Lesson Plan: Using the Apple 1984 Superbowl Commercial in the Classroom

The commercial is a fun clip to use in the classroom.

Time allowance: 45 minutes
Objectives:
Teach students how to articulate abstract ideas.
Demonstrate brainstorming techniques
Analyzing multimedia using literary terms
Incorporating quotations into student writing

Note: this is a useful lesson as an introduction or a wrap-up to classes devoted to dystopian literature, like 1984, Brave New World, or The Giver or for teaching Thoreau's Walden, or any film or text focused on the tension between individual will versus societal hegemony.

Warm-up
Start the class off with a quick free write. Have the students write about the following prompt:

What is the difference between being in a group versus being alone?

After the students have had a few minutes to write, ask the class to brainstorm what is the difference between an individual and a group. Whip around the room and share ideas on interactive whiteboard or on class chart board. You can use the example I use to start a class discussion. If I walk into a classroom with a classroom of students dressed in uniform, how do I tell each student apart? What gives us away as individuals when we are in a crowd.

Beware. The discussion will begin to take a life of its own and you as the teacher will have to allow every student to talk. Community expression and individuality is an important topic among teenagers so be ready for some interesting comments from your students.

An Astronaut Frequents an Apple Store

Activity
After you have allowed the students to express their thoughts out loud, use the board to generate a chart of the advantages and disadvantages of community living and do the same for individuality. You might want to include a definition of both terms, which you can add to the board. Or, you can have the class come up with a working definition of both concepts.

After you have compiled the list, explain to the class, that many novels and films deal with the tension between community and individual and as a class explain to them that they will begin to analyze some important scenes from literature and film.

At this point, if you want, you can have the students quickly popcorn a list of films and books that possibly illustrate the theme a tension between the two.

Ask the students if they know what apocalyptic literature is or if they know what dystopian literature is. Read a definition from a literary dictionary or other reliable source and explain to the class that there is a genre of literature that deals with the fall of society, the community, and how this affects individuals.

1984 Apple Commercial
Use 1984 as an example. If you want, you can briefly explain the plot, which can be found here. Make sure the students know it is a novel by George Orwell and it is famous for introducing the phrase, "Big Brother is watching." Ask the students if they have ever seen the television show and ask them why they think the show is called by this name.

Background
Explain the background of the 1984 commercial which can be found here. Have the students watch the clip several times, telling them to jot in their notebooks in list form everything they notice about the film: color, sound, tone, mood, dialogue, etc.

Apple Computer, INC produced an ad spot for the 1984 Superbowl to sell its new product, the Macintosh desktop computer. The computer would eventually inspire a long line of desktop computers boasting an easy-to-use GUI (graphic user interface) and the first computer to introduce friendly smiling icons and folders.

The commercial is a visual allusion to George Orwell's classic dystopic novel 1984. The short clip features a Big Brother figure imploring dull, grayed-out workers (played by skinheads) to stick to the status quo. It is hard to follow what he says, but he says something about a "garden of pure ideology" and something about being safe from the pests. It is obvious the drones are like IBM computers. The running gag line is PCs are conformists and Macs are individualists. Midway through the commercial, the Mac pest shows up, though, amidst the sound of an alarm, and a team of SWAT men chases her down really cool sci-fi corridors. She wields a hammer which she swings into the screen. The screen explodes and the commercial ends with the words: "On January 24th Apple Computer will introduce Macintosh. And you'll see why 1984 won't be like 1984."
More on Wikipedia

Writing
Pass out a handout of at least twenty quotes

You can use the following quotes if you wish, or you can research your own quotes about community.

Students in a group of three or four discuss each quote and relate its meaning to the concept of individual and community.
For each quote, students discuss, "Who wrote the quote? How does the thought express individuality or community? What quote(s) resonates with your generation?

Extension Activity: 
Have students write a creative piece on an advertisement that can be used to demonstrate the similarities and differences between abstract ideas. Or, they can write an essay on the 1984 commercial incorporating the quotations.

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Software Review: Access My Library for the iPhone

Have you ever wanted to use your iPhone to access your library's electronic resources? Well, you can with Access My Library.

