The Comic Book That Made All the Difference

Duane Pesice is a writer, musician, and self-taught expert on Cephalopods. He blogs regularly at PlanetModeran.net.

I got to thinking about the subject of "the book that has most influenced me" and kind of surprised myself. Had to go back a really long way, back to 1966, to find the one book that set me on the path to tomorrow. It wasn't even a book. It was a comic book.

More specifially, it was an issue of Marvel's The Avengers-#33, to be precise. It had most of the recognizable Avengers crew (Thor, Cap, Iron Man), a lot of movement and color, and it had some vaguely scientific stuff that filled my five-year-old brain with wonder (The Serpent Squad, I seem to recall, were the villain). I remember just being "opened up" by that comic in a way that has only happened a couple of times since. I read it in the little drugstore at the corner of 55th and Kildare, southside Chicago. I had allowance left and blew that on the same month's issue of the Fantastic Four (don't remember which).

That led to a seventy-issue run of the Avengers for me (I missed #104 because I was sick for a couple of days. It took me twenty years to find out what happened to Hawkeye.), and a 200-issue run of the FF. The writing, the art, everything just clicked. The stories led me to real stories. I was naturally attracted to Bradbury and was able to collect that first round of Tolkien Ballantine paperbacks. I, Robot was in my bookcase by the time I was eight, the same year I discovered Lovecraft through reading Dr. Strange (who I found out about by reading the current issues list in the middle of each mag, under the fan mail).

My first piece of writing, in 1967, was a comic book. I remember distinctly reacting badly to Gene Colan's art and the villain Stilt-Man in an issue of Daredevil and deciding that I could do better. I had only drawn boats and things before, very childish renderings. I remember drawing the people from TV Guide over and over to get the relative sizes of facial features right, and the development of my villain (an antihero named Chevron after the gas station two blocks away). My first short story starred Cthulhu and Randolph Carter.

Stan Lee name-dropping Harlan Ellison in the letters column provided the last kick into today. I recognized the name and spent my allowance for two weeks on the two-volume paperback copy of Dangerous Visions. On the way home from buying that set, I found a copy of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction lying on the sidewalk. It had Cordwainer Smith in it.

By the time I was twelve, I had somewhere around 200 books, having discovered used-book shops, piles and piles of comics (nearly all Marvel with some Gardner Fox stuff), and had written my first novel (fanfic starring Black Bolt and the Inhumans).

It's possible that I haven't grown up much since then, or maybe the circle remains unbroken. Comics and HPL and SF are still my comforts both for reading and writing, and I've just begun work on a webcomic/graphic novel containing all of the above and Hunter Thompson and Elvis to boot. And Groff Conklin and James Baen and Bernie Wrightson and especially Jack "King" Kirby, and Roy Thomas and Stan "The Man" Lee-I can't thank you enough.

Casual Discoveries and Real Learning

To break the monotony, I pull completed fuel managers from the seam setter and put them in various locations on the conveyor belt. Previously, I’ve placed largely at random—now I set them in specific locations. All along the far edge of the conveyor, for instance. Along the near edge. Along the middle. And wherever I place them, when they reach the overflow guard at the end, they cluster in the same pattern.

As the conveyor tries to push the cylindrical fuel managers off the end, and the overflow guard prevents that, the units form six-point radial symmetry. Kids who have arranged pennies on a flat tabletop will recognize this pattern: six circles completely surround a seventh of equal size. The central circle has six radial contact points in a symmetrical array. This pattern can expand forever without interruption, as long as the circles remain equal.

The fuel managers assume this pattern, no matter where I set them on the conveyor. Once they leave my hands, they face three basic forces: the horizontal impetus that wants to push them off the far end, the overflow guard that will not permit that, and gravity, which ensures they don’t just fly off willy-nilly. These three forces always produce the same results. My attempts to manipulate conditions don’t matter.

I feel the swelling potential of insight challenging factory work’s tedium. If they always assume the same pattern, that must mean something. The laws of thermodynamics say that, in a closed system, components form an entropic jumble. These units would not form such orderly patterns if I dumped them on the floor. But, because the conveyor provides constant inputs, this is not a closed system. Therefore it strives for geometric order.

The fuel managers don’t just sit there, absorbing their three inputs, however. They are tall and cylindrical, with smooth metal shells. As the conveyor’s momentum builds tension with the unmoving guard arm, the fuel managers rotate, accumulating friction that turns into surface heat. Good thing another worker will soon remove these fuel managers from the line, or they might overheat, become warped, then... what?

What would happen if the thin metal cylinders became distorted? Would they warp equally, or would random chance disturb the orderly system? Perhaps entropy would halt my orderly experiment. Like the ocean, a system which seems orderly on a granular level could prove chaotic on a large scale. Is a system truly open if all forces exist equally and behave in unvarying ways? Oh, the questions!

