Learning Something

“You learnin’ somethin’?” my grandma asks me, and I shift my gaze from the crowd to her. She’d been watching me study a couple of the guests socializing while they swatted at mosquitoes that had drifted in through the windows.

I smile at her and reply, “Always, Gramma, always,” but divert further questions and say, “Looks like they’re cutting the cake now.”

I haven’t talked to her at all tonight until now, as we sit two seats away at my cousin Holly’s wedding reception, because I can’t come up with anything to say or ask that wouldn’t require her to access short-term memory, which her mind seems to incinerate every few seconds. Ninety-six, and she fell on her face last week, though she doesn’t remember when or how. My mom tells me that every time Grandma passes a mirror she gasps in shock at the sight of her own purpled, swollen face. As she eats, she grimaces with each bite, confused at why her jaw hurts so much, but true to her character and love of food, she continues to chew through the pain.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had balked for a moment when I recognized the parents of my first girlfriend walking towards me. Mr. Evans took my hand in a warm shake and offered a genuine grin and glassy eyes, while Mrs. Evans took my hand in a brief pinch and regarded me with a tight, close-mouthed smile. Her appraising look, caked in base, seemed bent on comparing me against something, perhaps the man her daughter has now been married to for about eleven years.

As for me, I’m thirty years old and single in a culture that expects something else.

I admit that part of me hopes she’ll tell Tiffaney at the next Sunday dinner, in front of her husband, how handsome and accomplished I’ve become and brag about how I’m pursuing my masters degree and teaching English at a university.

After they both posed the cliché “How’s life?” questions, I asked how their family is doing. Following my lead, they didn’t mention Tiffaney either, praising the recent job promotion of their youngest son instead.

A few weeks ago, while reading the scene in Angle of Repose where the “gorgon” Lyman Ward bares his anguish and hurt to his ex-wife, who had cheated on him and left him for the very surgeon that had amputated his leg a couple years before, I’d bawled. If my roommates and their guests hadn’t been out in the hall, I would’ve howled too. For whatever reason, this scene had reminded me of the late afternoon when Tiffaney and I ended things.

She was sitting three steps up from me around a bend in the stairway, my left leg bouncing at Mach 1, eyes fixed on the wall. She explained that it wasn’t good for us to keep dating and that she felt like it was “the Lord’s will.” Her soft tones came off confident, like she was acting in both of our best interests, and as she spoke she watched me with softness and concern in her eyes. But these promised the imminent withdrawal of the same.

After she finished, a few minutes passed with no sound but my pulse thumping in my ears while she watched my jaws flex and nostrils flare. Then she reached out to touch my shoulder.
But I recoiled and yelled: “Don’t touch me unless you mean it!”

Now I wonder if I’ve forgiven her for what, at whatever adolescent level, qualified as “leaving me”. I’d been shocked when she’d tried to add me as a Facebook friend a few months ago. She probably has five kids by now, for heaven’s sake, I thought.

I’m not sure how long I stared at her photo, the cursor poised over the “reject” button and my index finger hovering over the mouse. But, soon enough, I pressed down, the picture went away, and it felt like a bag of warm ink had just been punctured within my chest, and the heat of it all seemed to leak out my of my ears and nose.

I rallied by telling myself that I no longer jolt at the sight of a 1992 white Toyota Corolla, the make and model of Tiffaney’s car. But now I wonder if it’s just because most of these Toyota’s are buried in scrap yards now, scabs of once white paint now boiled and flaking, cankered in rust, peaking out through the carnage of twisted metal and crushed windshields.

As I watch my Grandma eat and wince her way through an assortment of fruit on the plastic plate in front of her, her question repeats in my mind. Are you learnin’ somethin’?

That's Why

Found another metaphor in relation to fly fishing today--I'll connect it up at the end, if I can.

I've often said that the point of going fly fishing is not to catch fish. The point, of course, is the experience: hearing my father hoot from up stream, soaking in the mountain air into my fleece to take home and smell later, watching the sun glint off a thousand translucent may fly wings as they dance above the water, the limestone blue of mountain stream water, a kestrel staring at you from a leaf-spent aspen limb, the lack of electric buzz from power lines and belching diesels, the streams cool caress over my street-stiffened legs, the autumn-leaf cocktails fermenting in the eddies.That's why I fish.

