walking in a straight line

There is an interesting new research study from one of the Max Planck institutes in Germany. Researchers tested the theory that people lost in the woods walk in circles. They attached GPS devices to subjects, put them in a forest or desert, and told them to walk in a particular direction. Without the aid of the sun or moon, subjects began to walk in circles. Here is a short account of the research. (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/08/090820123927.htm)

In one discussion of this story, the point was made that the idea of a straight line is relatively new, there are almost no straight lines in nature and no other animals move in straight lines. Humans are obsessed with straight lines because of our built environment--straight roads and sidewalks, squared buildings and city blocks. The "need" to walk straight is only a result of the world we have created.

It makes me think about linear thinking, as well as walking. A few comments from the article above were interesting. For instance, "Without an external directional reference to recalibrate the subjective sense of straight ahead, that "noise" may cause people to walk in circles, the researchers said." Aren't there other aspects of life where the "noise" may interfere with our ability to maintain a sense of "straight ahead?" A bit of wandering may be good, but is circling around and around aimlessly useful? We use landmarks and external cues not just for walking, but for thinking, too. Sometimes ignoring those cues can lead to great discoveries, sometimes they can lead to confusion and frustration.

Soft Measures

I read an interesting article today about measurement. An education researcher commented that whenever he evaluates a school his first stop is the boys' bathroom. He claims you can tell a lot about the school climate by the condition of the bathroom. How clean is it? In one school there were fresh cut flowers (not in any school I've ever visited!) His overall message, however, was that many of the best indicators of school success are not the hard empirical facts like test scores, they are softer measures. Some of the indicators he proposes are;

the entrances is disheveld (dead plants, missing sign letters, cigarette butts)

teachers read newspapers and take calls during professional development events

administrators talk solely in the future tense (we are planning to....)

materials aren't up to date and teachers aren't current on current events

windows are covered with dark paper.

In my research methods class we spend a lot of time talking about indicators of a concept. This article is encouraging me to think about othere "soft measures" that we might include in our discussions. For instance, what are soft indicators of neighborhood quality? What are soft indicators of quality health care?

Opening Lines

Getting ready for a new semester makes me think of first impressions. As a teacher you want to make a good impression on that first day, most students (although they may not admit it) also want to make a good impression.

When I was on the speech team in high school my coach advised me to always have the first and last lines of my speech nailed. You wanted to get off to a good start, partly to set the tone, but also to calm your own nerves. You wanted to end strong as well, leave the judges with a strong impression.

At my last book group we were discussing Marilynne Robinson's book, Housekeeping. One of my colleagues had found a Yale University lecture on the book that focused on the first line. The book starts, "My name is Ruth." The lecturer compared that to the opening line of Moby Dick, "Call me Ishmael." How do those lines compare? One invites interaction, the other is declarative, a statement. Do those lines set the tone for the stories to follow? How important is the first line of a book? Do you remember any particularly strong first lines? I think I was listening to a quiz show once where they read first lines and the contestants had to identify the book. It was surprisingly easy.

So, in a few weeks when I walk into class, what will be my opening line?

Things I can't do

I can't make pie crust from scratch.

I don't eat many pies, so when I want to make a pie I just use a prepared crust. They taste fine and are so much easier. Should I learn how to make a pie crust? Is it an art I should master? If I baked more pies, would I eventually get better at making crust, or is it just beyond my abilities?

What about other things in life? Do we fail at some things because we don't do them often enough, or are they just beyond our abilities? How do you tell the difference? How many times do you fail before you give up (or give in?)

What is the difference between giving up and giving in? Giving in can imply a concession, you give in to someone else's demands, but isn't that also a giving up? You are giving up your position. And if you give up trying something, are you giving in to your flaws or limitations?

The heat of summer

It is almost the middle of August and we have finally found real summer temperatures. I can't really say that I'm pleased. I like being warm, but detest being hot. I would choose cold over hot any day. In the winter you can put on a sweater and curl up under a blanket. In the summer, you just can't get cool enough. As kids we used to beg our parents for a pool. We didn't get one. We lived near Lake Michigan and often in the summer our parents would take us all to the beach. We very rarely went in the middle of the day, usually the trip was after dinner. We loaded up the van, and would compete to see who saw the lake first as we came over the top of the last sand dune. I don't know how my mother coped with 7 or 8 kids at a beach, but she seemed relaxed. Later she did admit that she was constantly counting heads! We would stay for an hour or so, then load back up and head home. We had to stand by the garden hose and get the sand washed off before we could go inside, that was a cold surprise. By that time, we were worn out and off to bed. Good planning by my parents!

