Imitation, or Something Like It

To take a phrase completely and shamelessly out of context, “there is nothing new under the sun.” This lunchmeat of a phrase, even without its textual bread to rein in its meaning, is certainly food for thought. (I know a terrible pun when I see it, but am not preoccupied in the least about its poor reflection on my sense of humor, or lack thereof, and therefore, with reckless abandon, pull the pin and throw it in, along with a ridiculous parenthetical run-on sentence, for good measure.) But seriously, that there is nothing new under the sun may not be wholeheartedly true, but it’s awfully close. Disgustingly close.

Right now I work in the Portland School district, the first moderately urban environment in which I’ve worked. I mention my job’s urbanity because I believe it’s directly tied to the thoughts I’ve recently been harboring. The school I am at is now a K-8 school, not counting the preschool which also operates within its walls. So I get the opportunity to observe an eleven-year age span, and the contrasts (or similarities) within. One other factor relates to a major change that has recently taken place in the school. In an effort to consolidate neighboring buildings, the Portland school district combined my previous school with a neighboring middle school, a move which has been in process for the last couple years. Eventually the school will be home to students all the way from Kindergarten through eighth grade, meaning no schools will feed into the middle school like most other middle schools. However, as this is the first year the schools have been combined, there is a disproportionately large eighth grade class which is bussed in from a much larger area than its eventual goal area. The area which will eventually be served by this school will consists of a large group of upper-middleclass kids, and a smaller group of lower-class students, kids in a much harsher home environment. This year, however, as we move the last large class of eighth graders out, the amount of lower-class students remains quite high. There is also a classroom in our school which is specifically for kids with behavioral problems, which also adds to the aura of the school.

Part of my job involves going outside to recess during the eighth-grade lunch and recess. At other schools in which I’ve worked, recess has been one of my favorite parts of the day. Kids tend to be more relaxed, and I sometimes get the chance to play with them, which is not only a good way to bond with them, but can be a treat for me in the middle of the day. This is not the case for me this school year. I don’t really enjoy recess in this chaotic, seething mass of prepubesence. The overwhelming majority of students I am in contact with have serious attitude issues, even more so than I usually think of with middle school aged kids. Last week as I broke up an F-bomb-laden fight between a guy and a girl, the guy decided to have the last shove, resulting in a confrontation with me. He thought I was challenging him, and began readying himself for a fist-fight with me, something I was neither excited about, nor sure I could properly defend myself. Fortunately his friends began trying to calm him down, and as it blew over I pretended not to hear him and his F-ing language directed toward me. There weren’t any more problems with that crowd for the rest of that recess, thank the maker, but I kept an eye on them for the rest of the time they were out there. I was a little worried about how I would handle this sort of confrontation in the future, but was also a bit fascinated that a kid would ever think that was an acceptable way to behave. Call me old fashioned, call me stingy, call me Daynty, but I don’t really see where that sort of behavior has a place in society. However, it did give rise to much thought about behavior as it relates to environment, and as it relates to imitation.

We all learn by imitation, though some of us think we’re some sort of original creative genius, an intellectual being of great proportions. (Or maybe it’s just me that quietly, secretly, modestly wishes people would see my incredible intellect and wit.) As babies, we experience life in its purest form, untainted, if only for a fraction of a second. Soon thereafter we begin to lose our originality, imitating behaviors, expressions, tones, language. Soon we are the sum of the parts around us, though not always greater than the parts themselves. Early in life we are already posers, differences in behaviors greatly influenced by our environment. Now, I do think there are certain parts of our personalities which we have carried since our introduction to this world, but the way that personality takes its form can be adjusted or altered by the things around us we unintentionally imitate. So to me, it’s not imitation that bothers me, it’s what is being imitated that gnaws at the back of my brain, occasionally breaking down the dam which holds back my reserve of intense sadness. I look at a lot of the kids at school and am just so sad to see the things they imitate, and how mindlessly they do it.

One of the worst things I see imitated relates directly to racial stereotypes, which may be one of the saddest things I see on a daily basis. So much has been done in this country to try to make people equal, from desegregation to the feminist movement. The historical figures who have spent so much of their lives fighting inequality, fighting bigotry, fighting for freedom, have fought such incredible battles, not only against their persecutors, but also against their own people, the ones who fall so neatly within racial stereotypes. Granted, without knowing people’s personalities, I have no right to judge their insides based on their outsides. But, (and it’s certainly a big but) based on observations at my own school, certain groups of kids just seem so perfectly stereotypical. From the elitist white kids, to the gangsters and hiphop-posers (I’m a little skittish about mentioning any other races than white for fear of sounding judgmental, so I’ll let the reader fill in their own blanks), it’s intensely sad for me to see that all the hard work public figures have done in an effort to promote equality, quickly undone daily by the up and coming generation. The propitiation of stereotype is especially evident when I observe the kids I directly work with.

