Elke keer weer sê ons vir mekaar wanneer ons trek: Ek is verstom as ek kyk hoeveel ek oor die jare opgegaar het. Dit lê in ‘n kas rond, ongebruik en nutteloos. Die beste wat ons met die meeste daarvan kan doen is om dit weg te smyt. Niemand anders sal dit wil gebruik nie.
‘n Mens sal hieroor allerhande filosofiese dinge kan skryf – wat vir die een nutteloos is, is vir die ander een rasend interessant. Die vrou wat haar hele lewe in Stellenbosch geslyt het, sê vir my sy het haar album vol foto’s van allerhande ou Stellenbosse plekke weggegooi. Ek voel hoe ‘n desperaatheid oor my kom: hoeveel ander mense sou die plekke wou sien. Dit moes aan die Heemkring geskenk gewees het, waar hulle ou Stellenbosse dokumente bewaar.
Maar hier is ‘n ander punt te maak: Ons lewens is vol onnodighede. Ons vergaar dinge waarsonder ons heeltemal goed kan klaar kom.
Ons is nie heeltemal onbewus hiervan nie: ons “stoor” soms dinge. In die garage, in die boonste kas, in die stoepkamer. Ons maak nuwe spasie oop. Maar eintlik verskuif ons net die probleem. Ons het, dankbaar, darem weer ‘n oop plekkie om iets anders in te sit. Ander weer, wat nie gaarders is nie, is smyters. Hulle gooi teen ‘n goeie en vinnig pas weg. Maar hulle is soms ook die mense wat die vinnigste versamel. Hulle verbruikersdrif dryf hulle. Gou-gou is die nuwe spasie deur ‘n nuwe aankoopsel volgemaak.
Ek het dikwels gewonder wat sou gebeur as my huis in die brand slaan en ek moet vinnig ‘n paar dinge gryp. Dit sal sekerlik nie my tandeborsel, hemde, broeke, draftekkies of muurbalraket wees nie. Hulle is nodig of miskien selfs duur, maar vervangbaar. Maar ek sal ophardloop na my studeerkamer en my rekenaar gryp. Nie oor al my skryfsels nie. Maar daar is kosbare persoonlike eposse en foto’s op. En dan sal ek hardloop om my Buchner, Scully en Louis Janse van Vuuren skilderye te gryp. Ek sal so in die hardloop baie seker maak dat ek my ma se geraamde borduurwerkie wat sy in ‘n koue winter in Hanover op my oom se plaas uit totale verveling en wat sy sentimenteel agterop in potlood met haar sterk handskrif bemaak het aan al die geslagte van haar naamgenote, gryp. Al het die potlood al begin vergaan, die papier begin skeur en die wit raam vlekke begin wys. Miskien, as ek sien ek gaan deur die vlamme heen nie die voordeur haal as ek die skilderye ook nog moet afhaal nie, sal ek net haar handewerk gryp. Ek sal darem nog, so in ‘n laaste oomblik van wik en mik, darem die Van Vuuren oorweeg.
So werk sentimente. Dinge waaraan ons tot op die laaste oomblik vashou omdat dit vir ons kosbaar is en ryk gedagtes by ons losmaak.
Eintlik het ek selfs die paar dinge wat ek sou wou red nie regtig nodig om te oorleef nie.
Ek lees hierdie week oor ‘n oefening in opruiming. Ons lewe is gelaai met afsprake, met aktiwiteite. Ons huise is vol besittings. Ons wil inlaai en volmaak. Ons is so besig om te verbruik, dat ons selfs soms tyd in ruim vir onbeplande gebeure. Ons beplan vir die onbeplanbare. Sulke mens is wys, word gesê, want hulle beplanning om dan by die familie te wees, om ‘n boek te lees, om tyd aan hulleself te spandeer, word nie in gedrang gebring nie.
En dan die ondenkbare: gereeld sit ons af om te gaan stap. Om darem “uit die huis” te kom. Om in die “oop natuur” te wees. Om net weer tot onsself te kom. Ons vol gepakte plekke en ons besige skedule’s word iewers verstikkend en beroof ons van geestelike suurstof.
