I Have No Idea What To Call This Rant

“I ate it, knowing the rabbit had sacrificed itself for me.  It had made me a gift of meat.” Maxine Hong Kingston.

In this post, I rant about education and I'm not sure what else.

Greig types on his old MacBook Pro:

In an ironic turn of events in the film Iris—about novelist and philosopher Iris Murdoch (who consequently had a few things to say about education)—Murdoch stares at a television screen showing Tony Blair repeating, “education, education, education,” unable, in her final stage of dementia, to put coherent thoughts together (not that Blair was coherent in this scene, but that's another matter). Murdoch's lifelong career of dazzling prose diminished, in the end, to infantile babbling. I recently saw the film and read excerpts from her husband John Bayley's memoir. Murdoch was a philosopher and a poet who eloquently wrote about education, not as making a person happy, but as enabling them to see how they are happy. I liked the film because it depicted the life of a person dedicated to learning who tragically loses her wealth of knowledge due to Alzheimer's. Iris lived in her mind; she lost her treasure. John Bayley believed that even though the disease had ravaged his wife's memory, something "clear" and "pure" remained inside her mind. He supplied her with a pen and notebook paper, in case inspiration struck.Education—you might not know—literally means "to lead out," like guiding a child by the hand as she learns to walk. "To lead out," then, is a fair starting point to explore education. Isn't this what education truly is—in both the formal sense of the institution of education and the informal, organic sense, the leading that arises from within rather than from without? Learning to walk is education in the literal sense—guiding your legs to cross the coffee table for support or swimming out into the deep end without a warm adult at your side is education. Likewise, the formal disciplines of reading, writing, and arithmetic are also forms of being led out. The challenge (if you want to call it that) is to integrate these concepts: education as both lived and learned. The art lies in their synthesis—to live and to learn.

Thinking of two spheres of education—the education of life, as someone once called it, and the education derived from books, or "book learnin'"—provides convenient frameworks. Is education reserved for the elite? Or can one learn everything necessary through life alone? I work with a man who insists he doesn’t need formal education. He told me, “I wouldn’t tell a kid this, but I wouldn’t go back and get an education. I have no regrets about not having an education. Books—I don’t remember books—but life, I remember life.” He resented not passing the CDL exam required to drive a truck. He had been grandfathered in, as he put it, forty years ago when he first drove for Camel Express (“Humpin’ to please” was their motto). Now, to get a job, he had to pass the written test. “You're telling me I can drive a truck better than anybody, but because I can’t pass the paper test I can't do it? Put a man with degrees in that truck and let me see him do it. That doesn’t make any sense.” The hoops we jump through to prove our competence, our fitness to be productive members of society, are tightly controlled by power structures and assigned roles.

I am surrounded by this language—the language of people who see little real value in education. People I know and live with value what you can do, not what you can say. “Show me what you can do,” a boss may say. Words may be good for human development and public relations, but work? That has nothing to do with words. After "What's your name?" the next most common question is, "What do you do?" The inner life of the mind is seen as unimportant. Down here in the South, we care about hurricane trajectories, deer hunting season, and Mardi Gras—which is interesting, considering the South has produced some of the greatest writers the world has known.

People have described me as a "dreamer," having an "eidetic imagination," a "space cadet," "lost in the clouds," "self-absorbed," "head in the clouds," and "not in touch with reality." People, catching me deep in thought, often ask, "What are you doing?" or jokingly mimic a spacecraft, chanting, “Do Do Do Do Do—Earth to Greig!” My shrink described me as having an eidetic imagination. Education of the mind—at least in my provincial experience—is discouraged. We'd much prefer people who can do tangible things. Sure, we love writers—just not while they're writing. Philosophy is fine; we just don’t want to hear it. Give it to me straight, uncomplicated. I don’t want to strain my brain.

But what's so wrong with being lost in one’s head? What harm comes from thinking too much, from reading too deeply into things? “Don’t read into it,” people say. But why not? What's the danger? That it makes you think? God forbid. "Just enjoy the movie." Well, I am enjoying it. I do think too much, as my mother once pointed out—and mothers always know.

My mother gave me a beautiful paperweight for Christmas one year, shaped like a bird with a long glass tail and heavy opaque body, containing bubbles of trapped air. Without hesitation, I began to wonder aloud what symbolic meaning this gift might carry. As I theorized possible interpretations, I looked up to see my mother's hurt expression. Immediately, I stopped talking, thanked her, and changed the subject. But I knew she was hurt. Her only reply after my analysis was, "Greig, it's only a gift. I thought it would look good in your room."

I later realized I wasn’t wrong to analyze the gift—I had no intention of hurting her feelings or undermining her generosity. My mind simply could not resist imposing meaning on the image. Isn’t that what we naturally do—impose meaning? We itch to find deeper significance in everything. We aren't satisfied that a cup is merely a cup; it must represent something more. Yet sometimes, perhaps, a cup is just a cup. (Although, in the back of my mind, I resist that notion.)

I later called Mom to apologize about the paperweight incident. Asking for forgiveness allowed her to express her feelings freely, benefiting us both. Recently, when visiting her, I brought up the paperweight again—not to reopen wounds, but to express how I see the world and my frustration at feeling misunderstood, especially by someone similar to me. The difference between us is education; I have more degrees. Mom is a surgical technician, highly skilled and respected in her job preparing patients for neurosurgery. I deeply admire her professional competence and reliability.

Conversely, I can barely change a bicycle tire. If you put me in an operating room, I'd likely cause disaster—or at least a costly malpractice suit. My mom excels where I would fail miserably, making more money than my father, who once resented this. My father retired after their separation, but Mom continues working, reliable and capable as ever.

Talking with Mom, I realized she shares my analytical nature and sharp intellect, though insecurity often masks these qualities. Her earlier involvement with fundamentalism might have been driven by her need for acceptance. Richard Rodriguez wrote about familial alienation following education, while Henry Adams described learning nothing at Harvard despite his education. I identify with Iris Murdoch—learning endlessly, only to end up childlike. I'm okay with that.    .

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