The first day of the fall semester is still two weeks away, but already the senior thesis has caused me a little misery. I thought I had a dandy field chosen last spring. I was going to read up on American detective novels of the 1920s and develop a really interesting argument about how the mystery and the private eye matured along with the post-war generation. You know, academic but accessible and maybe even innovative.
My initial research was fun. I learned that the mystery novel evolved over the course of the 19th century, starting with a French author, closely followed by Edgar Allen Poe. They were both inspired by a real life detective named Vidoq. Before the likes of Sam Spade hit the publishing world, the mystery novel evolved through the Victorian era, including a nasty mass of literature known as the sensation novel. In those, there was someone who was sort of like a detective, but the solution to the mystery usually included a ghost or other supernatural influence. And the hero who got the virginal girl in the final chapter was always someone other than the detective, since police officers were far too blue-collar to be heroes, according to the 19th century literati.
As I may have noted elsewhere on this blog, things change. On the advice of one of my advisers, I've discarded my former thesis area. All the books went back to the library, and I started ordering another pile of books on the Elizabethan era. The idea is to take advantage of the expertise of my thesis adviser, who is a renowned Elizabethan scholar, and my previous research and current studies of classical and medieval ethics.
So why am I telling you all this? As I was building the new wall of reference materials, I took a look around my own books, and was surprised just how much material I already had on hand. Besides the usual Complete Works of Shakespeare, I have an anthology of English literature from high school that holds a lot of Tudor poems, a lavishly illustrated Tudor history from last year's dramatic literature class, two Antonia Fraser histories of women's lives, a second-hand Latin phrase book that could come in handy . . . and more material on Elizabethan menus and cuisine than I care to think about. In other words, virtually every period of study in my life will be represented in the bibliography of this humongous paper, just as every era of study in my life is represented in my experience on the college campus.
My thesis adviser wants to see a thesis soon, he says. So do I: writing the argument statement has always been the weakest and most problematic part of writing a major paper. Although I may not know exactly what I'll be writing, it feels good to know that this capstone paper will represent such a large part of my life, as represented by all these books I've carried around for so long.
Showing posts with label ethics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ethics. Show all posts
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Return of the Cold Call
Throughout my assorted careers, I cordially hated the cold call. Even at my first real job, clerking in the Dayton's Department Store Gourmet Shop, walking up to a customer fondling a fondue set made me feel very shy. As a radio reporter, calling anyone for an interview, or even just opening the mic to go on the air, would sometimes make me tremble. And let's not talk about television news. Please. Watching that red light on the camera come on the first few (and also last few) times was enough for this lifetime.
Everyone always tells hereditarily shy people to think of the worst thing that could happen, which, in the case of a radio news story, would be the interviewee hanging up, after calling your mama a few choice names. Unfortunately, that happened to me a few times. Expecting the worst and being happy with whatever happened instead never seemed like a reasonable strategy to me.
Anyway, decades later, I still get jumpy over making certain phone calls, and I never send out an email on impulse. I plan what I say on the phone, and I type slowly to prevent missteps. However, my communication nerves may be getting better.
Over the past few weeks, I've sent off emails to two eminent living philosophers because I couldn't find the actual journal articles they wrote on topics in one of my upcoming papers. In both cases, the notes were polite, solicitous, and respectful -- much as you would expect from a lady who is risking having to re-write a 12 page paper if she can't find the right journal articles. Amazingly, both philosophers responded within an hour with attachments, urls, and personal notes.
Is this cool, or what? No wonder dedicated sales people like their jobs: when a cold call pays off, it really does.
Of course, this could be what the pros in the ethics game call beginner's luck. Never mind. I'll take it, and hope my luck holds until the end of the semester. That would be six-and-a-half weeks.
Everyone always tells hereditarily shy people to think of the worst thing that could happen, which, in the case of a radio news story, would be the interviewee hanging up, after calling your mama a few choice names. Unfortunately, that happened to me a few times. Expecting the worst and being happy with whatever happened instead never seemed like a reasonable strategy to me.
Anyway, decades later, I still get jumpy over making certain phone calls, and I never send out an email on impulse. I plan what I say on the phone, and I type slowly to prevent missteps. However, my communication nerves may be getting better.