I love access to my public library's online resources, like EBSCOhost and Galegroup resources.

I'm pleased to know I can access some of the resources I pay taxes for, not only on my computer but on my iPhone.

Gale Group, a leading reference resource has developed a nifty iPhone app that uses geotracking to locate the nearest public libraries in your area and allows you to access electronically through an app.

What this means is I can access Scribner's Writer's Series on my phone.

If I lived in San Francisco, then I could access the public library there as well.

Gale allows this access for free because it knows it helps libraries reach out to more of its patrons who may not have access to the stacks because of work or other commitments. This ensures libraries will continue to use Gale as an online database service.

The app enhances iPhone's ability to search out reputable resources. The worldwide web does not always contain the most desirable sources, and sometimes I need access to a subscription database to locate trustworthy information.

Now, only if the legal battle can cease, then Google can offer a similar service through its Books feature.

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On a Visit to Ozanam Inn in New Orelans — A Men's Homeless Shelter

New Orleans has an all-men homeless shelter on Camp Street. Today my cousin and I stepped inside to take a look.

 

photo credit: Ozanam Inn

Spontaneously, while walking on Camp street heading for the D-day museum, We crept behind a gate. Ozanam Inn sprung into view as if metastasized right there on Camp street, replete with a line of men, waiting in line for a room to sleep. But he didn't know what was behind the gate. I didn't tell him; he was horrified, ripped from a pleasant view into a darker corner, social inequality thrust upon a privileged. It was rudeness on my part; I had said, "Come here. I want to show you something," as if I knew what a good lesson was. To me, they were readers, workers, sinners, saints -- reading a newspaper, one, another a novel, and another dragging on a cigarette. Another protecting his bicycle leaning against the dump. For him, just a boy at my side, they were strangers, monsters in his sleep, the stay-away-from-them folks momma told you about, not the needy in want of bread, shelter -- not the Samaritan on the block. It was my fault; I deserved his "Don't ever do that to me again without telling me first" accusation. In my rush to enlighten, I revealed reality too quickly, shed the gauze from his eyes too swiftly as if I went to amputate his legs without warning. We walked to the museum and I could tell I had frightened him. He was skittish and uncomfortable, gazing into the plexiglass displays of bombers and beach ballasts, authentic uniforms; and my words, a mismatch of history and mentorship. An old veteran's wife approached us while I was trying to explain axis and allies; "Listen to him boy; you can't get a better lesson than this". You indeed can't get a better lesson that.

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Poem: “Chinese Buffet”

photo credit: wikimedia

at the chinese buffet, during lunch hour
there's a table of brash intimacy
and lunch hour camaraderie -
the sleight parent wearing a holiday
green sweater, christmas lights strung
across her child-nursing breasts;
she gestures, eggrolls pushed to
the side, the travails of I-don't-know-what-
because I am too far away to eavesdrop,
but what I did notice I've turned into miserable verse,
I must admit,
of my own voyeurism
getting the best of me,
this haphazard bunch,
articulating with words and flesh
what I can only stab at
with my fork,
ashamed at my own frog-like
existence,
crouching in the chinese buffet,
while my mongolian stew
gristles in the background.

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Notes on "On Some Motifs in Baudelaire"

Walter Benjamin on Marcel Proust on the Madeleine
I remember Walter Benjamin's writings on Marcel Proust's madeleine, the moment, in Proust's novel In Search of Lost Time, when an avatar of Proust bites into the pastry, memories of his childhood flood into his brain, what Proust calls a memoire involuntaire; but, I never noticed before this statement Benjamin (writing about Proust) makes about the search for an object related to a lost memory:

"As for that object, it depends entirely on chance whether we come upon it before we die or whether we never encounter it" (Benjamin Illuminations 158).

Lacan's Objet Petit A
This comment reminds me of Lacan's objet petit a.

It's Lacan's psychological concept for the lost object. The object of desire responsible for obsession and deranged fantasy. It is that object of desire that drives the desirer mad in search of it.

The object of desire, in the symbol of the madeleine, is a marker for that object that we may chance upon, involuntarily, or may never have at all. I think about myself, here, and my desires. If there is a "madeleine" for me, I may taste it, or I may not; the memoire involuntaire is totally necessitated by chance; I happen upon the object, the memory comes flooding in like an impressionistic painting. But, I may never come upon this memory, locked forever in some lost object of desire.

