Why College: Parents?

Sometimes I wonder if the real reason for the college boom is not to educate us, but to help our parents let us go.

That is in part how I have always seen the college experience. We go from high school to college to a career, all prepped and ready for life. The upswing in college attendance statistics––helped greatly by the mass numbers of minorities who now have access to education––resulted in a flood of the educated elite. Unlike the days of the recent past, when any schmuck newly de-smocked and capped entered the work force, our generation has to look for a job. We are so many, the jobs are courting us no longer. Thus the much-joked college grad who is still flipping burgers three years down the line to pay the premium on his school loans is a sad reality.

None of this seems fair. And of course it is not.

Well, actually, it is entirely fair, since who said the graduate had to get a gold-studded job his first year out? Or even his fifth? He deserves it? Yes, that rushed research paper written the night before it was due entirely proves that theory.

The only way these Millennials will ever get "our fair share" or chance among our elders or even our peers is if we reduce the surplus population (of the educated elite). Of course reducing any population is frowned upon. Of course the elite don't like that either. And of course the educated might notice it eventually, after it has hit the history books––but then who wrote those history books? We are at an impasse, and the only choice is to move forward and to eat our McDonald's future with as much mustard and onion as it has on it.

An earlier, broad demographic model used to be "birth, tall-enough, work, marriage, death." Then, "birth, you-can-read-and-cipher, work, marriage, death"––this assumes a school-level of about fourth grade; sometimes, children attended to the eighth (golly). In the past century, the average sequence was "birth, high school, work, marriage, death." Now society is experiencing what is called "credential creep." Upper-level positions that once required only a Bachelor's degree require a Master's and sometimes a doctoral degree. As the pond floods with fishies, survival of the fittest rules out, and only the flashiest fishy will win.

But why is there such a high college attendance today? We could look back to WWI and WWII and see how the economy has changed in the world since then. Culture, with the Beat generation and the Civil Rights movement, has shifted and allowed new opportunities to those who did not have them before. The GI Bill and other government actions provided funding to students with financial needs, where before college was a more private endeavor under a smaller, federal government. The 20th century was concerned with encouraging mobility through education. 

In comparison to where we started, we have come a long way in a century. The parents of most Millennials were most likely alive from JFK's era onward. They have seen their wild days. They have watched, perhaps, moon landings for the first time and been enthralled, inspired, or terrified. They experienced the shift from scratchy analog to the iPhone within half the span of a normal lifetime. So what do they do, when they become the pillars of society?

Parents are not necessarily thinking about the "future of the human race" when they send their children to college. Hopefully, they want them to be safe, keep warm, err toward the Freshman Fifteen than to lose thirty pounds because they are too busy to eat well. In effect, parents would prefer college to be a place from which they can ascertain all is well––aka, to the "home life standards."

A previous model of life was "birth, work, marriage, death." We have been delaying the marriage phase in our culture over the last few years, though each individual can still be independent of his parents from graduation until then. 

What if college, to parents, is like a safety blanket? What if college is their way of saying don't grow up yet?

Growing Up the Modern Way

I am not an adult. I never wanted to be an adult. I spent my time as a child dreaming I was a Peter Pan character and could stay young forever. When I did finally read Peter Pan in high school, I tried even harder to keep hold of my childhood, for I knew it was leaving. I was aging.

That was an irony, though, and I knew it from the start. The fact that I was holding on meant I was old enough to recognize it was slipping. This meant it was already too late. This meant I was already past Peter and become Hook.

I suppose adulthood has some perks to it. I am old enough to read. I can make decisions for myself. I have a license. People don’t question my presence (except when I’m being carded; oh, that thrill). College––graduation!–– has laid before me all of life’s potential. Above all, I can blow bubbles in my milk, and no one can nay.

When we hit adulthood, though, we expect a certain amount of ken on the part of our fellows. Perhaps not common sense, for we know from history that is impossible, but––perhaps some wit? Ah-ha. Twitter. Let’s see what Twitter has to say.

Nay. Existing within the Library of Congress’ store of all of Twitter’s files is some wit. But, most of Twitter is full of drivel. I expected look at my plate of awesome food! and I took a hundredth selfie today!, but I put stock in a few people and users. I followed them. Then, a few stupid, inane Tweets later, I realize, they use Twitter just like the rest of them. Instead of trying to make something else out of Twitter, they just update a random and obscure quote of a friend or a photo of a cookie.

