Screw the Looking Glass

One of the most acclaimed accounts displaying the sometimes deep discontinuity between faith and reason is a longwinded dialogue given life in The Brothers Karamazov. In this early existential exchange, Ivan, the thinker, artfully articulates the nihilistic notions that have taken form in his burdened brain, and subsequently pried him from the hope to which his brother Alyosha, the then monk-in-training, clings to so firmly. The main thrust of these unsettling sentiments is carried aboard a story Ivan relates, where, in response to the carefully ordered condemnations counted by the character who voices Ivan’s suspicions, the imprisoned, but clear-conscioused convict, offers only one rebuttal, a kiss. Then, Alyosha, after being rebelliously regaled, offers the same objection in thoughtful mimicry, laying lips on his simmering sibling.

I ponder that scene frequently, and am often dumbfounded by the simple genius of Alyosha’s gentle gesture, expressing, perhaps, what words never could. However, sadly, it seems that, at least in my own experience, when riddled by those around me with questions arguably beyond responses of reason, such an affectionate answer would likely put me in prison. On top of that, I’m not so certain that the intended meaning would translate, at least not amidst all of the harassment charges. And it’s true, I am many miles removed from any Russian monastery, but, all the same, I do daily impart perhaps the most mysterious of all matters, that is, English as a foreign language.

Growing up in this linguistic system, it’s natural for me to accept its notoriously strange nuances with a learned and uncritical assurance. When given the task of teaching these in an academic setting though, it’s not uncommon for me feel like I’m explaining love to some token movie robot like Johnny 5. Only by experience will it truly compute, my steel-plated pal.

For example, from the perspective of my students, I have to think that supplying satisfactory suffixes to each adjective and verb is something akin to Minesweeper on my 1993 Compaq Presario. Will “er” let me live to click another flat grey box? Will “ed” drop me in the middle of a mine field? It’s hard to say, but at least this program did provide the player with those colorful numbers that I always assumed navigated every next step in accordance with some strange strategic protocol.

(Note: If that wasn’t the case, then I’d wager that these countable clues were actually the lump sum of “Dorf” viewings that would have been a better use of the clicker’s time. I mean that game was honest to a fault. In that way, it was the Progressive Auto Insurance of early computational entertainment.)

Furthermore, derivational and inflectional inconsistencies are only the tip of this irrational iceberg.

Speaking itself sparks many of its own subtle irregularities. As my students toggle to and fro between tied together terms like photograph and photographer, the strangeness of stressing certain syllables over others is brought to all of our attentions in a strong way. But at least with a few sloped streaks above the separated segments of the words in question, a bit of our naïve hope for normality is restored, as diagramming awards us an apparent degree of systematic structure. It’s in just such an occasion that I think back thankfully to a tenth grade lesson on iambic pentameter, leaving Shakespeare sandwiched between scholastic matinees of Space Jam and Encino Man.

For the record, these two movies were not mentioned mockingly, because they, perhaps more than any other media mechanism, brought to light many of the difficulties produced by societal differences. Quite simply, whether it was portrayed via the dissonance between ice-age and contemporary cultural or human and cartoon culture, the message rang clear: cultural quirks can be a confusing, sometimes frustrating, commodity for the outsider. I’ve come to know this all to well, and like Michael Jordan and Brendan Frasier before me, I feel that such rigors have been both rewarding and refining. However, this isn’t a one-way process, and as a lecturer of language, I often find myself having to explain the entity that entitles words to their very existence and meaning. What the Enchantment Under the Sea dance was to Marty McFly, so culture is to language.

As one might expect, this can further confound the confusion associated with English acquisition. Take for instance, the following encounter with a student politely exiting the classroom:

“Good afternoon Mr. Will.”

“Actually, you can’t say good-bye like that.”

“But you can say good night to say good-bye, right?”

“Well, yeah, but this is different. Good afternoon is like good morning. It’s a way to say hello.”

“So why are they different?”

I suppose this would have been a perfect moment to employ Alyosha’s answer, but, once again, it’s a little less than legal. So instead I admitted my ignorance and played the culture card, all the while harboring a bit of envy for those teachers of simpler subjects. Topics such as particle physics for instance. I mean Yahoo Serious seemed to make it so accessible in that gem of scientific cinema, “Young Einstein.”

Soon though, in such situations, these voices proclaiming the prizes of other vocations are quieted. Then I, like my homeland and its ardent obsession with that bizarre broadcast branded “Lost,” warmly embrace something I don’t fully understand.