When the trout stares at me, he seems to regard my intent, wondering if I'm his doom or some sort of goofed-up nut that the Big Man sent to teach him a lesson. But I just try to calm him down, tell him he's beautiful if he stays calm and a twerp if he struggles. I think it's ok when, after a good thrash in the net, hooks leave the fishes mouth to draw blood from my finger instead. It injects me with empathy and reverence for them. And I get more of a thrill out of feeling the trout pulse out of my grip as he swims away than I ever get from his tug on my line. I like to smell my hands after I've touched them: wet stones and mud mixed with crushed moss.

Now the metaphor. I don't worry about securing myself a wife or even a date when I'm out about with the populace of options. It's the experience of talking with women, getting to know them, understand their perspectives, humor, pains, melancholies--even tolerating their searching and/or disappointed gazes--that supplies my days with flavor. The feeling of having a beautiful woman fall asleep on my shoulder or chest, the warmth and safety conveyed in her taking my hand, the shine in her eyes when I've helped her feel happy, the warmth of a blanket she gave to me. All joyful memories.

If I worried about how many metaphorical fish I'd caught and been able to land, in social contexts, I'd have snapped and thrown my rod to the wind a long time ago. So I haven't landed the lunker yet (though I imagine women wouldn't appreciate any sort of comparison involving that word). But it'll happen. I'll keep fishing. I'll be patient. Of course, I'd love to catch her soon, but that doesn't take away from the pleasing memories I've soaked in while wading in the "river" that is my life. Even the times of torment have sowed into sprouts of wisdom. I don't mind the process. I embrace it. And on one day in the future I won't release my catch. I'll never expect it, just hope for it. And that will make the experience all the sweeter.

Hotmail is Fired (pun intended)

I've had a hotmail account for almost a decade. Despite the long term of use, I have hardly been a loyal user. In fact, I have threatened to leave hotmail several times in the past for several reasons, but here are the top two: [1] long periods of interrupted access to my account (I think I actually threatened physical harm for that one); and (the most heinous and repeat offense) [2] disgusting and obtrusive advertisements.

I checked my email after waking up this morning only to be horrified by Flash ads showing a finger poking flabby thighs, close-up images of spider veins and cottage cheese calves, and bouncing quadruple chins. Every click to inbox, to junkmail, to email brought repeated sagging flesh images that made me want to ralph. I couldn't eat breakfast for an hour after that.

Whoever hotmail's advertising manager is, he/she...(I'm leaning towards "he") clearly has no sense for decency and the audience's palate and should be fired for releasing toxic ads into the atmosphere. They can't possibly think that these ads motivate anyone to purchase or buy into whatever their selling. It's like farting in someone's face in an effort to convince them that they should buy Fabreeze.

Ah, how hotmail has fallen! From cool and convenient social hub to flatulent snake-oil salesman. At any rate, I've decided to do what I should have done a long time ago: tell hotmail to go to hell and get me a singles-ad and botox-free gmail account. And I invite you to join in my late-blooming rebellion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find my Thigh-Master 2000.

Blood Feud

I stare at the smashed remains of a mosquito on the wall next to my bed. I killed it at approximately 2 am last September, and it is now the middle of May. I’ve noticed it on the wall almost every night since I dispatched it. There are three more of his smooshed companions on other walls elsewhere in the room, and I’ve been keeping track of them too. I am moderately disgusted by their rusty smears on my off-white walls, but apparently not enough to prompt me to evict their carcasses from my room, my sleepy, think-tank haven.

I wonder if I like seeing them dead, remembering that I killed them, that I had my revenge upon their curse-of-man species. Maybe my haven requires reminders of my own power to kill, to avenge wrongs and deliver justice to the overt enemies of my body. (My body!) Of all of God’s creations, “bugs” offend me the most—not that I have a logical excuse.

Despite being a fly fisherman, one who aspires to emulate these critters, whenever I’m out on the river and the classic caddis hatch reaches its pinnacle (and trout feeding activity as well), I’m too busy swatting the back of my neck, fanning my hand in front of my face, and jetting air from my lower lip up towards the caddis crawling on my sunglasses to make a descent cast or, heaven forbid, catch a fish. (Have you ever had a 4-inch stonefly crawl up your sleeve? I have… and, yes, it produces girly squeals.)