And thus, an idol of a user falls.

Grow up, users. Learn how to use Twitter.

Government Shut Down––Why Am I Getting Political?

Currently, America is experiencing "a government shut-down." In theory, everyone understands what that means. In practice, no one does. In theory, our vast masthead of protection and laws closes for a period for reflection (and fiscal responsibility). In practice, our everyone with any tie at all to a government career is furloughed, but who even knows what the aristocracy is up to. At least airport security is still up––any way we can speed up those lines?

The last act of government officials was to barricade many areas of public interest: federal parks, the WWII Veterans Memorial. The news covered the outrage over this already, and the reactions of the WWII veterans. They stormed the beaches at Normandy, so they knocked over the barriers at the Memorial (government high-quality stuff, mind you) to get in. Kudos to them.

The situation escalates over time however. A woman was just shot by officials––her infant in the car––after she tried to ram through the White House barricades. Admittedly, the guards could not have known that she had her child with her. She suffered from mental instabilities, says the news: post-partum depression, recent head trauma. Perhaps she is not the most symbolic of the times. Yet, she does say something. She did ram something. She was shot (for good reason; she was in a car, headed toward the White House; even there wasn't a shutdown, that gate would have been locked––but the shutdown).

Here's what I REALLY hope happens. Imagine this iconic scene, in the history books for years: a bunch of citizens (in wheelchairs, since that's most of us nowadays) storm the White House. Someone plays "At the Barricade"and the all roll into the saw horses. Bam. Our calendars have the mark "American Bastille Day." Some random guy gets a rubber bullet welt that bleeds a little bit. We can finally acknowledge Jefferson: "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots."

Art from Objectivity

Hume breaks away from other philosophers by not trying to define art, and instead brings to attention an antimony, a pair of ideas. We do in fact need an objective definition for art, and not only subjectivity to decide what is art and what is not.

According to Hume, some would argue that aesthetic taste is subjective. So many nations and cultures appreciate so many forms of art across the world––all with different rules and methods of judgement––that to define aesthetic taste as objective is illogical. For example, we in the West see (at least in Hume's day) the art of other cultures as "barbarous," but if we reversed the perspective we would "soon find the epithet of reproach retorted on us (41)." In the end, the arguing and raging about whose art is better than whose, etc, etc (and all those hot-tempered murders that might result, etc, etc) "All sentiment is right; because sentiment has reference to nothing beyond itself, and is always real, where a man is conscious to it, (42)" in connection to, "If they (the art) are found to please, they cannot be found to faults; let the pleasure, which they produce, be ever so unexpected and unaccountable (43)." This sentimental, hedonistic valuation of art has led us to create such literary marvels as most of the choices on Kindle and, of course, Fifty Shades of Grey. Hume prefers objectivity, and he states "those finer emotions of the mind are of a very tender and delicate nature." One must be careful and not stomp too hard around the sentimental critic when he is making a judgement, or else the review will be dreadful. Objectivity is cleaner, simpler, is steady.

If the judgement of good art versus bad is objective, it must have rules and regulations. Why can some people, also, judge it and some cannot? Hume says it comes down to a delicacy of imagination, and he likens it to a healthy or defective organ. "A man in a fever would not insist on his palate as able to decide concerning flavors. . . . In each creature, there is a sound and a defective state, and the former alone can be supposed to afford us a true standard of taste. . . .(44)" He claims later that this delicacy can be influenced by education in whatever he critiquing: "Where no comparison has been employed, the most frivolous beauties, such as rather merit the name of defects, are the object of his admiration (46)." (However, you can tell someone and compare and compare away, and teach and teach as much as you want, and they'll still prefer Twilight to "Araby" by James Joyce. Does it make sense? No.) Give a man a book, he reads lightly for a day; give him and teach him how to appreciate the book using the objective rules, he reads for a lifetime.