In groot wêreldgodsdienste skep mense oop ruimtes. Op die sabbat breek Joodse gelowiges met die week se aktiwiteite. In die Christendom is die Sondag die “ander,” “sewende” dag, die “rusdag.” Vrydae is vir Islam die dag van Moskee-besoek. Dis die lekker om op hierdie dag net te kan rus en niks te doen nie. Tog, dit is die “heilige” dae, waar mense die “onheilighede” afskud, die “gewone” ontglip en in die sakrale plekke en geleenthede weer inspirasie en motivering vind. En daardie inspirasie kom van buite, van anderkant die normale, die gewone, die alledaagse. Ons het 'n diep ingesetelde behoefte na die stilte, die ruimte, die eenvoudige, na die Heilige.
Waar egte ontmoeting met God plaasvind, leer ‘n mens om die gewone te “heilig.” Dan word die drif om te besit minder, die behoefte om te deel en te gee groter. Die afsonderingstye in eerbied en in harmonie voor die Ander Een, loop saam terug huis en werk toe.
Waarom, sou ‘n mens dan verder kan vra, kan hierdie ervaring nie oral geld en werk nie? Waarom kan ek die stilte, die frisheid nie saam in my gewone tye en plekke neem nie?
Natuurlik kan ons. Ons moet maar net 'n slag begin skoonmaak. Ons moet "trek" na 'n beter plek.
Daarom skep ons geestelike “ruimtes.” In die skoonmaak kies ons versigtig om te hou wat werklik saak maak, wat vir ons geluk laat ervaar en wat ons vreugde gee. Die borduurwerkie, hoe lelik en verganklik, laat ons in ruimtes van herinneringe reis. En al die ander aankoopsels, lee verbruikersmiddele, hoef nie meer nie. En, as ons regtig stil gaan sit en dink, kan die borduurwerkie, reeds aan die vergaan, ook maar brand.
Eintlik vind ons die volkome rus net by God. Die enigste rus is net by die Een wat alles in almal is.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
"We read a book by a person." On Spirituality and transformation
This essay by Tannen reveals a flaw in academic life which needs serious reflection. But, more than that, it also needs reflection by the church and theology in particular. The key phrase, to me, within the context of spirituality, is the sentence "We read a book by a person." In Spirituality we work with experiential reality. We learn and change because we experience. Experience is a deep source of wisdom. Once this is appreciated, we receive the ability to see the person behind a book or an argument. This is the life setting of our intellectual activity. And respect for our common humanity, makes us susceptible for the other person's experiential reality. More so, it creates in us an awareness and openness to learn from the other.
Agonism in the Academy: Surviving Higher Learning's Argument Culture
By DEBORAH TANNEN
The Chronicle of Higher Education, March 31, 2000
A reading group that I belong to, composed of professors, recently discussed a memoir by an academic. I came to the group's meeting full of anticipation, eager to examine the insights I'd gained from the book and to be enlightened by those that had intrigued my fellow group members. As the meeting began, one member announced that she hadn't read the book; four, including me, said they'd read and enjoyed it; and one said she hadn't liked it because she does not like academic memoirs. She energetically criticized the book. "It's written in two voices," she said, "and the voices don't interrogate each other."
Quickly, two other members joined her critique, their point of view becoming a chorus. They sounded smarter, seeing faults that the rest of us had missed, making us look naive. We credulous three tried in vain to get the group talking about what we had found interesting or important in the book, but our suggestions were dull compared to the game of critique.
I left the meeting disappointed because I had learned nothing new about the book or its subject. All I had learned about was the acumen of the critics. I was especially struck by the fact that one of the most talkative and influential critics was the member who had not read the book. Her unfamiliarity with the work had not hindered her, because the critics had focused more on what they saw as faults of the genre than on faults of the particular book.
The turn that the discussion had taken reminded me of the subject of my most recent book,The Argument Culture. The phenomenon I'd observed at the book-group meeting was an example of what the cultural linguist Walter Ong calls "agonism," which he defines in Fighting for Life as "programmed contentiousness" or "ceremonial combat." Agonism does not refer to disagreement, conflict, or vigorous dispute. It refers to ritualized opposition -- for instance, a debate in which the contestants are assigned opposing positions and one party wins, rather than an argument that arises naturally when two parties disagree.
