Essay Week 13: The Sunday Funny Pages

Once I stumbled across this cartoon, I immediately decided to do my essay post over it. I chose this one in particular because it brings me back to Sunday mornings while I was still in grade school. Since my father writes for the Tulsa World, Sunday's paper always made an appearance on the counter top. Reading through all the "funny pages," as my dad called them, became a ritual of mine. The comic strip Pickles, from which the cartoon below originated, always had a spot on the second page.

Cartoon by Brian Crane. 

There are so many aspects of this cartoon that remind me of growing up. Thanks to my father's constant corrections, I learned from a young age to place my apostrophes appropriately. Some of the dialogue in the last panel could easily be heard in my household. On that note, this cartoon reminds me of the dynamic that exists among many families. I can attest to the fact that a good amount of light-hearted teasing can really make a family jibe well. For example, it's well-known that my sister does a great job at keeping me humble.

From here, I will shift my focus onto the content of the cartoon itself. In my opinion, a large part of the humor comes from the strong sense of dramatic irony in the last panel. Just as the man does not catch the fact his wife is indeed criticizing him, the wife does not seem to notice that she's breaking the very resolution she just declared. Beyond that, there is a bit of a paradox here that draws attention to the fact that these characters reside in a comic strip. Since "your" and "you're" are pronounced the same, there is no way the wife would have noticed the error unless she were able to see the word written. I'm willing to bet that the cartoonist intended this to be the case. After all, one should have room to experiment when writing a comic strip.

Essay Week 9: The Shaping Force of Narrative

Having progressed this far into the semester, I have started to reflect on the purpose of storytelling. How did storytelling evolve to take root in culture? What do stories provide to those that hear them? What about those who tell the stories?

A year ago, I took my honors colloquium, Literature and Medicine, and the central question of the course was this: What can literature learn from medicine, and what can medicine learn from literature? We explored how narrative genre can frame the stories that patients bring with them into the examination room. We discussed the role of empathy and how abduction, a type of hypothesis-forming logic, fuels what doctors do on a daily basis.

The cover of one of the books written by my professors for Literature and Medicine. Image found at Project MUSE.

I bring this up because I believe storytelling has a way of molding both the people who hear tales and those who recount them, and if that is the case, then storytelling fulfills a cultural function. Research done by scientists at Emory University found that reading fiction changes the physical structure of the brain. As the lead author stated, narrative has a way of putting someone in the protagonist's shoes. Another study by David Kidd and Emanuele Castano found that literary fiction predisposes people to develop a stronger theory of mind and subsequently improve their ability to empathize with others.

Such findings imply that the stories we absorb have a way of shaping the way we think and the way we view the experience of other people. Perhaps reading is the portal that allows us to delve into experiences we might never come to know. I can attest to the fact that I now try to see what I can learn from the fiction I read. I tend to ask myself: How can I apply what I've read to my ability to better relate to others? What does this tell me about the human experience? When I view reading in that way, it gives the time I spend delving into stories more purpose.

Essay Week 7: Dabbling in Dialect

As a language major, a question that tends to intrigue me is how the borders between languages are defined. Unfortunately, I am not trained as a philologist, so it's difficult for me to explore the matter precisely. I do, however, see dialects that emerge out of languages as the "margins of speech."

By "margins," I mean the forms of language that would not be considered standard form. Of course, defining what is standard within language becomes problematic, as well. If language is such a measure of human intellect, how could language be anything but standard?

The key factors that put dialects at the margins of speech seem to be both linguistic demography and literary presence. The former boils down to a game of numbers. If a majority of a population speak one form of a language, then that language will shift toward that form. An example of this is how the word "literally" has gained a new meaning of emphasis (which I despise). The frequent usage of "literally" as a way to express emphasis predicated its entrance into the dictionary.

Speaking of dialect, this map highlights areas of the country where a non-rhotic "r" is used. The non-rhotic makes words like "car" sound like "cah." This is typically of the Boston accent, for example. Wikipedia Commons.

If the demographic that speaks a form or dialect acts as the shifting wind that subtly change language, then literature anchors language in a way that impedes linguistic shifts. Works of literature that command respect are the works that are taught in the classroom, therefore echoes of language from decades and centuries ago can influence the way in which we learn to read, write and speak. Not to mention, the sole act of reading can be a window into a language's past. Part of this powerful influence comes from the fact that text on a page does not shift over time. The text may fade away, but the language within retains a strong sense of stability despite a world of changing linguistic influences.

Essay Week 5: The Trials of Teaching

I've been working as a tutor for about four years, and I cannot find the words to describe how useful the new Collaborative Learning Center in the library is. As the president and founder of a student organization that offers group-oriented academic help, it's our perfect habitat.