The history of science abounds with stories of profound discoveries arising from mundane events. Consider Newton’s apple tree, or Archimedes and his bath. The myths surrounding Pythagoras describe him making several discoveries while sitting, watching wind tousle the long grass. The intricate patterns produced, which appear random, actually reflect the interaction of simple forces in predictable, but not controllable, ways.

Sort of like my fuel managers on the line.

But modern schoolhouses, like factories and discount stores, tend to be boxy, windowless cells. This reinforces the notion that our discontents can be settled only by passively receiving what this facility peddles, whether a job, a consumer good, or a diploma. Students who engage in open-ended rumination outside the book are dismissed as daydreamers, and some who balk most demonstratively at the structure are medicated until they comply.

The very process that has produced our most profound discoveries could be easily replicated in the school environment. Youth care little for Avogadro’s constant or Planck mass if they read about them in books. Even laboratory experiments seem distant from real life. But if students see these concepts in play, as I saw thermodynamics in my fuel managers, we can kindle real curiosity that they can only sate through deep learning.

Therefore I propose that, if we really want students to learn, we need to get them out of school. Not that we should abolish institutions of learning, but that we should take them outside the inflexible, controlled classroom, and let them see the world around them. Guided opportunities to make discoveries like the one I made on the factory line would inspire growing curiosity and a love of learning.

Our students are not educated because they memorize facts in tables, or perform experiments with known outcomes. They are educated when they have the wherewithal to face unknown, unpredictable situations without fear, and pursue productive goals. We teachers can provide that. We just need to step outside our classrooms and encourage their natural desire to discover.

A Truth So Vast, Only Magic Could Convey

Edward Blaylock has worked as a parking valet, a stadium vendor, a telemarketer, and a teacher. He writes under a (very thin) pseudonym on his blog, Walking the Earth.

Kevin has asked me to write about a book that has been a powerful influence on me. I could write about the way Have Spacesuit, Will Travel turned me onto science fiction. I could try to explain how Give War a Chance turned me on to political humor. I could wax rhapsodic about The Prophet, or talk about how The Games People Play gave me the tools to escape a difficult marriage. There have been so many books; it should be difficult.

I’ve known almost from the second he asked me what book it is, though. None of my friends or family will be surprised by my choice, because I’ve been a raving fan of it since I was seven years old. The book is The Fellowship of the Ring.

I love the Fellowship, and by extension the whole Ring Trilogy, with unabashed fervor. The first appearance of the Nazgul still fills me with dread. Gandalf’s stand against the Balrog and Boromir’s death bring tears to my eyes to this day. I get as choked up reading Theoden’s speech at Pellenor as I do hearing Henry V speaking of Saint Crispin’s Day. The pictures Tolkien paints are heartachingly beautiful, but that’s not how the books influenced me.

I can say without hesitation that the Ring Trilogy gave me my first instruction in the meaning of moral courage. People who haven’t read the series see it as a trifle, a story about fey Hobbits and twee Elves. What they don’t realize is how much it’s a tale of facing up to real darkness. I started reading the Fellowship for the first time at 7 years old, and while an awful lot of it went over my head, I clearly understood the terrifying evil of the Nazgul and the courage that it took Frodo and the other Hobbits to travel through the Shire and beyond. I understood even then the feeling Frodo had of terrible, heavy necessity when he volunteered to be the Ringbearer.

See, evil in the Fellowship is palpable. Evil is terrifying, not only when it’s swathed in yards of black fabric and riding a night-black horse, but when it’s whispering to you that you could make everything right again, if you’d just take this one easy step. Evil corrupts, whether through despair, through fear, through temptation to power. Evil is insidious and unfathomably powerful.

But here’s the other half of the equation: evil is limited. Sauron, the principal force of darkness in Middle Earth, cannot create anything, but only twist other people’s works. More important still, as much as Sauron and all his vast armies inspire terror in others, they themselves are cursed with constant, gnawing fear, the fear that comes of telling too many falsehoods and of having only that strength that one has taken from others.

In the face of evil, the heroes of the story stand up. They face their fear. They stare back into the baleful gaze of Sauron’s burning eye and they defy him. They face terrible trials, and not all of them succeed, but in the end evil is defeated by the concerted actions of good people.

Tolkien stressed over and over again that the Ring Trilogy was not meant as an allegory. He was right to the extent that he didn’t consciously write it as one. Nevertheless, his own Catholic worldview is plain to see. We’re all on a quest to make the world a better place. We have to do so keeping in mind that the end doesn’t justify the means. The road isn’t easy. We will stumble along the way. We’ll need help to get where we need to go. We may have to pay a high price. But in the end, if we listen to the better angels (or wizards) of our nature, we will win. I can’t think of a better way to summarize my own outlook on how to live a good life. That understanding of the struggle, of how hard it can be to face up to temptation and evil, is part of what has drawn me into the Catholic Church as an adult convert. I had always seen those ideas as self-evident because I heard the Ringbearer’s story as a child.