Because I work with kids who are a bit slower mentally, it can often be very similar to working with very small children. In both groups, imitation is a necessary way to learn. In an educational environment, it is absolutely paramount to not only teach things like behavior, but everything must also be modeled. At school this seems to work to our advantage, at home this can often work to their detriment. In a non-structured environment, so often the only choice for a lot of these lower-class kids, they learn to imitate SO many things I’d call negative. Especially since so many of these kids hav unrestricted access to television and the internet. Those of you who know me know that when it comes to film and music, I’m a total snob. I love intellectually stimulating art. I’m constantly reminded that the majority of people don’t share that love, or maybe it just takes a different shape for other people. Now, my artistic prejudices often extend to genres of music like rap and hip-hop, not because I don’t think there’s any artistic integrity, but because there’s just very little creativity. It is often very basic, rhythmic, and often maintains very primal subject matter: sex and violence. Granted, sex and violence are commonplace in our world, but there’s something very disturbing about its animalistic nature. (Actually, for anyone really interested in an interesting perspective on music as it relates to the human soul, real the first chapter of Tolkien’s “The Silmarillion,” the section about Eru’s creation of the world and the accompanying songs of angels and demons. A fascinating take on creation. And yes, it’s uber-nerdy.)

I recently bought a new TV, allowing me to now watch all sorts of high-definition programming, which I find quite enjoyable as I simultaneously scratch my protruding Neanderthal brow and my backside, and gaze in stupor at the shiny thing I now own. Oregon Public Broadcasting, as a part of their eternal fund-raisers, played a half-dozen episodes of a show called “Travels to the Edge with Art Wolfe” wherein photographer Art Wolfe goes to remote or exotic places around the globe to photograph the people or animals of that region. It really is an incredible show, as fascinating as it is beautiful. One of the shows that was stuck in my mind was about a trip to South Georgia Island, deep in the South Atlantic. On this island live many types of animals, including a ferocious type of seal which came very close to attacking the photographer for getting within thirty feet of it. Without warning, they would attack each other in a way that tells you there is no way these things will ever be domesticated. As I watched the seals posture and jockey for position, I was saddened to realize the similarities between these wild animals and a handful of the kids at my school. It proved to be a very powerful example of animal nature, and stuck in my brain as I watched the kids at my school interact. Animal nature is in part due to the need for survival being greater than a need for almost anything else. So it’s only fitting that sex, keeping the species alive, and violence, protecting oneself from death, are extremely basic parts of the animal kingdom. Which is why I get so miffed at hip-hop and rap artists whose content is restricted to simple animal nature, showing very little evidence of higher thought or intellect. And, being the posers they are, kids DO INDEED imitate the stuff.

Most of the kids in my class love this kind of music, and whether they mean to or not, they imitate these people. They cop attitudes whether they fully understand what they’re doing. They dress like these people. They act like these people. They know little beyond basic animal nature, survival, and as unintentional imitators, they are a product of their environment. Like little puppets on a dilapidated stage. But what they don’t realize is that the guys they’re imitating are themselves imitators. Within genres, there is very little innovation. It’s all imitation, and often it’s shoddy imitation. We live in a ridiculous vacuum of imitation. Honestly I can’t see anything different between Soulja Boy, T-Pain, and all those other ridiculously misspelled or abbreviated names. (Good grief, it’s no wonder kids these days can’t spell.) The only way we see creativity is when someone’s scope of imitation of so broad, they actually appear to be an original. But ideas have to start somewhere, I suppose.

Imitation. We all do it. It’s necessary, but to what extent? Is there anything new under the sun, or is everything out there simply imitation? Is there hope for those in a restricted scope of imitation? Can stereotypes be defeated with a larger scope of imitation? Or am I simply a self-righteous SOB. It’s hard to say, I suppose. Food for thought, though. Sandwich anyone?