Over the past few weeks, I've sent off emails to two eminent living philosophers because I couldn't find the actual journal articles they wrote on topics in one of my upcoming papers. In both cases, the notes were polite, solicitous, and respectful -- much as you would expect from a lady who is risking having to re-write a 12 page paper if she can't find the right journal articles. Amazingly, both philosophers responded within an hour with attachments, urls, and personal notes.
Is this cool, or what? No wonder dedicated sales people like their jobs: when a cold call pays off, it really does.
Of course, this could be what the pros in the ethics game call beginner's luck. Never mind. I'll take it, and hope my luck holds until the end of the semester. That would be six-and-a-half weeks.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Spring Break
The younger students are away, some in Italy, some in Disney World, and the rest at assorted beaches, having a wonderful time. I and a few others have stuck close to school, doing homework and reading ahead.
At least, that's what I was supposed to be doing. Mostly, I've been alternating between various iterations of CSI and staring at the Sound.
Right before dawn this morning, for example, the water looked like the blue-green slate that makes a really nice kitchen floor. Later, the water went smooth in patches, where feeding fish poked widening circles in the surface. On cloudy mornings, the water makes up for the gloom by reflecting the trees across the bay as nicely as a mirror. On certain days, the water can look like sand bars with streams of smooth water between them.
Sometimes, if I've spent enough time on the computer trying to dig up the works of a contrarian ethicist, I look out at the water and resolve to stand there staring until an orca surfaces. That could take years, of course, but this week it seems like a reasonable way to spend a few hours at least.
Perhaps I'd better find a patio chair at a garage sale, for my whale watching.
At least, that's what I was supposed to be doing. Mostly, I've been alternating between various iterations of CSI and staring at the Sound.
Right before dawn this morning, for example, the water looked like the blue-green slate that makes a really nice kitchen floor. Later, the water went smooth in patches, where feeding fish poked widening circles in the surface. On cloudy mornings, the water makes up for the gloom by reflecting the trees across the bay as nicely as a mirror. On certain days, the water can look like sand bars with streams of smooth water between them.
Sometimes, if I've spent enough time on the computer trying to dig up the works of a contrarian ethicist, I look out at the water and resolve to stand there staring until an orca surfaces. That could take years, of course, but this week it seems like a reasonable way to spend a few hours at least.
Perhaps I'd better find a patio chair at a garage sale, for my whale watching.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The Unexpected
Much to my surprise, I am learning to like, and indeed love, many things that used to make me cringe. Years ago, I would have been depressed to spend an entire weekend writing a paper -- particularly one on persistent vegetative states. I used to avoid thinking about brain damage and its consequences, but now that I'm approaching the issue as the focus of an ethics issue, it's intriguing. This doesn't mean that I'm about to finally sign my advance directive -- I'm still too squeamish for that -- but much to my surprise, I'm finding the philosophical issues fascinating.
It used to be that I'd get very excited over the idea of going out with some cute guy. I'm almost embarrassed to say that the emotional high point of the week was receiving four ethics documents via email.
I used to be very much the bright-lights-big-city sort of girl, but now I'm making time each day to stare at Puget Sound, play with a puppy, and eat a quiet meal. With the stress levels so high at school right now, these are self-protective behaviors, along with the daily aerobic exercise.
How terribly wholesome. I'm sure these changes aren't entirely permanent.
It used to be that I'd get very excited over the idea of going out with some cute guy. I'm almost embarrassed to say that the emotional high point of the week was receiving four ethics documents via email.
I used to be very much the bright-lights-big-city sort of girl, but now I'm making time each day to stare at Puget Sound, play with a puppy, and eat a quiet meal. With the stress levels so high at school right now, these are self-protective behaviors, along with the daily aerobic exercise.
How terribly wholesome. I'm sure these changes aren't entirely permanent.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Fall Semester is Finally Over
It's been a while since I posted, and I really have a great excuse: post-scholastic trauma disorder. I had no idea that finishing off a semester would be so exhausting. Although I only had two exams during finals week, the last exam was the toughest.
The Ethics exam brought our class together in a way that the group projects never did. We were meeting on a regular basis, comparing notes, looking at the mid-term exam answers, arguing about exactly what Aristotle said, in contrast to what Plato and Kant said, and generally working ourselves into a collective intellectual froth. Fortunately, Father Pratt let us bring a 4-by-6 card into the classroom for the test. I filled mine up with outlines for the essay questions, reminders for the definitions, and lots more in a font labelled "teeny-tiny." The only thing I had not figured on was writer's cramp, something that doesn't usually happen at the computer. I lost about five minutes of exam time trying to convince my right hand that it didn't want to cramp up before I finished writing the essays. I drove home that night with my left hand, and spent the days before Christmas recovering from the mental and physical stress.