I bring this up because I gave a test review session last night in the CLC, and I tend to reflect on my effectiveness as a teacher the next day. With my limited experience as a tutor, I find the amount of diversity in students to be one of the greatest challenges. Whether it's diversity in ability or background, a teacher has to be able to adapt to the student's perspective. Last night, we had a setup that allowed me to do just that. Students were grouped at tables and were able to bounce ideas off of each other. That peer-to-peer interaction gives me the freedom to give students individualized attention without my feeling that I'm putting anyone in some sort of academic queue.

Last week's test review session for Organic Chemistry I (Personal photo, taken September 8).

Last year, we utilized a lecture format in a large classroom for the test review sessions. While such a format allowed us to serve anywhere from forty to one hundred students at the time, it's comparable to casting a broad net. Students at the ends of the normal curve lose out. Some would leave early because they needed one-on-one help, and others would leave out of intellectual boredom. As a tutor, it's frustrating to watch that happen, and it makes one wonder if it's a reflection on one's ability.

Given the comfort I felt last night while tutoring organic chemistry, I believe we've found a better format for both myself and the students. The sessions flow more easily. The teaching feels organic, no pun intended. I'll be interested to see how sessions go down the line, but for now, I'm contented experiment with what the CLC has to offer.

Essay Week 4: Storytelling as Time Capsule for Language

I never met my dad's father, but from what I hear, my late grandfather had a gift for oration that captivated his audiences. He knew how to weave words whether it came to congratulatory speeches or eulogies. Even thought I never met Jack, I find myself wanting to live up to that Morgan talent.

My journalist father seems to share his dad's ability to craft a tale. Through his blog, Dad has given life to stories that don't make it to the front page. He's written on my grandmother's feverish obsession with pecans. He's touted our cat's impressive 1-9 record when it comes to the litter box. He's marked the poignant occasion in which his mom sold his childhood home a couple of weeks ago.

I bring this up because storytelling hones the craft of speaking, and in the process, stories become heritable units of language. Just as we inherit our genes from our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, etc., stories are passed down from generation to generation and contain within them themes, diction, syntax and pronunciation.

Italian storytelling for the ages. Wikipedia Commons.

This pattern of inheritance, however, is not limited to stories within families. Dante and Boccaccio come to mind. When Italy became a nation, a standard language was born-- a language that only two percent of the population spoke at the time. It was based on Tuscan Italian--that is, the Italian of Dante and Boccaccio. What strikes me most as a student of Italian is my ability to make sense of the stories without much difficulty. The idea that I'm able to connect with a form of a language that was spoken seven hundred years ago both astounds and humbles me. In my opinion, it speaks to the ability of stories and literature to anchor languages in a world that's drawn toward colloquialisms and slang such as YOLO and "getting turnt up."

Essay for Week 3: The Power of Appetite

Whether it's sexual, physiological or intellectual, appetite is one of the most powerful motivators. It creates a vacuum of need that desire seeks to fulfill, and that feeling of emptiness is difficult to ignore. Throughout the stories in Ovid's Metamorphoses, a trend exists in which appetite--almost without fail--overcomes the character without much resistance on the character's part.

It's best to begin with the power of physical hunger, and thanks to his punishment from Ceres, Erysichthon's plight provides a effective literary example. Once he's been visited by Famine, Erysichthon finds himself completely unable to satisfy his physical hunger, and "the more he puts away inside, the greater his desire." This voracious appetite nearly commands him to sell everything he has to the point where he's even willing to sell his daughter. To avoid disaster for Mestra, Neptune intervenes eventually leaving Erysichthon to be destroyed by his own hunger in an episode of autocannibalism. In this case, the very presence of powerful appetite became the undoing for a mortal. Erysichthon would rather eat himself alive rather than die of hunger.

For Erysichthon, any price is worth paying to satisfy his hunger. Wikipedia Commons.

The same type of victory of hunger occurs in the story of Myrrha and her incestuous love for her father, but in this case the hunger involves sexual appetite. Interestingly enough, once Myrrha's nurse realizes what troubles Myrrha's mind, she even concede that Myrrha will be unable to overcome her misaligned passion. Ovid beautifully portrays this by describing the way in which "a shudder of cold penetrated the nurse's flesh and bone." Furthermore, once her nurse advises the Myrrha should refrain from killing herself and, in turn, satisfy her desire, the reader gets the feeling that nothing can be done to extinguish this misguided passion. The rest of the story plays out as one might expect.

Perhaps one should not be surprised that appetite is a consistent, formidable foe in Greek mythology. After all, one would need more than two hands to count the times that the gods themselves had fallen victim to sexual appetite and raped mortals. That, however, is one of the aspects that makes the Greek gods more human--more relatable.