Once the infamous West Nile Virus made its way to eastern Idaho, my official fishing Valhalla, I had an excuse to be paranoid about the “skeeters,” as the locals call them, and to redouble my efforts to kill any and all skeeters that I felt, heard, or imagined. After one post-dusk evening on the Henry’s Fork, and despite the 90% deet, I counted 44 bites on my hands face and neck. Too add to the misery, the deet started to give me a rash (perhaps what scares skeeters away might also intimidate living skin cells?). I was dating a nurse at the time, and she was overseeing the slow death of a West Nile victim in the ICU—tough farmer in his 50s, wife and kids. A couple days later, my tonsils started to swell up like they were fighting something threatening, but instead of rushing to the hospital, I prayed to God and reaffirmed our “understanding”, which certainly didn’t involve getting off easy with an early death. After that, I wasn’t worried.

Back to the hatred of skeeters, sometimes I started to swear at the trout for not eating more of the little bastards. Then I wondered if maybe it’s the smell of human blood in their bellies that keeps the trout away, and that even the larvae were spawn by our globules and DNA. Maybe my hate is in the blood too, and the trout don’t want to be sucked into the feud.

Sometimes I wonder where all of the mosquitoes’ predators have, apparently, gone. Apparently, they kill birds with West Nile: one down, several to go. Bats? Well, they sure weren’t around in the mid-afternoon near Bear Gulch when, despite the 90 degrees and standing in the middle of the river, I was so barraged by the bloodlusting foe that I abandoned a Salmon Fly hatch and gorging Cuts.

Is it because I don’t belong where they are? Is it because they don’t belong where I am? Apparently, mosquitoes are part of some grand and essential ecosystem. And apparently the tiny black gnat hovering in front of my face feels the need float in front of my right eye and make me feel self-conscious about whether or not I’m developing early-onset cataracts as well. There, that’s it: Maybe the bugs are supposed to make us self-conscious, or “them”-conscious, reminding us that we need to share our blood and salty tears with our hungry eco-chain gang. Maybe they just want to be noticed, thanked for their efforts, and grow a little frustrated when we ignore their billions of 24-hour life spans, and numb their stress, just like humans do, by overeating and copulating.

Well, I’ve just performed my first stage of gratitude-motivated penance by cleaning their guts off of my walls and will cease to flaunt their desiccated bodies as trophies of my manliness. Somehow I don’t feel like I’m ever going to stop mashing them when I see them, but it’s a give and take relationship, right?

Apologies, Pickles, and Idealistic Notions

Echoing a comment made by my friend Chris, I “[apologize] on behalf of all the crazies who think Obama is the antichrist.” Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few “Dems” out there might have nursed some similarly outrageous perspectives of McCain as well. In all likelihood, both men (neither demigods, nor devils) believe that they can do right by this country and make it a safer and better place.

I remember eight years ago and how I was under the impression that if Al Gore became president, the country would be headed to Hell in a handbasket (I’m almost positive I used that exact cliché’ several times). I had my doubts about the Texan candidate back then too, but I had been convinced by the predominant cultural voice that Gore was an agent of the dark side. Eight years later, and despite “A Shameless Ego Trip,” …uh, I mean “An Inconvenient Truth,” I still think Gore was the wrong choice, though Bush was, of course, the wrong choice too.

I love the earth and my combustion engine, immigrants and national security, tofu and beef. I sicken at the thought of abortion, gay marriage, and turning a blind eye to genocidal tyrants but also become incensed at the idea of any governing body that seeks to take away my inalienable right to choose and asserts its capitalist values on vulnerable foreign countries. I‘m proud to be an American and feel like we are the luckiest citizens on Earth, but I’m also ashamed of our government leaders, fear-mongering media, profiteering CEOs, and blatant disregard of how dramatically our quality of life is dependent upon the abject poverty of third-world nations. U.S. citizens are in a deliciously dressed ethical pickle.

Neither candidates eight and four years ago, nor the candidates of today match my ideals. In my opinion, none of them are qualified to be a world leader. For that matter, no man or woman is, and there doesn’t seem to be much that we can do about this conundrum.

Though, despite the maniacal and en-trenched status quo, I still see hope and a solution for our political-economical-global problem. And no, it’s not who we choose to be our president.
In the highly acclaimed book Man’s Search for Meaning, Dr. Viktor E. Frankl summarizes his experiences in the Auschwitz death camp through the eyes of a psychologist. Though I hardly feel our nation’s situation compares to the direness of his, he shares a valuable lesson that I think applies to any of us who harbor unhealthy levels of fear for our country’s future:
“We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” (p. 75)

In a nation composed of individuals, as long as there are those among us who, whether metaphorically or literally, give away their last piece of bread to buoy up their fellow countrymen, the United States will remain the place I want to live. I believe the “bread givers” are the unassuming leaders of this land, and you and I can choose to join their ranks.
I also wonder if the solution to most, if not all, of the perceived problems in this country lie more in each of our attitudes and courage to serve within our stewardship, and less in the lap of our president.