Is the Job of the Poet to Hearken Back to Lost Memories?
If it is the poet's job to unlock these memories, then I applaud the poet. If it is a poet who can open up a madeleine of lost memories, let's laud him with a crown of laurel.

I am sure there is a poem hidden in a taste yet to be eaten.

Am I hedonistic to wish for such a bite?

Proust entrances his reader with the opportunity to invoke memories through the senses. It is the poet who puts these sense impressions into language. Cognitive science confirms Proust's intimation that the senses (e.g., smell and taste) trigger a memory. Proust is right.

Proust Via Benjamin Via Lacan Are Onto Something
The memory Proust, and I think Benjamin is onto something, is alluding to is not a factual memory stuck at a particular moment in time. The memory is much broader than a recollection. Baudelaire (via Benjamin) uses the term shock - an expression meant to suggest a memory linked to trauma. The shock is a sense impression outside of some romantic notion of memory, and instead of a memory of the crowd.

I put away silly notions of private memory. The artist does not pull from something deep inside of him to produce art. It is not a private string of emotions the artist must articulate so others can understand. The memory the artist exposes is already there, involuntary.

Works Cited: 

Benjamin, Walter. Eiland, Howard, et al. Gesammelte Schriften. United Kingdom, Belknap Press, 1996.

Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. United States, Mariner Books, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2019.

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Story From The Classroom: A Severe Whooshing Sound

The following is an excerpt from my book “Things I Probably Shouldn’t Have Said And Other Faux Pas”. Buy a copy on Amazon.

Catholic High School. Saint Charles Avenue. New Orleans. I'm a school teacher. Yesterday, while teaching a lesson and facing the chalkboard, the noise stops. As soon as I return to the board, the noise escalates.

I immediately become angry. "Shit," I mutter, reaching for the call button on the wall that connects directly to the disciplinarian's office. I turn to the class. It's spring. We're all fatigued. It's time to go home, to build castles in the sand, to grow tired of school, to dive into summer. I see that, I know that. But damn, the noise must have been intentional. Who made that noise? I’m not a happy teacher.

"Somebody better fess up before the office responds," I say. Almost immediately, a boy in the front row meekly raises his hand. "It was, ummmm, me." He looks mortified, as if I had just told him he has a few seconds to live.

But I know this student: he's not malicious. He may have a penchant for destruction, but he's certainly not hell-bent on making my life miserable. "So," I say, "Why are you making those whooshing noises?! I can't think straight."

I feel like Ludwig Wittgenstein, the world-class philosopher who would easily get angry in the classroom and bop ignorant children on the head. But he was teaching kindergarten, and I'm a ninth-grade English teacher. A flawed one at that. The student says, "I didn't realize." I want to be like Wittgenstein and bop him on the head, but I don’t.

The intercom blares, "Yes? May I help you?" "No," I say. "I'm good. Got it under control." The intercom clicks off. The class sighs. The student perks up a bit, "I thought you were going to kill me, for a second." The kid looks at me with a sheepish grin. He’s one of those kids who wants to be badass, but he is too sweet to be truly malevolent. I laugh. In a good way. The class laughs. As if it had been a huge practical joke. The joke’s on me.

"That noise felt like it was destroying my thoughts."

"I didn't know I was making any noise," he says. I’m slightly suspicious. The kid smiles as if he knows what he's saying. Nods. The class is chatting. A classroom loves drama. Any kind of drama. It’s the inner logic of kids in a group. Any distraction will disarm their learning neurons — is there a version of docere et delectare — to teach and to delight?

I’m slowly losing control of this class. I never wanted to be a teacher of children. It should have been obvious at the job interview when I said, “I dislike bratty adolescents.” Maybe the teacher who interviewed me didn’t hear me when I thought it out loud and didn’t say anything.

I say to the class as a way to recover, "OK. As I was saying." We go on with the lesson. I'm over it. But the class isn't. The kid can't help himself. "You need a hug?" he asks in a slightly insouciant manner that adolescent boys are wont to do.

