14 April 2017
— nascent leaves glistening with dew
Good Morning All,
One reason I didn’t like how three of my four high school English teachers taught literature was what they had to say about symbols and symbolic language. “In this story, class, we can see that the window sashes dividing the four panes of glass are symbols for the crucifix.” Or: “Clearly, the author introduces the mirror early in the story to symbolize introspection.”
Poe’s Raven equalled death and loss. The tornado in The Wizard of Oz equalled high emotions. The plants on the windowsill represented some old lady’s hopes and dreams. Some girl keeps that chipped teacup because it stands for her grandmother whom she loved. And on and on.
Some of it, I could agree with, although it sounded artificial and as if you needed to know some special rules in a private game English teachers played. A lot of it seemed damned far-fetched.
When my Uncle Sam determined I would become a teacher, I wanted my students to know what a symbol was in the real world. Not in some fancy, literary way, but in the blood and sinew way of the world around us.
Do not worry, I shall not attempt again a class reenactment. Instead, here’s half of a short bit I wrote up for my tenth graders when we were discussing how stuff like metaphor and symbol work.
You do not have to read it. You do not have to agree with it. I just thought I’d share it with you for the heck of it. (And the chances are you’ll get the second half of it tomorrow!)
Symbol: A symbol remains what it is while at the same time becoming something else.
You may have been taught—as was I--that a symbol is something that represents something else. That definition, though, doesn't go quite far enough. That's actually the definition for a sign, such as the $ to represent United States dollars or money in general. (Just by way of incidentally, $ originally came from superimposing the U of United over the S of States.)
What's the difference between becoming something else and only representing something else? Here's an example: Across a field run some men in blue uniforms towards some men in gray uniforms behind a wall of rocks. Both groups are firing rifles at each other. One man in blue, however, has no rifle; instead, he carries a pole with a rectangle of cloth waving at the top of it. The cloth has a pattern of different colors. He is running right at the front. For some reason, the gray men are shooting at the unarmed man more than at the armed men.
The man with the colored cloth is hit and falling, but is still trying to hold the pole upright. Another man in blue tosses aside his rifle, grabs the pole before the cloth touches the ground, and hurries toward the rock wall, closer and closer to the gray men.
That multi-colored cloth is, of course, a flag. But it is not just a sign that represents the blue men's country. People do not risk their lives to preserve a piece of colored cloth that only represents something else. Rather, in some truly mystical and irrational fashion in the minds of the blue men and the gray men, that flag becomes the blue men's country, becomes its mountains and rivers, its values and beliefs, its culture and seasons. The blue men fight to keep their country flying.
Some of it, I could agree with, although it sounded artificial and as if you needed to know some special rules in a private game English teachers played. A lot of it seemed damned far-fetched.
When my Uncle Sam determined I would become a teacher, I wanted my students to know what a symbol was in the real world. Not in some fancy, literary way, but in the blood and sinew way of the world around us.
Do not worry, I shall not attempt again a class reenactment. Instead, here’s half of a short bit I wrote up for my tenth graders when we were discussing how stuff like metaphor and symbol work.
You do not have to read it. You do not have to agree with it. I just thought I’d share it with you for the heck of it. (And the chances are you’ll get the second half of it tomorrow!)
Symbol: A symbol remains what it is while at the same time becoming something else.
You may have been taught—as was I--that a symbol is something that represents something else. That definition, though, doesn't go quite far enough. That's actually the definition for a sign, such as the $ to represent United States dollars or money in general. (Just by way of incidentally, $ originally came from superimposing the U of United over the S of States.)
What's the difference between becoming something else and only representing something else? Here's an example: Across a field run some men in blue uniforms towards some men in gray uniforms behind a wall of rocks. Both groups are firing rifles at each other. One man in blue, however, has no rifle; instead, he carries a pole with a rectangle of cloth waving at the top of it. The cloth has a pattern of different colors. He is running right at the front. For some reason, the gray men are shooting at the unarmed man more than at the armed men.
The man with the colored cloth is hit and falling, but is still trying to hold the pole upright. Another man in blue tosses aside his rifle, grabs the pole before the cloth touches the ground, and hurries toward the rock wall, closer and closer to the gray men.
That multi-colored cloth is, of course, a flag. But it is not just a sign that represents the blue men's country. People do not risk their lives to preserve a piece of colored cloth that only represents something else. Rather, in some truly mystical and irrational fashion in the minds of the blue men and the gray men, that flag becomes the blue men's country, becomes its mountains and rivers, its values and beliefs, its culture and seasons. The blue men fight to keep their country flying.
Go Well and Stay Well,
Bhekaron
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