School Observations & Reactions (Week 4)
I am a firm believer in the idea that no one is as smart as they think they are. And sure, some people are actually smarter than they think they are - but most people are a whole lot dumber.
I include myself in that latter group. And you, you reading this? I include you, too. . .
The question for me is not that I think I am smarter than I actually am, but rather that as I refine my observational skills regarding my own intelligence, I rate it as lower and lower - but no matter how low I (realistically) rate it, there is still that truism that echoes all such thoughts - But you still are not as smart as you think you are. And again, I don't think I am becoming dumber, I might be smarter with each passing day - but as my self-reflective abilities increase in effectiveness, the greater the degree of scale I can apply to my observations, and I readjust my conclusions.
Intelligence is a treacherous thing to try to observe and talk about, because there are a variety of intelligences we humans use to varying degrees - and also an individual application of intelligence may have a variety of external factors that might influence its correctness or general appreciation. That is to say, social factors have a big influence on how smart someone can seem or even be. And as I have alluded to in some of my previous writing, I do not believe that knowing an answer or being "right" is somehow a virtue in and of itself - it is only virtue in terms of the context in which is is applied or announced.
What does it matter if I am correct or insightful in my every comment in a class if it alienates my classmates? And what does it matter if I am way off base and grasping at straws if my classmates have come to think of my comments as correct and insightful, or if the professor can appreciate my wrestling with the topic - even if my conclusions are flawed?
Yesterday in my American Literature of the 19th Century class, the woman sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and introduced herself and started talking to me about the paper we have due on Monday. It is a comparison between Thomas Cole's series of paintings, The Course of Empire, with one of our early readings. She said something along the lines of, "I've been listening to you in class and. . . Well, I was hoping I could talk to you about my paper and get your thoughts on it." And in a few minutes of talking I hit on some themes and allusions from the piece of writing she chose (Jane Johnston Schoolcraft's re-telling of a native folktale) that might help as points of comparison and to move in the direction of a possible thesis for her paper. And then she asked if we could exchange numbers so that maybe we could talk about it more and I could maybe read her paper - or at the very least help her formulate her thesis with a little more detail. . . "If you have time. . ." she added.
"Well, time is precious," I said. "But I will be happy to help if I can. . . We can help each other."
"I am a terrible writer," she said. "I am always telling my students that just because you are a good reader doesn't automatically make you a good writer, and I fear I fall in that category. . ."
Now, while I wonder what makes her think I can write worth a damn, I was flattered that she noticed me and sought me out for help.
And then class began, and I managed to raise my hand three times and make three comments I had not given much thought to and felt especially stupid when I was either just wrong or upon reflection it had little bearing on the point in question. It was not the kind of "feeling dumb" I like - and I could not help but dwell on the irony of the earlier conversation with my classmate, and my immediate blunders. It doesn't matter what the mistakes were, that I confused Thomas Cole's Pastoral State with his painting The Savage State in making a comment about Natty Bumppo, and his view of nature and his place in it - or that I made some pointless comment about use of you/thou in formal versus familiar language - or that I cannot even recall the third. . .
It is hard to express that kind of embarrassment I feel when I catch myself trying to sound smart, or when I am stretching a connection or analogy beyond reason just so what I am talking about will fit some kind of framework - even if I am hammering at the sides to make it fit. I admonish myself with the reminder, "It is better to say less." The moment of error flares up in my consciousness like a ember in a passing wind - who can say why in that moment the wind blew in just such away to make that coal brighten? Who is to say why such a ridiculous worry should return to my thoughts as I prepare dinner or wait for the subway?
Of course, another irony of all this, is that my worry about sounding dumb and saying the wrong thing is just another example of the pointless pride that leads me to say things without thinking them through. Pride. Because my errors are frozen in time for me. . . And thus in my imagining for everyone else around who might be thinking, "Jeez, that was dumb. . ." My mind makes the world revolve around me even when I am proving myself stupid - even my errors are venerable.
What I would not give to quash desire. . . What I would not give to be able to skewer my pride more effectively. . . What I would not do to shed all remnants of ambition. . . But as long as I continue to want even those things, I will never have them. . . And I know in some sense I can never have them. . . What can being without desire even mean?
I have been wanting to write an entry exploring my own laziness, my suspicion of ambition and my disdain for hard work as virtue in its own right. . . But I don't have the time right now - as I will be leaving work in about forty minutes to go to my Introduction to Literary Research class - which is the class that makes me feel dumb in the good way - and I have some work to do before I can leave - not hard work - just work. . .