Parallels to Tony

There is some sort of restlessness upon me. The sort of restlessness I get when I see a commercial airliner high overhead, traveling seemingly-straight-up in grand slow-motion, chased by clingy contrails, acting as veritable Hansel and Gretel cookie-crumbs of the sky. The sort of restlessness I feel accompanies by either complete complete unfamiliarity or totally lethargic complacency. I have no idea whether it is because I'm sitting outside a Portland coffee shop in the sun of an eighty-five degree mid-September afternoon, a total fantasy to my Alaska-bred sensibilities. It could be that I'm suffering in the slight blue haze of the cigarette behind me, whose master is not so much enjoying it as he is needing it. Cigarette smoke often gives me strange sensations: possibly mild discomfort, possibly pure curiosity about smoking's origins. Perhaps my restlessness is simply internal, a constant pillow-fight in my head as I continue gently beating myself, in the hopes of figuring out who I am. A soft but constant presence in an already crowded cranium. Perhaps it's due to the discovery that not only am I a creature of habit and in desperate need of structure, but that there is nothing inherently weak or wrong about either of those things. Maybe I'm restless because I want things I'm not ready for, or maybe it's due to a constant and ever-changing search for meaning. Maybe I'm restless because where I live doesn't feel like home, but neither does my old home. Some sort of quasi-permanent vagabondage. Maybe I'm too concerned with other people's agendas, and not enough with myself. Maybe it's because this life of second-guesstimation has finally caught up with me and fried my nerves. Again. Maybe it's my constant comparisons between who I was and who I am now. Maybe I live in the past and the future, but never in the present.

Or maybe I've just had too much coffee.

But the fact remains that I'm restless. And, surprisingly enough, I'm a little excited about it. Restlessness is an agent of change, an indicator of energy, even if it's potential energy and not kinetic. Something big is on the horizon. Any day now. Any day.

Or as Stephen Sondheim put it in West Side Story...

Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day;
I will know right away,
Soon as it shows.
It may come cannonballing down through the sky,
Gleam in its eye,
Bright as a rose!

Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Under a tree.
I got a feeling there's a miracle due,
Gonna come true,
Coming to me!

Could it be? Yes, it could.
Something's coming, something good,
If I can wait!
Something's coming, I don't know what it is,
But it is
Gonna be great!

With a click, with a shock,
Phone'll jingle, door'll knock,
Open the latch!
Something's coming, don't know when, but it's soon;
Catch the moon,
One-handed catch!

Around the corner,
Or whistling down the river,
Come on, deliver
To me!
Will it be? Yes, it will.
Maybe just by holding still,
It'll be there!

Come on, something, come on in, don't be shy,
Meet a guy,
Pull up a chair!
The air is humming,
And something great is coming!
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Maybe tonight . . .

Steinbeck and Copland

It's not often that I'm terribly excited to be American. Not that I don't love the freedoms afforded people of this nation, but we've been given a reputation as a bunch of loud-mouthed idiots who give the bird to the rest of the world as we do whatever the heck we want. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not a big fan of that label. Going overseas at the end of last year, I didn't know how things were going to pan out for me as an American because we're just not popular to anyone other than ourselves. And actually, I've never even cared for American history, never cared all that much about America's industrial revolution, the incredible changes we've made in the last hundred years.

A year ago I bought a copy of The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, right around the time I had freshly relocated to Oregon. Sometimes I get in this mood where I feel like my education is leaving me, and that I need to immerse myself in something, anything stimulating. So I decided to tackle a piece of classic American literature. It was AMAZING! Never have I read something that was so subtle in its characterization and so enjoyably American. The plight of the common man. Wow. The Grapes of Wrath made me better appreciate being American. Before I left for Alaska in June I went to Powell's Bookstore with Daylan and she told me if I wanted another Steinbeck novel, I should go for East of Eden. The beauty of these books is that I've heard the titles many many times but had no idea what they were about. I finished that one by early August, and again I appreciated not only the characters in this masterpiece, but the distinctly American setting. America didn't seem so stuck up and high and mighty for five or six-hundred pages of literature.

Many of you know I'm a bit of a technology freak, especially when it comes to film and audio quality. Several years ago I bought a DVD player that would play special super-high-quality CDs. Actually one of the formats is called Super Audio Compact Disc. Basically these recordings sound much closer to the way they were played. Maybe it's the kind of thing only a guy like me can appreciate, and if that's the case, I'm okay with that. I LOVE these recordings. They're harder to find, and mostly jazz and classical recordings, but when listened to on nice speakers or good headphones, it's just incredible. Anyway, last night I found my SACDs and popped in one I hadn't heard in a while, a recording of some of Aaron Copland's classical works. It was pretty amazing that as soon as I heard this music, so distinctly American, I instantly thought of the two Steinbeck novels I've read. American in its truest and best sense. So all this to say, I want all of you to go out and buy two things: a recording of the works of Aaron Copland (look for Fanfare for the Common Man or Lincoln Portrait or An American in Paris or Appalachian Spring or Rodeo - they tend to come with several pieces altogether) and a copy of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. And if you don't rekindle your love for America, or at least breathe a breath of fresh air on the dying embers of your American patriotism, then perhaps you should consider living somewhere else. Steinbeck and Copland, and, to add another artist to the mix, put up a bunch of posters of Norman Rockwell paintings. It just might work. Let me know if it does.