Amazingly, I got an A in the class. Plus, the professor liked the term paper, but wants me to do some more work on it, for further use.
Since then, I've been to Seattle for two different Christmas celebrations, and I've hung around the house, catching up on bills, baking Christmas cookies, watching movies, and doing the cleaning that was suspended in the final weeks of fall semester. Fortunately, most people don't drop in when you live this far out of town, so the mess has been missed.
Spring semester is loitering on the horizon, of course. Books have already been assigned by two of the professors, so I've purchased them and tried to start on Mary, Queen of Scots, but my enthusiasm has been a little low. Perhaps older students need a deadline to get the reading done.
The Ethics exam brought our class together in a way that the group projects never did. We were meeting on a regular basis, comparing notes, looking at the mid-term exam answers, arguing about exactly what Aristotle said, in contrast to what Plato and Kant said, and generally working ourselves into a collective intellectual froth. Fortunately, Father Pratt let us bring a 4-by-6 card into the classroom for the test. I filled mine up with outlines for the essay questions, reminders for the definitions, and lots more in a font labelled "teeny-tiny." The only thing I had not figured on was writer's cramp, something that doesn't usually happen at the computer. I lost about five minutes of exam time trying to convince my right hand that it didn't want to cramp up before I finished writing the essays. I drove home that night with my left hand, and spent the days before Christmas recovering from the mental and physical stress.
Amazingly, I got an A in the class. Plus, the professor liked the term paper, but wants me to do some more work on it, for further use.
Since then, I've been to Seattle for two different Christmas celebrations, and I've hung around the house, catching up on bills, baking Christmas cookies, watching movies, and doing the cleaning that was suspended in the final weeks of fall semester. Fortunately, most people don't drop in when you live this far out of town, so the mess has been missed.
Spring semester is loitering on the horizon, of course. Books have already been assigned by two of the professors, so I've purchased them and tried to start on Mary, Queen of Scots, but my enthusiasm has been a little low. Perhaps older students need a deadline to get the reading done.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Best Math Class. EVER.
It's been a while since I had the time or mental capacity to post -- my apologies. I've been a little involved in college life, what with the Math final and the group project for Ethics, as well as the final paper for Ethics. The final paper, by the way, involved re-reading a lot of Plato, Kant, Aristotle, Needleman, Langton, popular media, in between preparing the PowerPoint presentation for class and the other two papers that are also due . . . Anyway, I turned in the ethics essay, all 13 pages, via the Internet late yesterday evening, just as my last spark of intelligence was flickering out for the night. This morning, I got a cryptic note from the Ethics professor: "Are you sure this is the final version?"
That's what's called an "Oh, God" moment.
Since I haven't written a successful argumentative thesis so far this semester, despite trying about eight times, no, I'm not sure. Despite the best efforts of the three professors who have been trying to teach me how to write this type of paper in three different ways and three assorted documentation styles, I've yet to write a series of coherent topic sentences, let alone a competent thesis or a convincing conclusion.
I really, really miss Strunk & White. Those guys were simple, sweet, and understanding, sort of like a supportive ex-boyfriend who doesn't crowd you too much.
On the bright side, I survived the Math final and so far, I have a 97 average in that class, which translates as an A for the transcript. This is the absolutely highest grade I've ever had in any mathematics class, going all the way back to Mrs. Bender's arithmetic in third grade. Professor Carol Overdeep made it clear and concise, so that even a confirmed math dyslexic like myself could do well. I'll be grateful to her for the rest of my life.
And someday I'll be grateful to my Ethics professor, too.
That's what's called an "Oh, God" moment.
Since I haven't written a successful argumentative thesis so far this semester, despite trying about eight times, no, I'm not sure. Despite the best efforts of the three professors who have been trying to teach me how to write this type of paper in three different ways and three assorted documentation styles, I've yet to write a series of coherent topic sentences, let alone a competent thesis or a convincing conclusion.
I really, really miss Strunk & White. Those guys were simple, sweet, and understanding, sort of like a supportive ex-boyfriend who doesn't crowd you too much.