In The Argument Culture, I explored the role and effects of agonism in three domains of public discourse: journalism, politics, and the law. But the domain in which I first identified the phenomenon and began thinking about it is the academic world. I remain convinced that agonism is endemic in academe -- and bad for it.
The way we train our students, conduct our classes and our research, and exchange ideas at meetings and in print are all driven by our ideological assumption that intellectual inquiry is a metaphorical battle. Following from that is a second assumption, that the best way to demonstrate intellectual prowess is to criticize, find fault, and attack.
Many aspects of our academic lives can be described as agonistic. For example, in our scholarly papers, most of us follow a conventional framework that requires us to position our work in opposition to someone else's, which we prove wrong. The framework tempts -- almost requires -- us to oversimplify or even misrepresent others' positions; cite the weakest example to make a generally reasonable work appear less so; and ignore facts that support others' views, citing only evidence that supports our own positions.
The way we train our students frequently reflects the battle metaphor as well. We assign scholarly work for them to read, then invite them to tear it apart. That is helpful to an extent, but it often means that they don't learn to do the harder work of integrating ideas, or of considering the work's historical and disciplinary context. Moreover, it fosters in students a stance of arrogance and narrow-mindedness, qualities that do not serve the fundamental goals of education.
In the classroom, if students are engaged in heated debate, we believe that education is taking place. But in a 1993 article in The History Teacher, Patricia Rosof, who teaches at Hunter College High School in New York City, advises us to look more closely at what's really happening. If we do, she says, we will probably find that only a few students are participating; some other students may be paying attention, but many may be turned off. Furthermore, the students who are arguing generally simplify the points they are making or disputing. To win the argument, they ignore complexity and nuance. They refuse to concede a point raised by their opponents, even if they can see that it is valid, because such a concession would weaken their position. Nobody tries to synthesize the various views, because that would look indecisive, or weak.
If the class engages in discussion rather than debate -- adding such intellectual activities as exploring ideas, uncovering nuances, comparing and contrasting different interpretations of a work -- more students take part, and more of them gain a deeper, and more accurate, understanding of the material. Most important, the students learn a stance of respect and open- minded inquiry.
Academic rewards -- good grades and good jobs -- typically go to students and scholars who learn to tear down others' work, not to those who learn to build on the work of their colleagues. In The Argument Culture, I cited a study in which communications researchers Karen Tracy and Sheryl Baratz examined weekly colloquia attended by faculty members and graduate students at a large university. As the authors reported in a 1993 article in Communication Monographs, although most people said the purpose of the colloquia was to "trade ideas" and "learn things," faculty members in fact were judging the students' competence based on their participation in the colloquia. And the professors didn't admire students who asked "a nice little supportive question," as one put it -- they valued "tough and challenging questions."
One problem with the agonistic culture of graduate training is that potential scholars who are not comfortable with that kind of interaction are likely to drop out. As a result, many talented and creative minds are lost to academe. And, with fewer colleagues who prefer different approaches, those who remain are more likely to egg each other on to even greater adversarial heights. Some scholars who do stay in academe are reluctant to present their work at conferences or submit it for publication because of their reluctance to take part in adversarial discourse. The cumulative effect is that nearly everyone feels vulnerable and defensive, and thus less willing to suggest new ideas, offer new perspectives, or question received wisdom.
Although scholarly attacks are ritual -- prescribed by the conventions of academe -- the emotions propelling them can be real. Jane Tompkins, a literary critic who has written about the genre of the western in modern fiction and film, has compared scholarly exchanges to shootouts. In a 1988 article in The Georgia Review, she noted that her own career took off when she published an essay that "began with a frontal assault on another woman scholar. When I wrote it I felt the way the hero does in a western. Not only had this critic argued a, b, and c, she had held x, y, and z! It was a clear case of outrageous provocation." Because her opponent was established and she was not, Tompkins felt "justified in hitting her with everything I had."