Whatever our feelings are about the newly elected officials, the least we can do is try to give them the benefit of the doubt, hope they don’t disgrace our nations values, and resist emotion-driven urges to put the fate of our nation in anyone else’s hands other than our own.

Revision: Mary Jane's Muse

I step down through the entrance of the wide living room filled with twenty to thirty-year-old singles mingling on couches and standing around the grand piano in the corner. With everyone dressed like they’re going to the symphony, nibbling on cheesecake, and sipping Martinelli’s sparkling cider, it’s a Mormon version of a cocktail party. Being male and single myself, I scan the room for prospects.

Since moving to Idaho Falls, I had learned quickly that eligible and, what I consider, desirable women were scarce here, and if I happened to stumble upon such a rarity, it would behoove me to act quickly.

The desired and subconscious criteria programmed into my synapses find a match, which causes my saccades to halt and focus.

“Whoa…who is that?” I quietly ask my friend Sheila.

“Hm? Oh, right. I thought you might think she was cute,” she replies after I nod my head towards my interest. “Her name is Janae. Want me to introduce you?”

Taking a sip of my drink and turning to face the other direction, I say, “Na. It’ll seem to forced and obvious. I’ll find a chance to talk to her, though.”

She smirks and chuckles. “Right…”

Janae appeared to be, at least physically and socially, the caliber of woman I had never had the confidence to pursue. Despite suffering the lingering effects of a psychological complex forged in middle school and reinforced in high school and five years of college (gorgeous girls are to be looked at, desired, lusted after, dreamed about, but never touched), in my mind I counter, “It’s about damn time you get over it, Sam.”

Taking care to keep her within my peripheral view, I notice her buzz and bounce with the grace of a practiced socialite. Hearing her laughter over the din, I already begin fantasizing about how it would feel to be the trigger of that laugh.

In time, I play nonchalant and make my way over to her circle of conversation. In reference to the talent show some of us had participated in earlier, I ask her, “So how come you didn’t play something for us?”

He light-blue eyes focus on me for the first time, and she laughs and shakes her head. “Mmm...no. I really don’t know how to play the piano that well.”

As the group continues to discuss experiences with taking piano lessons, I notice how she listens and responds to each person, seeming to make them feel like every word they say is engaging and merits her undivided attention.

Several minutes later, just the two of us are talking.
***
Janae’s face is inches from mine as we lie on the floor together sharing a fleece blanket. My lips brush her cream-hued cheek as I lean in to her neck and breathe in through her long wine-red hair. The drum in my chest thumps out beats in a slow, bass tone as she compresses her body against mine.

The last few weeks her behavior had been maddening, verbally denying commitment and interest while lying on my couch in a posture that Odysseus’ Calypso would admire.
Tonight, though, her affection feels genuine—like she wants to be with me.
***
She won’t keep eye contact with me for more than a few seconds. I would rather her look into my eyes and give me a warm smile than anything else, but she’s tired, and it’s time for her to go to bed.

I help her to her feet, pulling her off of the couch and in for an enveloping hug. She keeps her forehead on my shoulder instead of angling her mouth towards mine.

“I’ve got bad breath…” she says.

“Right,” I respond with mild impatience.

It’s becoming a pattern, but not worth discussing now. Anyway, it brings me more pain than pleasure when I kiss her some of the time, because she holds back, like she’s having to pay taxes. She pats my back instead of pulling herself into me.

I let her go and open the door for myself as she gives me a quick, courtesy smile and customary “G’night.”
***
I’m staring out the window in my cubicle, leaning back in my chair with my arms folded. I told her on the second date that if she didn’t want me to ask her out again, all she needed to do was say it, and I would graciously tap out. She still hasn’t told me to do so.

After dating for over three months, I still have no idea how Janae feels about me, and it’s hard for me to feel secure in her presence. I wonder if she thinks I’m not manly, handsome, funny, or spontaneous enough, or if she thinks I’m pathetic and needy.

I chide myself for my hyped insecurity. “My happiness doesn’t depend on her. If she doesn’t want me, it’s her loss,” I try to convince myself.

I continue to brood, chewing my tongue, “I should be adored as much as I adore her.”
Though I compliment her profusely, she occasionally says my shirt looks good with my pants. I say I miss her, and she coos, “Mmmm.” I say something silly or funny, and instead of laughing she offers a curt, “Hm,” which, in my mind, translates to, “Nice try, dork”—another criterion I haven’t met.