There was also a swimming pool a few miles away at a Boy Scout camp. We would ride our bikes or get dropped off by a parent and spend the afternoon there. I could not have been very old, since the camp closed when I was 8 or 9, but I remember quite a bit about it. We used to have "tea parties" underwater and try to talk to one another. We would invent silly ways to jump into the water. I know I couldn't really swim, but I wasn't afraid of the water or of getting my face wet. I can't believe the freedom we had as kids to roam the countryside.

Now, when summer comes the beach just seems too hot and sandy, pools are fun for a bit, but then I get bored. I'd rather be curled up on the couch, with the snow falling, a warm blanket and glass of wine, and a good book. I guess I won't be retiring to Florida!

Evaluation

An academic life is not for those with thin skins or have egos easily bruised. Our lives are full of evaluation. Every course gets honest and brutal feedback from each student enrolled. Often we have peers come to observe our teaching performance. We are expected to regularly send off our writing to others with the intent of receiving criticism (hopefully, mixed in with some positives!). We submit proposals to funding agencies where they are picked apart, sometimes word by word, by a discerning panel of other academics.

Of course, we sit on the other side of the table as well. We hand out grades to students. We review journal articles and book chapters. We sit on grant review panels.

Most of us will admit to having a little ritual for reading either student evaluations or peer reviews. The ritual often involves alcohol. Comments like "I'd rather run naked through the Quad in January than ever take another course from this professor" go down much better with a little pinot noir. We often save those review envelopes for the end of the day, for a time with quiet and no interruptions. I know I have to read them quickly first, then set them aside for a few day before I can go back and really digest what has been said.

Hopefully, what we learn from reading evaluations of our own work helps us be better, and more sensitive, evaluators of others.

Stories and Richard Russo

I'm not a big fan of Russo's novels. Everyone thought I would love Straight Man, and it was okay, but I just didn't get that enthralled. The same for Empire Falls, I'm not sure I even finished that one. So, I was a little surprised this morning to be completely entranced by an interview with Russo on NPR. His new book, That Old Cape Magic, apparently deals with marriage, memory, and parents. Old ground for novelists. But I was struck by a few of his comments in the interview.

First, in the book, the main character is carting around the ashes of both his mother and father in the trunk of his car. As Russo commented, even after our parents die they are not that far away. How true. The ways in which are parents live on are myriad. Our own actions and behaviors are shaped by our childhood experiences, both in concert with and in reaction to our parents. We still turn to our parents, at least figuratively, as a source of advice or support, or in anger and misunderstanding.

He also touches on the role of storytelling. He commented in the interview that often new writers have trouble identifying the truth in the story they are writing. I liked his example of how in a long marriage you are likely to hear your partner tell the same story many times. Each time, however, the telling is slightly different and the audience, too. Different people will ask different questions, pick up on different points. Over time, hearing the story over and over, you can start to see the truth in that story, what that story means and represents.

So, maybe I'll need to read his latest book, give him another shot.

Attachment to houses

My in-laws are getting ready to sell their house and move into an apartment. It is a big step, they have lived in their current house for 30 years and before that lived in another house for about 20 years. One of their sons lives in that house now. My father lives in the house next door to where his parents moved with him and his sister when he was 16. So, he has lived on those 5 acres for 64 years.

I've been in the house I live in now for 14 years, the longest residence since my childhood. I feel some attachment to this house, it is where we have raised our sons, but I don't feel like it will be hard to move. My husband and I talk about downsizing once the boys are through college. I think that is a good idea, to move to a new place while we can enjoy the freedom of a smaller house and more manageable yard (although I don't know if I can convince my husband that a smaller yard is a good idea.)

What is it about space that we become tied to? Given my recent thoughts about the importance of office space, I guess it is only natural that I now am thinking about living space. Is it the memories that are attached to the space? Do we need that tangible presence to preserve those feelings? Is it just inertia and habit? Do we just resist change in general?

I know in other cultures and in other times of history less (and maybe more) importance was attached to spaces and houses. They were, or are, utilitarian necessities. Still, I think most people have memories of particular houses that hold some significance to them. Recently a young woman showed up at the end of our driveway. This was the house she lived in when she was a child and she was curious about what it looked like now. My husband invited her in and showed her around. She pointed out her old bedroom, where things had been in her childhood, how much the trees had grown, etc.

As a sociologist, then, what are we to make of space? When I teach family sociology I talk a little about how changes in housing design both reflected and facilitated family change. Having separate rooms reinforced and facilitated the desire for privacy. That privacy changed family dynamics and the expectations of family members. Comparing houses now to the era in which I grew up, the idea of shared bedrooms for children is outdated--every child has his or her own room. When I was growing up, families with 4 or 5 children regularly lived in 3-4 bedroom houses.