On the bright side, I survived the Math final and so far, I have a 97 average in that class, which translates as an A for the transcript. This is the absolutely highest grade I've ever had in any mathematics class, going all the way back to Mrs. Bender's arithmetic in third grade. Professor Carol Overdeep made it clear and concise, so that even a confirmed math dyslexic like myself could do well. I'll be grateful to her for the rest of my life.
And someday I'll be grateful to my Ethics professor, too.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Algebra Final Today!
The dust bunnies are growing in size and number, and are discussing a coup. The wood stove has issues with its chimney and I haven't dusted anything in weeks. The filing cabinet is empty, but there are papers spread all over the dining room floor, and the dishes in the sink are . . . unpleasant to contemplate.
However, my bed is made, and the laundry is taking care of itself, thanks to the wonders of automation.
Therefore, like the good little logician that I am, I must conclude that we are less than three weeks from the end of the semester.
Next week, the housekeeping blight will have spread further.
Meanwhile, I feel as if vital parts of my brain have left for the coast. I can't find essential documents the Ethics professor handed us in class last week. And I keep thinking about mortality tables and the expected value of insurance policies. These are all symptoms of having to take the Algebra final at 1 this afternoon.
Prayer appears to be needed, since I can't figure out how to solve a whole group of problems. I swear I was in class and watched the professor solve a bunch of these, and even solved some in class myself, but that series of problems is now a complete mystery.
I am strangely calm, though. As one friend keeps telling me, all I have to do is pass.
However, my bed is made, and the laundry is taking care of itself, thanks to the wonders of automation.
Therefore, like the good little logician that I am, I must conclude that we are less than three weeks from the end of the semester.
Next week, the housekeeping blight will have spread further.
Meanwhile, I feel as if vital parts of my brain have left for the coast. I can't find essential documents the Ethics professor handed us in class last week. And I keep thinking about mortality tables and the expected value of insurance policies. These are all symptoms of having to take the Algebra final at 1 this afternoon.
Prayer appears to be needed, since I can't figure out how to solve a whole group of problems. I swear I was in class and watched the professor solve a bunch of these, and even solved some in class myself, but that series of problems is now a complete mystery.
I am strangely calm, though. As one friend keeps telling me, all I have to do is pass.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Midterm Terror
We are about halfway through the semester, and I have survived my first official midterm. The Algebra professor did some numerical magic, weighting the in-class work, the homework, the haikus and the midterm exam appropriately, and gave me the highest grade I've ever received in any course even vaguely related to mathematics.
I am gobsmacked.
Exhausted, but amazed. If I continue the way I'm going, with the homework, the reading and re-reading, I may actually get an A in Math and Modern Culture. We are moving next into probability, so by the end of the semester, I should be able to calculate the odds on my getting that grade.
My other classes don't have midterms as such, but there has been a certain amount of reckoning going on. My English grades currently range from good to dismal, but a couple of term papers may put those right.
As for Ethics, we're launching our group project and adjusting to the idea that our professor admires Paris Hilton. Think about it; after a few minutes, it starts to make sense.
Or, I could be really, really tired.
I am gobsmacked.
Exhausted, but amazed. If I continue the way I'm going, with the homework, the reading and re-reading, I may actually get an A in Math and Modern Culture. We are moving next into probability, so by the end of the semester, I should be able to calculate the odds on my getting that grade.
My other classes don't have midterms as such, but there has been a certain amount of reckoning going on. My English grades currently range from good to dismal, but a couple of term papers may put those right.
As for Ethics, we're launching our group project and adjusting to the idea that our professor admires Paris Hilton. Think about it; after a few minutes, it starts to make sense.
Or, I could be really, really tired.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Fox and the Car
On my way out to search for some breakfast this morning, I drove up on the neighborhood fox. He was crouched at the side of the road, staring through the neighbor's rail fence at something in the tall grass. Whatever it was, he appeared to have marked it down for his breakfast menu, until I interrupted him.
After a moment, the fox leaped across the ditch, and I figured he was going to run off. Instead, he turned around and walked toward my car on the other side of the fence line. Then he stared into my eyes.
Either he'd never seen a Subaru, or he was trying to figure out why I needed a huge, noisy machine to scare up a meal.