Later in her career, as she listened to a speaker at a conference demolish another scholar's work, she felt that she was witnessing "a ritual execution of some sort, something halfway between a bullfight, where the crowd admires the skill of the matador and enjoys his triumph over the bull, and a public burning, where the crowd witnesses the just punishment of a criminal. For the academic experience combined the elements of admiration, bloodlust, and moral self- congratulation."
At a deeper level, the conceptual metaphor of intellectual argument as a battle leads us to divide researchers into warring camps. Just about any field can provide examples. For instance, many disciplines are affected -- and disfigured -- by a stubborn nature/nurture dichotomy, although both biology and culture obviously influence all of us. Such divisiveness encourages both students and scholars to fight about others' work rather than trying to understand it. And those whose work is misrepresented end up using creative energy to defend their past work -- energy that they could use more productively in other ways.
Agonism has still another serious effect: It is one of the reasons scholars have a hard time getting policymakers to pay attention to their research. Policymakers who come across relevant academic research immediately encounter opposing research. Lacking the expertise to figure out who's right, they typically conclude that they cannot look to academe for guidance.
Our agonistic ideology seems so deeply embedded in academe that one might wonder what alternatives we have. In Embracing Contraries, the English professor Peter Elbow calls the ways we approach ideas a "doubting game" -- a method for sniffing out faults. What we need, he says, is an additional approach -- a "believing game," to sniff out strengths. The two games would complement each other. Although we wouldn't end up agreeing with all the authors we read, by suspending disbelief we would be more likely to learn something from them.
In my view, we need new metaphors through which to think about our academic enterprise, or to conceptualize intellectual interchange. We could learn much more if we thought of theories not as static structures to be shot down or falsified, but as sets of understandings to be questioned and reshaped. The sociologist Kerry Daly, in the introduction to his book Families and Time, suggests that "theories should be treated like bread dough that rises with a synergetic mix of ingredients only to be pounded down with the addition of new ingredients and human energy."
In the realm of teaching, Don McCormick and Michael Kahn, in a 1982 article in Exchange: The Organizational Behavior Teaching Journal, suggest that critical thinking can be taught better if we use the metaphor of a barn raising, instead of that of a boxing match. We should think of "a group of builders constructing a building, or a group of artists fabricating a creation together."
McCormick and Kahn make another point that, as I wrote in The Argument Culture, I came to believe is the most crucial and damaging aspect of the culture of agonism. Living, working, and thinking in ways shaped by the battle metaphor produces an atmosphere of animosity that poisons our relations with each other at the same time that it corrupts the integrity of our research. Not only is the agonistic culture of academe not the best path to truth and knowledge, but it also is corrosive to the human spirit.
After my reading group had discussed the academic memoir, I expressed my frustration to a group member. She commented, "It turns out that book wasn't the best example of the genre."
"But we didn't read an example of a genre," I protested. "We read a book by a person."
Refocusing our attention in that way is the greatest gain in store if we can move beyond critique in its narrow sense. We would learn more from each other, be heard more clearly by others, attract more varied talents to the scholarly life, and restore a measure of humanity to ourselves, our endeavor, and the academic world we inhabit.
Deborah Tannen is a university professor at Georgetown University. Her most recent book is The Argument Culture (Random House, 1998; Ballantine paperback, 1999).
Agonism in the Academy: Surviving Higher Learning's Argument Culture
By DEBORAH TANNEN
The Chronicle of Higher Education, March 31, 2000
A reading group that I belong to, composed of professors, recently discussed a memoir by an academic. I came to the group's meeting full of anticipation, eager to examine the insights I'd gained from the book and to be enlightened by those that had intrigued my fellow group members. As the meeting began, one member announced that she hadn't read the book; four, including me, said they'd read and enjoyed it; and one said she hadn't liked it because she does not like academic memoirs. She energetically criticized the book. "It's written in two voices," she said, "and the voices don't interrogate each other."
