As we get ready to head back to school, Acculturated is reevaluating some of the “classic” books routinely assigned to children to read during the school year. Do they still deserve to be granted the label of “classics”? Are there better books kids could be reading? And what ideological and cultural messages are these books really sending our children?
You could always tell an honors English student at my high school by a particular strain of anxiety at the end of summer. Instead of sitting outside eating watermelon, chasing the opposite gender at the community pool, we were bunkered in our homes, feverishly trying to read the countless books assigned to us over summer break. Our conversations followed the same predictable pattern.
“Hey Liz, how far are you in ‘1984′?”
“67.”
“Man, you’re in trouble.”
“Where are you?”
“I haven’t started.”
And over and over it went, through The Awakening to The Shipping News, each with its own dry report attached. Highlight one motif through the story. Pick two characters and contrast them. Some of us were good enough at writing the reports that we could compose a report after merely skimming the book.
But one book was markedly different than the others: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard. In his wisdom, my Advanced Placement English teacher Mr. Buck asked us to read this book and not write a report about it. Instead, we had to do something most of us thought ridiculous and unreasonable. We had to find a blanket and set up camp in a quiet place in nature. Once we found a quiet place, we were supposed to sit calmly for a half hour by ourselves and observe our surroundings. And then our assignment (because there has to be an assignment) was to write a report about what we saw, and how reading Pilgrim can teach us how to see differently.
At the time there were mixed reactions to this. Some of my lazier classmates, myself included, thought it was a great opportunity to get away with a quick, casual reading of the book. But perhaps a larger portion of the class was emphatically annoyed. We were young, busy, and ready to do something, even if that was summer homework. To expect us to sit around and observe the world around us was a very foreign concept, if not an outright waste of our time.
But we did it anyway. Liz set up a camp near the creek, a green idyllic spot next to the sewage treatment plant. For the sake of convenience I sat in my backyard next to a row of rosebushes my dog had accidentally eaten. I sat there monitoring my digital watch, waiting for the seconds to tick down so I didn’t have to observe a Pennsylvania lawn anymore. My essay was tepid at best, commensurate with my effort. And the in-class discussion was lukewarm and stale, most of us reaching for experiences we didn’t have. I remember one artist-type student was deeply moved by the book, but the rest of us wondered how on earth someone could write so long about trees.
But looking back, I learned more from my Pilgrim assignment than I expected. For starters, I realized I had a problem with observation; I wasn’t particularly good at noticing where I was, describing what my house looked like, how many rosebushes it was my dog actually ate. And if I was ever going to be a better writer, I had to become a better observer. I had to stop regurgitating facts and start seeing the world in a fresh way.
The task also revealed that my classmates and I had underestimated the power and strength it takes to stay still. We didn’t have cell phones back then, Facebook didn’t exist; we were hearty central Pennsylvanians who lived off Friday night football and calico beans. But even without the technology that we blame for our frenzied existence now, we were still busy inside, and it would take years of cultivation to learn how to just sit and be at peace.
We discovered a hurriedness of the soul. And by and large we were unsatisfied with it. We had just read a lyrical telling of someone enraptured by nature, and we didn’t see what she saw. Granted, she spent far more than half an hour on her task, but the message resounded nonetheless. We read about a different way of existing in the world, and our own way seemed small by comparison.
So would I recommend an English teacher assign this book today? I’m not sure. Honestly it was a bear for me to read when I was young. I didn’t exactly connect with a book that lacked a plot, and I’ve never been one to hug a tree. If I took a test today about the details of the book I’d fail.
But I would be tempted to say assign it anyway. Make your students read the book and have them sit still, in nature, in their backyard, even in their bedroom. Make them turn off their phones and listen to their own breathing. Plant the seed of contemplation in their lives.
I can’t remember most of what I read those many summers ago. There were many books, and some of them were truly great. But only this lesson has had staying power years after the fact: The underestimated value of quiet, and the flurry of forces that strive to prevent it.
The post The Book that Taught Me the Virtue of Sitting Still appeared first on Acculturated.