I was out tracking the elusive plain scone because my study desk is awash in Ethics. I need to write an annotated bibliography, to be followed by a research paper, for one of the English classes on a topic that fits under the general rubric of Ethics. I am also hearing warning rumblings from the Ethics professor that we will be writing a paper for his class. While one can fantasize that one paper will do for both classes, it seems that the papers will have to be written at different levels of interpretation. Right now, I'm clipping things out of newspapers and mulling over the "moral issues of alcoholism," as they say on NPR, trying to come up with an arguable thesis.
No wonder I want to go follow the fox around the neighborhood.
After a moment, the fox leaped across the ditch, and I figured he was going to run off. Instead, he turned around and walked toward my car on the other side of the fence line. Then he stared into my eyes.
Either he'd never seen a Subaru, or he was trying to figure out why I needed a huge, noisy machine to scare up a meal.
I was out tracking the elusive plain scone because my study desk is awash in Ethics. I need to write an annotated bibliography, to be followed by a research paper, for one of the English classes on a topic that fits under the general rubric of Ethics. I am also hearing warning rumblings from the Ethics professor that we will be writing a paper for his class. While one can fantasize that one paper will do for both classes, it seems that the papers will have to be written at different levels of interpretation. Right now, I'm clipping things out of newspapers and mulling over the "moral issues of alcoholism," as they say on NPR, trying to come up with an arguable thesis.
No wonder I want to go follow the fox around the neighborhood.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Side Effects May Include . . .
My retention rate for ethical syllogisms and their implications has not improved. I can tell a hawk from a handsaw, but Plato's finer distinctions are occult and Aristotle's criticisms of his mentor make my head spin, although at a slightly slower rate than last week.
All this hard mental work in Ethics and Algebra is having an unexpected effect. Throughout my entire journalism career, I was dreadful at remembering names and linking them with faces. During the '80s, I could make my self hyperventilate on demand by thinking about attending a city council meeting where all the nameplates had been left off the desks, or even worse, rearranged. Now, although I can't remember the formula for computing annual percentage rates or calculating the maximum amount for a home loan, I suddenly have the ability to remember the names of people I meet briefly.
Last weekend, I was in the men's department at a store in Bellevue. The clerk's name is Ray. His colleague in Accessories on the main floor is named Nicole.
So, why are these names occupying my mental furniture, that should be taken up by really old guys in togas? Maybe my brain is showing its appreciation for the unaccustomed exercise.
Or it could be that since I have bigger ideas to worry about, my brain now feels it can pay attention to things that don't make me as anxious as Algebra does.
Perhaps once I get past the math midterm exam, I'll go right back to forgetting names and misplacing the Facebook in my brain again. What do you think?
All this hard mental work in Ethics and Algebra is having an unexpected effect. Throughout my entire journalism career, I was dreadful at remembering names and linking them with faces. During the '80s, I could make my self hyperventilate on demand by thinking about attending a city council meeting where all the nameplates had been left off the desks, or even worse, rearranged. Now, although I can't remember the formula for computing annual percentage rates or calculating the maximum amount for a home loan, I suddenly have the ability to remember the names of people I meet briefly.
Last weekend, I was in the men's department at a store in Bellevue. The clerk's name is Ray. His colleague in Accessories on the main floor is named Nicole.
So, why are these names occupying my mental furniture, that should be taken up by really old guys in togas? Maybe my brain is showing its appreciation for the unaccustomed exercise.
Or it could be that since I have bigger ideas to worry about, my brain now feels it can pay attention to things that don't make me as anxious as Algebra does.
Perhaps once I get past the math midterm exam, I'll go right back to forgetting names and misplacing the Facebook in my brain again. What do you think?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
600 Words Away from Nirvana
This evening I stood in the backyard, watching the crows on their evening commute. They flew over the house in waves, groups of yelling, soaring, swooping black feathered figures. They were heading northwest to their night time roost, but getting as much out of the trip home as they could.
I was watching them with as empty a mond as anyone could ever have. The more information I try to cram into my little brain, the emptier it seems. While some popular gurus may think being able to empty the mind is a desirable goal, I can't agree. I want my mind to retain at least some of what I'm trying to learn.
For about four hours today, I was caught up on the reading for Ethics. I was almost dizzy with self-congratulation. Of course, during our writing exercise, it became clear that I had retained exactly none of the ideas. Nonetheless, for a little while my ego was soothed by the idea that I had finished the reading, and that I understood it while I was reading it.