Quickly, two other members joined her critique, their point of view becoming a chorus. They sounded smarter, seeing faults that the rest of us had missed, making us look naive. We credulous three tried in vain to get the group talking about what we had found interesting or important in the book, but our suggestions were dull compared to the game of critique.
I left the meeting disappointed because I had learned nothing new about the book or its subject. All I had learned about was the acumen of the critics. I was especially struck by the fact that one of the most talkative and influential critics was the member who had not read the book. Her unfamiliarity with the work had not hindered her, because the critics had focused more on what they saw as faults of the genre than on faults of the particular book.
The turn that the discussion had taken reminded me of the subject of my most recent book,The Argument Culture. The phenomenon I'd observed at the book-group meeting was an example of what the cultural linguist Walter Ong calls "agonism," which he defines in Fighting for Life as "programmed contentiousness" or "ceremonial combat." Agonism does not refer to disagreement, conflict, or vigorous dispute. It refers to ritualized opposition -- for instance, a debate in which the contestants are assigned opposing positions and one party wins, rather than an argument that arises naturally when two parties disagree.
In The Argument Culture, I explored the role and effects of agonism in three domains of public discourse: journalism, politics, and the law. But the domain in which I first identified the phenomenon and began thinking about it is the academic world. I remain convinced that agonism is endemic in academe -- and bad for it.
The way we train our students, conduct our classes and our research, and exchange ideas at meetings and in print are all driven by our ideological assumption that intellectual inquiry is a metaphorical battle. Following from that is a second assumption, that the best way to demonstrate intellectual prowess is to criticize, find fault, and attack.
Many aspects of our academic lives can be described as agonistic. For example, in our scholarly papers, most of us follow a conventional framework that requires us to position our work in opposition to someone else's, which we prove wrong. The framework tempts -- almost requires -- us to oversimplify or even misrepresent others' positions; cite the weakest example to make a generally reasonable work appear less so; and ignore facts that support others' views, citing only evidence that supports our own positions.
The way we train our students frequently reflects the battle metaphor as well. We assign scholarly work for them to read, then invite them to tear it apart. That is helpful to an extent, but it often means that they don't learn to do the harder work of integrating ideas, or of considering the work's historical and disciplinary context. Moreover, it fosters in students a stance of arrogance and narrow-mindedness, qualities that do not serve the fundamental goals of education.
In the classroom, if students are engaged in heated debate, we believe that education is taking place. But in a 1993 article in The History Teacher, Patricia Rosof, who teaches at Hunter College High School in New York City, advises us to look more closely at what's really happening. If we do, she says, we will probably find that only a few students are participating; some other students may be paying attention, but many may be turned off. Furthermore, the students who are arguing generally simplify the points they are making or disputing. To win the argument, they ignore complexity and nuance. They refuse to concede a point raised by their opponents, even if they can see that it is valid, because such a concession would weaken their position. Nobody tries to synthesize the various views, because that would look indecisive, or weak.
If the class engages in discussion rather than debate -- adding such intellectual activities as exploring ideas, uncovering nuances, comparing and contrasting different interpretations of a work -- more students take part, and more of them gain a deeper, and more accurate, understanding of the material. Most important, the students learn a stance of respect and open- minded inquiry.
Academic rewards -- good grades and good jobs -- typically go to students and scholars who learn to tear down others' work, not to those who learn to build on the work of their colleagues. In The Argument Culture, I cited a study in which communications researchers Karen Tracy and Sheryl Baratz examined weekly colloquia attended by faculty members and graduate students at a large university. As the authors reported in a 1993 article in Communication Monographs, although most people said the purpose of the colloquia was to "trade ideas" and "learn things," faculty members in fact were judging the students' competence based on their participation in the colloquia. And the professors didn't admire students who asked "a nice little supportive question," as one put it -- they valued "tough and challenging questions."
One problem with the agonistic culture of graduate training is that potential scholars who are not comfortable with that kind of interaction are likely to drop out. As a result, many talented and creative minds are lost to academe. And, with fewer colleagues who prefer different approaches, those who remain are more likely to egg each other on to even greater adversarial heights. Some scholars who do stay in academe are reluctant to present their work at conferences or submit it for publication because of their reluctance to take part in adversarial discourse. The cumulative effect is that nearly everyone feels vulnerable and defensive, and thus less willing to suggest new ideas, offer new perspectives, or question received wisdom.