“Maybe I’m just being selfish, expecting too much. Maybe I’m being irrational… maybe I’m the problem,” I try to be objective, but end up sarcastic.

My knee starts bouncing up and down at a violent pace, and my jaw clenches.

John.

John, the ever-hovering menace. The kind, supportive, and six-figure ex-boyfriend that offered her diamond earrings the night before our first date. Just a friend, he calls her almost every time I’m with her. He does things for her, looks out for her, always there…making her remember him.
John is patient, the worst kind of competition, and the faithful backup. He knows her, knows how to prick her compassion for him. He imperceptibly casts the flaxen cords over her neck. “I’m just being your friend,” he says all the while. She notices the cords, but they’re smooth and comforting, asking for harmless concessions here and there. She says to herself, “I can break them off anytime I want. Anytime….”

She doesn’t break them. Not for her sake. Not for his. Not for me.
***
I’m sitting in the tub with my arms draped around my legs while taking a hot shower. I stare at the water circling around and disappearing into the drain as drops form and fall from my eyelashes. She has been in Hawaii on a trip for over a week now and hasn’t called since she left. I know she’s probably busy…but still.

“I would’ve called her,” I blurt out as I raise my head up to peer into my distorted reflection in the metal faucet.

I start to wonder if she’s using this opportunity to cut things off. After all, she’s probably going to take the job in Utah.

“Why do I try?” I chuckle and force a tight grin.

In my mind, I compare her to the gorgeous Mary Jane Watson and myself to the struggling Peter Parker, except without the bravery, “spidey” powers, and happy ending. I think about how Peter always feels like he’s letting Mary Jane down, even though all he wants to do is keep her safe. He’s not like the ever-stoic Superman or the rich, mysterious Batman. Peter lacks confidence, tries to make enough money to buy M.J. a single flower, and doesn’t say all the right things. Like every superhero, though, he struggles to live up to impossible expectations.

The comparison between Peter and me doesn’t work out though. No. In this story, my role is more like that of Flash, the high school boyfriend who plays her meathead muse, distracting Mary Jane from her loneliness while she waits for the man she really wants.
***
About one year later, I’m walking past the pillars and kiosks of the Idaho Falls Shopping Mall, smiling as I listen to how the smacking of my flip-flops echoes through the un-crowed hall. I’m sporting aviator glasses and my first beard while searching novelty shops for Chinese baoding balls.

While cursing the establishment’s failure to meet my needs, I start back towards the exit closest to my car, but my pace slows as I see Janae walking down the hall towards me.

After cutting contact with her a year earlier, I had spiraled. Our failed relationship became the critical-mass-enabling catalyst that all my other demons of despair had been waiting for. Following months of shivering through the darker symptoms of depression, I managed to weave a blanket of numbness composed of media bombardment, detachment from social networks, and a balance of salt and sugar. Even more months later, I had gone to see a councilor who helped me find and sew shut the maw that had been howling self-shaming propaganda to every corner of my walls of perception.

Janae doesn’t seem to recognize me as she comes closer. I stop walking and, after a split-second coup against my flight impulse, I say under my breath, “Ah, what the hell.”

“Hi, Janae.”

She stops in mid-stride and turns towards me. As I take off my sunglasses, within seconds her face, first, creases into confusion, then her eyes widen in shock, and then her face settles into a restrained frown.

“Sam…uh…how are you? I thought you’d moved back to Utah already.”

I hide my own surprise at seeing how uncomfortable she looks and how she can’t seem to muster even a fake smile. As we continue to force our way through superficial pleasantries, I feel both sorry for her and no desire to be with her. Soon after, I wrap up our pained chat in a last effort to show her goodwill and mercy.

As I drive away from the mall, I reflect back on Mary Jane again, and how she is just as much, or more, a victim of the situation as Flash and any of M.J.’s other stand-ins. She doesn’t consciously seek to hurt any of them.

Janae and I were just lonely souls looking for super-humans with god-like characteristics to meet our needs. But no human we find will suffice. Given this anthropomorphic equation, the story will always end up as a tragedy.

Writing Center Newsletter Column: Building on Rocks

Building on Rocks

“No one hears anything except what he knows, no one perceives anything except what he has experienced.” (Dr. Karl Lange)

It is sometimes difficult for us to put abstract, unfamiliar, or complex ideas into words, and as tutors, we’re faced with the problem of explaining abstract English and writing principles to students in many, if not all, of our tutoring sessions. We occasionally succeed in helping a student to grasp the importance of a thesis statement or maintaining ethos, but how did we pull it off? I would suspect that often, without realizing it, we succeeded through employing the principle of apperception.