After dinner, I need to finish writing a 600 word paper on Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. Then it needs to be edited, corrected and re-written. I've scheduled another 8 hours of gloating over my accomplishment for later this evening, unless I fall asleep instead.
I was watching them with as empty a mond as anyone could ever have. The more information I try to cram into my little brain, the emptier it seems. While some popular gurus may think being able to empty the mind is a desirable goal, I can't agree. I want my mind to retain at least some of what I'm trying to learn.
For about four hours today, I was caught up on the reading for Ethics. I was almost dizzy with self-congratulation. Of course, during our writing exercise, it became clear that I had retained exactly none of the ideas. Nonetheless, for a little while my ego was soothed by the idea that I had finished the reading, and that I understood it while I was reading it.
After dinner, I need to finish writing a 600 word paper on Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. Then it needs to be edited, corrected and re-written. I've scheduled another 8 hours of gloating over my accomplishment for later this evening, unless I fall asleep instead.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Absent Minded Processor
When I first started working as a monastic assistant at St. Martin's, I thought I might have finally found something that I physically could not do because of my aging body. The preparation of each meal wasn't a problem: cleanup, however, with the toting back and forth of dishes, ice and a zillion other things needed for a decent meal, was a physical challenge. It turned out that I just was out of condition, so I was planning to keep the job.
As I continued the student side of my life, though, the mental part of my life was losing its capacity to absorb information. I could understand the plays, like Antigone, Dr. Faustus, and St. Joan. I could write the summaries and understand the intricacies of the proprietary Web sites used by the professors to assign and submit ENG 102 homework. I could even keep up with the MATH 110 homework, although the break point in algebra frequently doesn't show up until about the fifth week of classes, judging from my previous experience. However, comprehending anything said by Alasdair MacIntyre in "After Virtue: A Study of Moral Theory" was totally beyond me.
I know that some professors have low opinions of the intellectual capacity of some of their students, so I buckled down and spent every spare moment reading the assigned materials for PHIL 301. I thought about ethics on my commute. I looked up vocabulary words in the Stanford Dictionary of Philosophy and tried to think up sentences in which I could use "interminability of moral discourse" and "elenchus." I even called a friend who has a degree in philosophy, who found my struggles amusing.
It took another friend, as well as a counselor in the SMU Learning Center, to point out that I'm trying to learn another language. Philosophy uses a lot more Greek than medical research, hospital marketing or local and international news, the areas that I've been writing about most of my life. Philosophers also use some English constructions that can cause migraines in unsuspecting passersby. The counselor nailed the actual cause of my difficulties: despite my best efforts at exercise, nutrition and all the rest, my brain, and thus my learning style are aging. It is just going to take more time for me to learn this stuff. Plus a tutor who has already taken the class and, I pray, passed.
So, we added up my class hours, added twice that number to account for the homework I should be doing for each class, and then doubled the homework hours that should be devoted to ethics. Once we added on the hours I was working in food service, I was running out of time to actually drive to school.
So, I'm not quitting the job feeding the monks because of the physical challenge, but because my brain needs more time to spend with Plato, MacIntyre and the other guys. They're not as much fun as the monks, at least at this stage, but there's hope that someday they might be. After all, my friend the philosopher seems to find introductory ethics hilarious.
As I continued the student side of my life, though, the mental part of my life was losing its capacity to absorb information. I could understand the plays, like Antigone, Dr. Faustus, and St. Joan. I could write the summaries and understand the intricacies of the proprietary Web sites used by the professors to assign and submit ENG 102 homework. I could even keep up with the MATH 110 homework, although the break point in algebra frequently doesn't show up until about the fifth week of classes, judging from my previous experience. However, comprehending anything said by Alasdair MacIntyre in "After Virtue: A Study of Moral Theory" was totally beyond me.
I know that some professors have low opinions of the intellectual capacity of some of their students, so I buckled down and spent every spare moment reading the assigned materials for PHIL 301. I thought about ethics on my commute. I looked up vocabulary words in the Stanford Dictionary of Philosophy and tried to think up sentences in which I could use "interminability of moral discourse" and "elenchus." I even called a friend who has a degree in philosophy, who found my struggles amusing.