"No, I'm good. Just take your pen out of your mouth. OK?"

After class, I feel bad. Silly, even. "I'm sorry," I say. He smiles, puts on my prop that I use for Of Mice and Men.

"You scared me for a second, Mr. Roselli. I thought I was going to get in trouble. Usually, when you're mad, you still have a smile on your face. Here, Mr. Roselli, have a hand sandwich." He shakes my hand like I shake theirs, with both hands like a sandwich.

Even if he did mean it, I realize I reacted swiftly. I scared the kid. Good thing he really didn't mean it.

Well, now I know where that whooshing sound has been coming from all year. Maybe he'll finally stop. He picks up his slugger stick — an affectionate term the boys’ baseball team has given to what I would call a bat. He exits. He comes back in, with masking tape and a sign, "Please do not touch." He puts it over the intercom.

"Funny," I say. "Now, go home."

Tomorrow will be another fiasco. In a nightmare, they crowd me in like the demon in Children of the Corn. But today is a good day. A student tells me she likes poetry, thinks about the meaning of the lyrics. One student wrote a poem about being adopted.

Jim left me a note on my desk. It read:

Dear Mr. Rosselli [sic],

I know you must be stressed. I feel stressed sometimes too, especially because of all the homework you give. I think it would be best for all of us if you were less stressed. My mom and I visited the humane society the other day and we saw the cutest dog ever. I think you need a dog to love you and you can love back. I think if you had a dog you would be less stressed and we wouldn't feel so stressed neither.

Sincerely your student,

Jim

He wanted me to have a dog. So simple. From the mouth of babes. One observation about ninth graders: they remember in spurts. Just like me bolting for the call button. I spurt. One girl pipes up, "I remember what a hyperbole is?!" Good, I think; I feel like one right now. The boy with the pen makes sure he puts away his pen.

"You'll miss us when you're gone?" I don't answer. Just smile. "You know you love us."

And I guess I do. Let someone else mind the gap, teach tone and imagery, gerunds, infinitives, and first-person point of view. Today I want peace of mind. A kid laughs when another kid talks about "reading for pleasure." As if he's coding for a dirty word. "Y'all are sick," I say, instead of saying, stop being immature. I scan the classroom before the bell rings. I sometimes wonder why I am here. Where will they be?

Have seeds been planted? But, who needs a mentor? We need a teacher. But, who wants to be taught? The apple-faced kids? I turn out the lights, take my tie off. I hate wearing this stuff.

The hallways become quiet. I'm leaving soon. On to something else. I decide to stay at school later than usual because I'm giving a workshop to the faculty on how to use Google Docs in the classroom.

I feel conflicted because I know my time at this school will soon end. It's time. I knew this even before I began. I have given my two years. A few more weeks left. Finals. Summer. "Yes," I say. As I finish up the last remaining details for the presentation, I begin to be in my feelings. I will miss them. I am the last teacher to leave for the day. The Toyota Echo that has been mine for the past two years sits alone in the parking lot. I notice the gates have been shut which is odd, because usually, they are open. I am locked out. Or locked in. I call a teacher. A few. No one is around to help me - no custodians. No administrators. No kids. Using my key, I go back into the building and then exit through the front door that leads out to Saint Charles Avenue where I take the olive-green streetcar home to my nest; it arrives on time as if out of a dream, out of the night, under oak trees and nighttime amblers, the streetcar is an obvious symbol of journey, made more noticeable by how I feel at that moment, standing with a brown messenger bag, and ungraded papers. I have left the Toyota behind, to be a watcher of a school without kids, without me, because in a way I will miss teaching, but, I long for New York more. I leave for the Big Apple at the end of the school year. I wonder if I'll see my students in the future? I wonder what we'll learn? Are we home?"

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Why I Listen to Rilke and Don't Write Love Poems

Rilke in "Letters to a Young Poet" —

Reading again the injunction Rilke gave to his younger protege not to write love poems because they are too “facile and ordinary,” I am reminded why I do not write love poems.
It’s an overwrought genre.
Look. Love poems are preferably saturated in the oeuvre: Shakespeare’s doting sonnets alone give us all we need:

The Nike of Samothrace

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