What then are the sources of variation in aesthetic judgement?  Hume says the first is in the "different humors of particular men," or their personalities in modern-speak. Does one Extroverted-Sensing-Feeling-Judging male like a bright blue and soothing painting, while the more austere, phlegmatic Introverted-iNtuitive-Thinking-Perceiving shunt it aside and ask for something engineered and complex, like an M.C. Escher (and so it that modern understanding clashes with the Enlightenment)? The second variation is in the source of one's homeland and age. Someone who originates in ancient Mongolia and another in postmodern America will doubtless have different tastes in art. Hume adds that "A man of learning and reflection can make allowance for these peculiarities of manners. . . .(48)"

Art judged by sentiment alone would yield nothing but a smattering of paint randomly smeared, words scribbled aimlessly, and notes jarringly played. Some would try to improve, because of the whisper of the inner Muse, but would not know how to succeed. If they did succeed, because of some sort of genius––say, Shakespeare––they would have no adulation, because no one would have any way of knowing that they had created real art, since all was art. Objectivity is required.

David Hume, "Art as Object of Taste: David Hume," in The Nature of Art: an Anthology, ed. Thomas E. Wartenburg (Belmont: Thomson, 2007), et al.

Modern Scholasticism: Shakespeare on Tape!

Shakespeare's Julius Caesar is easily picked up anywhere these days, even on youtube. In the BBC/Time-Life Films (1979) (Tragedies of Will. Shakespeare) TV movie set, Richard Pasco plays Brutus; his dark features lend to the idea that he actually is Italian, and the name Pasco supports the idea (however, imbd.com says he's English and England-trained, so I suppose they know what they are talking about. Also, since imbd.com lists Brutus/Pasco/bug-eyed-man-with-weird-eyebrows at the top of the list, he must therefore really be the protagonist: case closed).  Keith Michell plays Marc Antony and David Collings as Cassius. Charles Gray is Caesar himself. Herbert Wise directed the film, and Cedric Messina produced it (more Italians; they're returning for their play and "first" emperor).

The production was filmed on a soundstage, probably in England. I doubt in Italy, and most likely not in ancient Rome either, since they did not have time machines yet in 1979 when the production was filmed. The set designers did include, however, many tasteful columns and Roman-esque buildings, and for a few scenes, what looks like fake, cut boulders. This was a BBC TV-movie, aka low-budget (aka, charming). For the wardrobe, all costumes for the senators were cut from a common cloth, one-size fits all (except for skinny, little Cassius); the historicity seems correct, because of the maroon touch for their office. The women's dress, except in a few cases, was merely a taken-in sheet. For Virginia McKenna (Portia), there must not have been but an inch of cloth, since she was half an inch wide and looked about to fall over. Perhaps she was trying to show that her thigh had truly bled out and taken all but bone with it. However, this was Roman fashion (the toga, I mean), so kudos to the BBC once again.

In comparison to the actual original manuscript (unless you get painstakingly into the folios &c &c &c, so don't), the movie is spot on. The actors enunciate and orate and elocute perfectly, and quite bring the writing to life. My favorite spot is when Casca relates to Brutus and Cassius how Caesar denied the crown thrice, the people shouted, and he himself had to hold his breath to avoid "the bad air." However, the production is dated, for time advances yet film is static (good thing; huzzah for historians and researchers). Shakespeare is for grown-ups, not children, as someone said. Many people are children in mind and don't know it, so––those who like it will, and those who don't. . . . I'm not saying anything more. As to American audiences: the tide turneth, and Americans are now discovering BBC; we will find this production wholesale one day, and who knows what will happen then?

As to liking, there were some moments when the cinematography was imperfect, or the acting ill-suited for a TV medium. Shakespeare is for the stage, not film. However, that does not mean the decision should be that the camera should pan up so close to the face so that only the eyes of Brutus are seen (and this is how one does indeed know he has brown eyes and tan skin: I got that a while ago) and left there. Or, while the camera stays in a position of awkward closeness, instead of a normal soliloquy, we have a pre-recorded voice-over of the actor, then the camera pans back, and the actor shouts!––then back to quiet voice-over. It felt random and misconstructed. However, certain parts were quite nice for TV. That I can go back and rewatch parts on youtube that made me laugh, either because of how time will misconstrue them (or how Sonnet 20 really does construe them), is a blessing of modern technology and a good joke on all of scholasticism.

The best review of this movie is this: that I would watch it again.

All That Stinging Opulence

The Church over the centuries has had a chequered past. In its early years it saw poverty and a share-all community life-style among its members, its only wealth being an overabundance of hungry lions and burning tar. When its fortunes buoyed up, the Church overcompensated; it became infamous for splurging.