It took another friend, as well as a counselor in the SMU Learning Center, to point out that I'm trying to learn another language. Philosophy uses a lot more Greek than medical research, hospital marketing or local and international news, the areas that I've been writing about most of my life. Philosophers also use some English constructions that can cause migraines in unsuspecting passersby. The counselor nailed the actual cause of my difficulties: despite my best efforts at exercise, nutrition and all the rest, my brain, and thus my learning style are aging. It is just going to take more time for me to learn this stuff. Plus a tutor who has already taken the class and, I pray, passed.
So, we added up my class hours, added twice that number to account for the homework I should be doing for each class, and then doubled the homework hours that should be devoted to ethics. Once we added on the hours I was working in food service, I was running out of time to actually drive to school.
So, I'm not quitting the job feeding the monks because of the physical challenge, but because my brain needs more time to spend with Plato, MacIntyre and the other guys. They're not as much fun as the monks, at least at this stage, but there's hope that someday they might be. After all, my friend the philosopher seems to find introductory ethics hilarious.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The First Week
Bits of my old life keep falling away. Last night, as I was lugging all the books, notebooks, and assorted stuff into the house, my Northwest Hospital commuter cup fell on the ceramic tiled kitchen floor and broke. Not a big deal, but another link to the person I used to be.
The person I've become in this first week of school is struggling. I misread my class schedule, so I missed the first sessions of both Math and Ethics. Amazingly, I'm not behind in Math: I read the chapter and wrote the haiku. Ethics, though, is another matter. Father Pratt used words I hadn't heard in years, and there are a lot of things to catch up on. So far, I've written two tiny little essays in the composition book, unfortunately in a cramped version of my usual scrawl, and read the first chapter in a really good book titled Why Can't We Be Good?; next I need to read the Crito and create a rough draft of a research paper by Tuesday. So what will topic of the paper be, you ask? To allow the part of my soul with an inclination toward evil to speak, damned if I know.
Seriously, I recommend reading Jacob Needleman's book. Why Can't We Be Good? addresses the only philosophical question I've ever cared about; having worked with some monumentally unkind people and observed how they treat each other, the questions addressed in the book speak to daily experience. So many questions, like, does every driver in Olympia believe they must tailgate at all times, boil down to the title of Needleman's book.
The English classes are moving along. This holiday weekend, I get to read Faustus twice, read four essays, write two summaries, read four chapters and complete a take-home test -- all due Wednesday. The 18-year-old me would be thinking this could all wait until Tuesday evening, but the incredibly ancient me needs to get this stuff done, if at all possible, today -- tomorrow morning at the latest. After a week of trying to improve my time management skills, I am ready for a day or so when life just happens. I think it might be called Labor Day.
The part-time job has turned up a surprising bonus: I've lost two pounds in the last week. Either watching people eat depresses the appetite, or I really was a slug before I started school. The slug hypothesis, to create a really bad pun, carries the most weight.
The person I've become in this first week of school is struggling. I misread my class schedule, so I missed the first sessions of both Math and Ethics. Amazingly, I'm not behind in Math: I read the chapter and wrote the haiku. Ethics, though, is another matter. Father Pratt used words I hadn't heard in years, and there are a lot of things to catch up on. So far, I've written two tiny little essays in the composition book, unfortunately in a cramped version of my usual scrawl, and read the first chapter in a really good book titled Why Can't We Be Good?; next I need to read the Crito and create a rough draft of a research paper by Tuesday. So what will topic of the paper be, you ask? To allow the part of my soul with an inclination toward evil to speak, damned if I know.
Seriously, I recommend reading Jacob Needleman's book. Why Can't We Be Good? addresses the only philosophical question I've ever cared about; having worked with some monumentally unkind people and observed how they treat each other, the questions addressed in the book speak to daily experience. So many questions, like, does every driver in Olympia believe they must tailgate at all times, boil down to the title of Needleman's book.
The English classes are moving along. This holiday weekend, I get to read Faustus twice, read four essays, write two summaries, read four chapters and complete a take-home test -- all due Wednesday. The 18-year-old me would be thinking this could all wait until Tuesday evening, but the incredibly ancient me needs to get this stuff done, if at all possible, today -- tomorrow morning at the latest. After a week of trying to improve my time management skills, I am ready for a day or so when life just happens. I think it might be called Labor Day.
The part-time job has turned up a surprising bonus: I've lost two pounds in the last week. Either watching people eat depresses the appetite, or I really was a slug before I started school. The slug hypothesis, to create a really bad pun, carries the most weight.
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