I include myself in that latter group. And you, you reading this? I include you, too. . .
The question for me is not that I think I am smarter than I actually am, but rather that as I refine my observational skills regarding my own intelligence, I rate it as lower and lower - but no matter how low I (realistically) rate it, there is still that truism that echoes all such thoughts - But you still are not as smart as you think you are. And again, I don't think I am becoming dumber, I might be smarter with each passing day - but as my self-reflective abilities increase in effectiveness, the greater the degree of scale I can apply to my observations, and I readjust my conclusions.
Intelligence is a treacherous thing to try to observe and talk about, because there are a variety of intelligences we humans use to varying degrees - and also an individual application of intelligence may have a variety of external factors that might influence its correctness or general appreciation. That is to say, social factors have a big influence on how smart someone can seem or even be. And as I have alluded to in some of my previous writing, I do not believe that knowing an answer or being "right" is somehow a virtue in and of itself - it is only virtue in terms of the context in which is is applied or announced.
What does it matter if I am correct or insightful in my every comment in a class if it alienates my classmates? And what does it matter if I am way off base and grasping at straws if my classmates have come to think of my comments as correct and insightful, or if the professor can appreciate my wrestling with the topic - even if my conclusions are flawed?
Yesterday in my American Literature of the 19th Century class, the woman sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and introduced herself and started talking to me about the paper we have due on Monday. It is a comparison between Thomas Cole's series of paintings, The Course of Empire, with one of our early readings. She said something along the lines of, "I've been listening to you in class and. . . Well, I was hoping I could talk to you about my paper and get your thoughts on it." And in a few minutes of talking I hit on some themes and allusions from the piece of writing she chose (Jane Johnston Schoolcraft's re-telling of a native folktale) that might help as points of comparison and to move in the direction of a possible thesis for her paper. And then she asked if we could exchange numbers so that maybe we could talk about it more and I could maybe read her paper - or at the very least help her formulate her thesis with a little more detail. . . "If you have time. . ." she added.
"Well, time is precious," I said. "But I will be happy to help if I can. . . We can help each other."
"I am a terrible writer," she said. "I am always telling my students that just because you are a good reader doesn't automatically make you a good writer, and I fear I fall in that category. . ."
Now, while I wonder what makes her think I can write worth a damn, I was flattered that she noticed me and sought me out for help.
And then class began, and I managed to raise my hand three times and make three comments I had not given much thought to and felt especially stupid when I was either just wrong or upon reflection it had little bearing on the point in question. It was not the kind of "feeling dumb" I like - and I could not help but dwell on the irony of the earlier conversation with my classmate, and my immediate blunders. It doesn't matter what the mistakes were, that I confused Thomas Cole's Pastoral State with his painting The Savage State in making a comment about Natty Bumppo, and his view of nature and his place in it - or that I made some pointless comment about use of you/thou in formal versus familiar language - or that I cannot even recall the third. . .
It is hard to express that kind of embarrassment I feel when I catch myself trying to sound smart, or when I am stretching a connection or analogy beyond reason just so what I am talking about will fit some kind of framework - even if I am hammering at the sides to make it fit. I admonish myself with the reminder, "It is better to say less." The moment of error flares up in my consciousness like a ember in a passing wind - who can say why in that moment the wind blew in just such away to make that coal brighten? Who is to say why such a ridiculous worry should return to my thoughts as I prepare dinner or wait for the subway?
Of course, another irony of all this, is that my worry about sounding dumb and saying the wrong thing is just another example of the pointless pride that leads me to say things without thinking them through. Pride. Because my errors are frozen in time for me. . . And thus in my imagining for everyone else around who might be thinking, "Jeez, that was dumb. . ." My mind makes the world revolve around me even when I am proving myself stupid - even my errors are venerable.
What I would not give to quash desire. . . What I would not give to be able to skewer my pride more effectively. . . What I would not do to shed all remnants of ambition. . . But as long as I continue to want even those things, I will never have them. . . And I know in some sense I can never have them. . . What can being without desire even mean?
I have been wanting to write an entry exploring my own laziness, my suspicion of ambition and my disdain for hard work as virtue in its own right. . . But I don't have the time right now - as I will be leaving work in about forty minutes to go to my Introduction to Literary Research class - which is the class that makes me feel dumb in the good way - and I have some work to do before I can leave - not hard work - just work. . .