So what is apperception anyway, which is, in and of itself, quite the abstract principle? Let’s start with an example. Whenever I have the opportunity to meet with a student who has come to the Utah State University Writing Center for the first time, I explain my role as a tutor (guide, not editor) with the help of a parable: “Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime.” The student immediately conjures up an image of a fishing pole in his small, 8-year-old hand and his dad modeling how to cast the stinky-cheese-laden hook and bobber out into the pond. The student then connects you with that facilitator role and the idea that their imminent participation in the session is a critical part of the tutoring process.

This parable-style teaching technique is based upon the principle of apperception, which is defined as the process of understanding something perceived in terms of previous experience (Packer 1). For example, your niece might not be able to comprehend what “round” means until you connect the meaning of the word with the chocolate-chip cookies she just ate or her favorite bouncy ball lying in the corner.

This idea, that learning happens when we connect new knowledge to previous knowledge, would seem more like commonsense than some hip, new, innovative pedagogy. Stating the obvious, humans have used stories, parables, examples, analogies, and metaphors to teach and learn since the dawn of time. The majority, if not all, of the most influential teachers in history, from what I can tell, kept apperception close to the core of their pedagogies (e.g., Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus…). And if there were a teaching principle that packed the most built-in ethos into its corner, apperception would seem to be it.

However, at this point you may be thinking, “So, why do I need to learn about an instruction principle I already use all the time anyway?”

My argument isn’t that we as tutors aren’t using apperception already; it is that by becoming aware of apperception’s prominence and necessity in the human learning process, we can more consciously pull this tool out of our belt more often and incorporate it in our personal tutoring pedagogies.

If you’re like me, it might be easier to count the times you’re not at a loss for words in a tutoring session. Case in point, I admit it: I sometimes avoid talking about certain writing concepts (particularly the infamous thesis) with students because I’m not sure how I’m going to explain it to them, and my insecurity drives me to talk about their margins or a misplaced comma instead.
Apperception can help us hurdle these stumps because this learning principle is based on teaching the abstract through the use of tangible examples—following this simplified model: [abstract idea] is like [tangible object] (Packer 2). As a model, the thesis is like the match that starts the pile of wood on fire that keeps you warm all night; without a flame, the pile of wood is worthless.

Want to facilitate a student’s understanding of an ethereal term such as “ethics” when that student has never considered the term before and does not understand in which context it is used? Start with a story such as this: “So, if someone accidentally backed into your parked car, messed up your bumper, and then just drove off without leaving a note, would that be fair? What if you were the one who damaged someone else’s bumper?”

It is important to note that, when possible, it will be more effective to use tangible samples taken from the student’s own experience and perception rather than yours (Lange 104). For example, say I tell a international student from Qatar how a fly fisherman will sometimes pick up rocks in the stream to see what kind of bugs the trout might be eating and turn the story into a metaphor for how important research is to audience analysis; his eyes might glaze over the moment he pictured me flapping my arms and floating in mid air over a river.

As a counter strategy, say you want to impress the importance of using transitions to a student who likes to rebuild engines: “Transitions are like shifting gears in a car. If you don’t ease out the clutch and push in the gas pedal too quickly, the car lurches and jerks. Using headings, though, is more like an automatic transmission….”

In retrospect, I have to admit that there are some potentially harmful side affects to my apperception prescription. Though I might have made it seem easy, pulling fluffy metaphors out of your hat in front of a live audience is hard. (It took me more than five minutes to come up with the “thesis is like a match” example.) In the middle of a tutoring session, where the expectations are high as the clock ticks by, I’ve often attempted verbal origami and ended up with spit wads.

However, though practice never made me perfect at anything, it has helped me develop my apperception skills, and my current goal is to build up an arsenal of examples beyond my current selection, which consists of a lead pipe, peashooter, and a treacherous boomerang. Whether or not we frequently use apperception already, we can likely rationalize using it more often. Doing so will help us to wisely build our explanations on tangible rock instead of foolishly building on abstract sand.


Work Cited

Lange, Karl. Apperception: A Monograph on Psychology and Pedagogy. Ed. Charles De Garmo, Boston: D.C. Heath & Company, 1894.

Packer, Boyd K. “Using the Apperception Principle in Teaching.” Liahona 31 Aug 1977 1-4. 18 Sep 2008 .