it is natural to use another sibilant s to write “hissed.”

            A.I.D.e.  The word “Aide” means ‘assistant,’ and much effective writing is some combination of all four aspects. But the less our writing limps along on the crutch of exposition (the form that these two sentences are taking), the better. (Even so, notice that I enlivened my previous expository sentence with the Action word “limps,” and the Image of “crutch.”) To resuscitate your writing, First AID it.

            Here is how student Amanda Miller rescued her exposition-heavy first drafts with AID:

  

            Draft 1:

                 I wish I could go back in time.  I wish I could take back those words

            that screwed me.  Though, I hated it there.  Deep down, as obedient as I was.

            I hated it.  Living in my father’s house where his word was law, I hated it.

Although it is clear that the narrator of Amanda’s story is broaching a difficult story, this passage is entirely exposition—in general, what’s happening, but not revealing any of the details.  The verbs are not action verbs:  “go, take, hate, was.”  Even the word “screwed” is a cliché without specific evocation.  There is no Action, Imagery, or Dialog to resuscitate these sentences.

            Draft 4:

     “You ungrateful shit!” My father came bursting into my bedroom as I was grinding away my calculus homework and grabbed my left ear.  He pulled me off my desk chair and dragged me from the room to throw me into a kitchen chair down the hall.  I saw my mother in her blue secretarial uniform watching me with her hands clutched together at her heart.

This draft launches with Dialog, a clear and startling example of words that the narrator claimed “screwed” him in the first draft.  There is plenty of Action: “bursting…grinding…  grabbing… pulled…dragged…throw…clutched.”  Where the writing might brighten is with inclusion of more Imagery, as we wait until the mother’s “blue secretarial uniform” to incorporate other than the kinesthetic imagery embodied in the Action verbs above it.

            To revive your writing through First A.I.D., go sentence by sentence for prose, and line by line for poetry.  Ask yourself for each passage, “Is the Action, Imagery, Dialog, Exposition?”  “Is this sentence/line alive?”  Mark “A, I, D, and/or e” in the margins to indicate what form the writing takes as you read along. The more lively the work, the more you’ll find yourself bunching A, I, D’s together, and the fewer e’s you’ll have.  Wherever it’s grayed out with exposition, juice up your verbs, animate with Action, amp it up with Dialog, embody it with Imagery.

Post us before-and-after sentence or poetic line to show how it’s done!

Term Papers vs. Essays: Entering the Conversation

            Three male dancers are leaping to the left, as it were, into the past.  Their arms are level with their shoulders, invoking a sense of reaching yet descending. We do not see their faces. They synchronized with each other to form an unindividuated unit.  They are in the background, wearing gray, monochromatic, tights.  The ballerina, on the other hand, is in the foreground—leaping to the right, into the future.  She is moving against the flow of the others—her arms raised and rising with a sense of victory.  Her face, very visible to us, is full of passion and meaning.  She is unique in this tableau, and the focus. The three male dancers are the term paper, and the ballerina, the essay.

            Review of the literature in any field is a process of discovering what the conversation is and has been on a particular topic. The term paper is a report on what others have thought.  When I was writing my first term papers in high school, before the internet, I would check out a stack of ten books on my topic, tag sentences and paragraphs that were interesting, pile up the open-faced pages and type—with quote marks, of course, and citations.  It was a mechanical process that had more to do with organizing, fulfilling an assignment, and getting a grade, than with creative and critical thinking.  I settled for being a back-up dancer, not the prima ballerina.

            This mechanical way of writing what others wrote, using others’ ideas, going through the proverbial motions to get through a class, is even more common today with the easy access of the internet.  And in a world where ease of assessment and statistical comparisons is increasingly more important than intellectual and personal transformation, the temptation is to just write derivative term papers that border on plagiarism.

            Our Online Etymology Dictionary tells us that the word “essay” originally meant to “try, attempt, endeavor.”  It has come to mean, predominantly, “a short, discursive, literary composition.”  To write an essay, then, is to experiment, weigh options, take risks, contribute something significant to the conversation on your chosen topic.  Once we have researched and reported on our predecessors, we have a series of options:

            Term Paper Level:

(1)   Report what others have said and written.

Essay Level:

(2)   Agree with sources, but offer amplifications and new applications.

(3)   Disagree with sources and offer alternatives.

(4)   Apply a mode of thinking of one source to a newly chosen subject.

(5)   Report on the extent of your research and posit that no one else has entertained your idea—then offer your original thoughts.

(6)   Experiment with new ideas and applications.

There are two ways to incorporate research:

(1)   Start your papers/essays with a review of the literature on your topic.

(2)   Interweave your sources within the body and conclusion of your work. 