Although scholarly attacks are ritual -- prescribed by the conventions of academe -- the emotions propelling them can be real. Jane Tompkins, a literary critic who has written about the genre of the western in modern fiction and film, has compared scholarly exchanges to shootouts. In a 1988 article in The Georgia Review, she noted that her own career took off when she published an essay that "began with a frontal assault on another woman scholar. When I wrote it I felt the way the hero does in a western. Not only had this critic argued a, b, and c, she had held x, y, and z! It was a clear case of outrageous provocation." Because her opponent was established and she was not, Tompkins felt "justified in hitting her with everything I had."
Later in her career, as she listened to a speaker at a conference demolish another scholar's work, she felt that she was witnessing "a ritual execution of some sort, something halfway between a bullfight, where the crowd admires the skill of the matador and enjoys his triumph over the bull, and a public burning, where the crowd witnesses the just punishment of a criminal. For the academic experience combined the elements of admiration, bloodlust, and moral self- congratulation."
At a deeper level, the conceptual metaphor of intellectual argument as a battle leads us to divide researchers into warring camps. Just about any field can provide examples. For instance, many disciplines are affected -- and disfigured -- by a stubborn nature/nurture dichotomy, although both biology and culture obviously influence all of us. Such divisiveness encourages both students and scholars to fight about others' work rather than trying to understand it. And those whose work is misrepresented end up using creative energy to defend their past work -- energy that they could use more productively in other ways.
Agonism has still another serious effect: It is one of the reasons scholars have a hard time getting policymakers to pay attention to their research. Policymakers who come across relevant academic research immediately encounter opposing research. Lacking the expertise to figure out who's right, they typically conclude that they cannot look to academe for guidance.
Our agonistic ideology seems so deeply embedded in academe that one might wonder what alternatives we have. In Embracing Contraries, the English professor Peter Elbow calls the ways we approach ideas a "doubting game" -- a method for sniffing out faults. What we need, he says, is an additional approach -- a "believing game," to sniff out strengths. The two games would complement each other. Although we wouldn't end up agreeing with all the authors we read, by suspending disbelief we would be more likely to learn something from them.
In my view, we need new metaphors through which to think about our academic enterprise, or to conceptualize intellectual interchange. We could learn much more if we thought of theories not as static structures to be shot down or falsified, but as sets of understandings to be questioned and reshaped. The sociologist Kerry Daly, in the introduction to his book Families and Time, suggests that "theories should be treated like bread dough that rises with a synergetic mix of ingredients only to be pounded down with the addition of new ingredients and human energy."
In the realm of teaching, Don McCormick and Michael Kahn, in a 1982 article in Exchange: The Organizational Behavior Teaching Journal, suggest that critical thinking can be taught better if we use the metaphor of a barn raising, instead of that of a boxing match. We should think of "a group of builders constructing a building, or a group of artists fabricating a creation together."
McCormick and Kahn make another point that, as I wrote in The Argument Culture, I came to believe is the most crucial and damaging aspect of the culture of agonism. Living, working, and thinking in ways shaped by the battle metaphor produces an atmosphere of animosity that poisons our relations with each other at the same time that it corrupts the integrity of our research. Not only is the agonistic culture of academe not the best path to truth and knowledge, but it also is corrosive to the human spirit.
After my reading group had discussed the academic memoir, I expressed my frustration to a group member. She commented, "It turns out that book wasn't the best example of the genre."
"But we didn't read an example of a genre," I protested. "We read a book by a person."
Refocusing our attention in that way is the greatest gain in store if we can move beyond critique in its narrow sense. We would learn more from each other, be heard more clearly by others, attract more varied talents to the scholarly life, and restore a measure of humanity to ourselves, our endeavor, and the academic world we inhabit.
Deborah Tannen is a university professor at Georgetown University. Her most recent book is The Argument Culture (Random House, 1998; Ballantine paperback, 1999).
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