The Abbey of St. Denis was in disrepair when Abbot Suger was appointed to office. The building was too small for the masses that crowded inside during feast days, and the walls no longer held their centuries-old glory. Suger decided to rebuild. With great pomp and publication and pride, he tells of his labors in reconstructing. It must have been so difficult for him, all that counting and weighing, remembering––to the very number––just how many marks of gold went into every single panel, counting them out like the loyal lap-dog named Sheriff of Nottingham (similar time period, as well––so perhaps. . . .). Designing it as well must have been a labor on the level of Sysiphus, with the heart-wrenching pain of a saint himself, for he deemed it necessary to write himself into almost every inscription––gold-enameléd, "Great Denis, open the door of Paradise / And protect Suger through thy pious guardianship (Holt, 25)"––as if despite his great work for the kingdom, his dedication to the people so they could see the gold-cast remnants of the saints and collected golden treasures that the monks guarded with wary eyes (as if they were like those wary Greeks he had once met): it was if Suger was afraid for his soul.

Bernard of Clairvaux on the other hand, from the excerpt here included, did not spare a thought to pray for his soul on any ornate monument. In fact, he condemned them. "The church is resplendent in her walls, beggarly in her poor; she clothes her stones in gold, and she leaves her sons naked. . . . The curious find their delight here, the expense of the indigent. [emphasis mine] (20)" The initial intent of gilding had gone awry in the execution. The poor, during the sermons, were distracted from the content by the glitz all around them. Just a pinch of gold-dust could feed them for a winter, and leave just a tiny hole in the fabric of a painting––so why not give it to them, and not slather it on the walls and hang it from the ceilings in lavish candelabras in the first place?

Suger intended his paper trail to be a treatise, a historical account of the rebuilding of the Abbey of St. Denis. Bernard of St. Clairvaux was too polite, too much the monk, to be vituperative, but surely  behind his letter to a comrade, he raged at the injustice. Their conception of their shared religion is also at odds. Suger, when he looks at and ponders his glorious jewels, is transported to some other "region of the universe which neither exists entirely in the slime of the earth nor entirely in the purity of Heaven (30)." He is either on some sort of drug wafting up from the gold flake brought in by his craftsmen (from one of those many, many far spread regions he keeps mentioning) or will one day exist in Limbo. Bernard of Clairvaux, however, looks everywhere but the jewels, and is not dazzled. He sees the masses as they "spit oftentimes in the Angel's faces; often, again, the countenances of some Saint is ground under the heel of a passer-by (20,21)." There is no effect of jewels on them and the lower monks but of bitterness and bile.

This has been a debate of centuries: opulence or frugality. It continues now, even outside of Catholicism, and religion even. Perhaps, to Bernard's argument, with a vague glint in his eye, Abbot Suger would say, pointing to the clouds: "But we must aim higher, aim to improve them! Excelsior!" And to that, Bernard of Clairvaux would shake his head, point to the poor, and then to Longfellow's poem itself, and say: "That did not end well in the first place."






Holt, Elizabeth Gilmore, A Documentary History of Art, Vol. 1. New Jersey: Princeton. 1981. Print.

Bookshelf

Too many books? The plan of the century: build another bookshelf. But that goes awry with a lack of time, and you think you're fine since the can of poly says "dries in two hours." Then you notice that it also says (and this is the night before you leave for college and so you need the bookshelf, but you procrastinated/were legitimately busy so only now finished painting) "allow 48 hours to 7 days to cure before moderate use."

What is moderate use? you think, panicked, fingers running through your hair. You look like Medusa yourself now, poly and hair and fear and stress and anger at the system. What is moderate use?

Can you place a pretty piece of paper, one of those ugly old fashioned flowery ones, underneath your books and hope they'll by all right when you come back at the end of the semester? Will you be able to peel the paper up at all, inch by painful inch, with that thick, paper-y sound of glue?

Or a doily? You just said doily. Nevermind.

Of course, bare-bottomed books are out of the question. Oil-poly, old books––no.

So you whine: "What am I going to do with all my books?"

Then your sister says: "Get a kindle already."

Anathema.

So, despite the work, despite the shiny, un-quite-cured bookshelf sitting there and smirking at you from the shop––

––you do as you always do, and stack the books higher and higher on the walls and behind each other on the old shelves. Maybe one day, you'll be able to know what books you do own. One day . . . .