     The first option is a traditional academic way to introduce a paper.  Too often, it’s plodding and, frankly, a yawn.  Imagine a “conversation” where one person lectures on and on and gives you no space to contribute. With the second option, you might start with a brief quote, and then focus your reader on your original idea. Interweaving sources then creates a sense of building a conversation.

Too many students and professors settle for looking backward, to what has been said—a

safe, gradable place.  I could have simply written this post by reporting on what everyone else has said about the “correct” way to write a paper for a grade. Blah! Blah! Blah! Instead, I’ve taken a risk to focus my comparison of term papers and essays in the image of the dancers.  You know when you’re merely repeating others’ ideas, saving face by not presenting your own, copying the movements of others’ minds. An essay is an opportunity to take risks, try out new ideas, enter the great conversation as an individual, and soar. Like the photograph of our dancers extending beyond the blog’s frame, let your picture of the world break through.

Works Cited:

Cover art: https://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/16/insider/how-to-look-as-dancers-leap.html

Online Etymology Dictionary: https://www.etymonline.com/word/essay

Propping Up Characters: Staging in the Classroom

                                     

                                                        

            Manal wraps herself in a white feather boa and teases Dan with one of the ends.  Tisha winds a long silver necklace around her head, like a crown. Chris and Nadia are tossing a blue ball between them.  Mali is experimenting with a bullwhip.  Welcome to our Shakespeare class, and another experiment in how to develop original insights into the bard’s plays.

            We are reading Cymbeline, one of those obscure Shakespearean plays that rarely make it into classrooms.  I like my students to have bragging rights, to be able to say to others (including teachers), “Oh, you don’t know Titus Andronicus” or Troilus and Cressida or Cymbeline? Well, let me tell you.”

            Today, staging will offer us original ways to interpret the play. Shakespeare’s works are spare in staging directions, and, as Robert Thomas Fallon writes in How to Enjoy Shakespeare, his plays are not fragile—as is clear from the two productions we consider:  the 1983 BBC and the 2014 Michael Almereyda film.  As Mali points out, “This is the story of ‘Snow White.’ An evil queen, a vulnerable virgin—instead of Disney dwarves, she has long-lost brothers, and she comes back from the dead.”

            We compare the opening scenes—the BBC production adheres strictly to the text and the costuming is Elizabethan—gowns, corrugated collars, swords.  The film is set in contemporary Britain—Cymbeline, the king, is the head of a motorcycle gang.  They wear leather jackets and carry AK-47 machine guns (at a phallic angle).  Shakespeare’s play is illuminated by both approaches—one focused more on the words, the other on visual and sound effects.

            Then we, as a class, dive into the props I’ve gathered at random from my house and office and rolled in in an overflowing crate:  all of the above, and masks, scissors, a large serving spoon, flashlight, toy crown.  The props chose me—not I, anticipating what might be “right” for use with Cymbeline.  In small groups, students choose a scene to stage with their props.

            There were two approaches—the literal, closer to the BBC interpretation, and the imaginative, like the film.  In one group, a student took the crown to portray the Evil Queen.  They gave a quill to the doctor, from whom she exacts poison (so she thinks) as symbolic of his writing prescriptions. The small blue ball went to Pisanio, the faithful servant who, as they put it, is like a dog fetching.  Except for the ball, this assignment seemed predictable and literal.  So I suggested that they change-up—reassign the props.  Take two, the Evil Queen gets the quill—because she wants to write the story: her son should marry Imogen, the Snow White figure.  The doctor gets the ball, because he will figuratively drop it—suspecting the Evil Queen, he gives her a non-fatal potion.  Pisanio, the faithful servant, is given the crown for his moral superiority to them all.  And so it went with that group, changing up the props to develop deeper insights into the characters.

            In another Shakespeare class, Adelina, who was sporting the white feather boa, was assigned the role of Cloten, the Evil Queen’s son—the one she wanted to marry off to Imogen, Cymbeline’s daughter.  That was a surprise!  Actually, Adelina just wanted to play with the boa—but we went with it.  And found a way to make this staging experiment meaningful.  Further into the play, Cloten, who is a sullen minion of his mother, unexpectedly takes up a weapon and, in a parody of masculine bravado, challenges one of Imogen’s “dwarves.”  What we interpreted from the use of the boa, was that the Evil Queen made her son effeminate.  He dies in the attempt to assert domination, because he was unprepared for warfare.

            Every part of a Shakespearean poem or play can be used as an entry point for original interpretation.  Some of the more famous one’s include “Exit, pursued by a bear” from The Winter’s Tale; [Makes a pass through the arras], when Hamlet kills Polonius—the arras serving as a symbol for the veils of deceit in the play; and the numerous times in Cymbeline, “[Enter Queen]”—the one who is trying to write the story her way. 

            This was a lesson, for all of us, in how mere literal interpretations dull us out, and how staging—in this case props—can offer us new and intriguing engagements with Shakespeare’s characters.