C.S. Lewis wrote the Narnia books as an allegory for children. As I mentioned, Tolkien vehemently denied any allegorical meaning in the Ring Trilogy. All his protestations aside, as a guide to living a moral life I have to say that The Fellowship of the Ring beats Narnia hollow.

Why Johnny and Janie Aren't Wrong to Hate School

At work a couple of nights ago, some co-workers were reminiscing about the difficulties they had with math class back in the day. Like many people, these colleagues, one in her forties, evaluated the class in retrospect based on whether she had put the learned skills to use. And of course, they have scarcely used any math beyond basic arithmetic to balance their checkbooks.

A few semesters ago, I coached my students to debate the value of a narrow, utilitarian curriculum versus a broad liberal education. The group tasked to support the useful education pointed out that “I don’t expect to ever factor polynomials again in my life.” While that’s true, it wasn’t enough to sway my opinion—but the other side couldn’t counter it. In years of schooling, no one had ever explained why we expect students to learn the Three R’s.

In that same debate, the liberal studies advocates fumbled in part because they saw their position in the same pragmatic terms as the more “useful” curriculum. They looked for ways the diverse exposure introduced students to opportunities and experiences which could offer new career tracks. But if either position can only offer practical options, students are clearly better served by a more specialized curriculum.

Thinking back, I cannot recall even one teacher saying I needed to learn higher math, science, or the humanities because I would ever use the skills. My algebra teacher admitted we were in her class for idealistic purposes. My literature teachers asked us to please see past supposed utility, and embrace our studies to expand our minds. Yet I recall struggling to understand why I should spend time on such useless pursuits.

I have written about how new teachers, good people in general, hit the classroom with only a sketchy comprehension of their subject. They believe in education, yet teacher training generally emphasizes classroom management over subject specialization. Yet considering that American teachers are required to have at least a bachelor’s degree, it seems strange that no one ever explains to them how to tie the curriculum together into a unit.

For those who, like me, look back ruefully on precalculus in a windowless, fluorescent-lighted room, let me remind you why we offer students a diverse liberal education. When you learn something new, you don’t just learn facts and processes. You learn new ways to make connections. You learn modes of inquiry. You learn how to learn.

This makes specialized career training seem downright frivolous. Most people would learn their careers faster, and better, through a field apprenticeship. Yet employers don’t want new hires who only know their job. Such people can’t respond to unexpected circumstances. Minor setbacks become catastrophic for workers who only know through the prism of their jobs. Bosses want workers who can learn, adapt, and think.

Nobody explained this to me until I stood in front of the classroom myself. I didn’t have the encouragement to look at my education from an integrated perspective until I was in graduate school. But why should only those who go that far have that opportunity? If I had teachers in high school who saw their role that way, they certainly never said so. Indeed, the various disciplines demonstrated what I could only call rivalry, which sometimes turned bitter.

When I dissected that frog in seventh grade, somebody should have asked harder questions. After all, few students will ever again need to understand amphibian physiology. That frog’s exposed viscera matter little. Questions about how my body works, how I can respect its complexity of design, and how I can extend and maximize its quality—those are important questions. Yet they went unasked.

Likewise, nobody asked how I could apply the logical reasoning of higher math to life’s nuanced controversies. Nobody asked how I could parse out my life’s roles like I parse British literature. Because of that, I took much too long to make these connections. And that’s from a guy who learned the school lingo pretty well. Some people, like at least a few of my co-workers, never make these connections. And this limits their horizons prematurely.

This important fact lingers beneath education, yet remains unacknowledged. Most students I’ve known, including me, never realize this independently. I suspect many teachers have never heard this, either. And the state-mandated curriculum of “skillz drillz” and teaching for the test ensure few students ever make the connection. Perhaps more teachers know this than I realize. Why, then, did none ever tell me this out loud?

In Praise of Newt Gingrich and Child Labor

Newt Gingrich stirred an almighty row recently with his controversial suggestion that poor kids could learn priceless life skills if we put them to work early. This comes as no surprise to anyone who knows Newt’s reputation, built on his tendency to make inflammatory statements, some of which he lived to regret. But let me say something you’d never expect from a registered Democrat and peace activist:

The man has a point.

I've written before that many of my best students did not come to college directly out of high school. I’ve had good luck with parents, veterans, late bloomers, and others who have some work and life experience between public school and my classroom. I believe work provides a sense of identity. Workers test their goals, explore their identities, and find out what they want from their education.

I myself didn’t start college until twenty-five years old. I bounced through several jobs for seven years before resuming my education. While I did not support myself in that time—minimum wage blows—I learned to support myself intellectually. Though work did not provide my liberal arts education, the school of hard knocks taught me what I wanted in life, what I was willing to do to get it, and what value I placed on my time.

Think how much further along my life might be if, instead of waiting until eighteen, I had to work for my money at, say, twelve. What if I’d had to sack groceries, wash cars, walk dogs, or otherwise hustle to fill my pockets? I suspect I’d have learned much earlier the difference between necessity and luxury. Work probably would have cured my middle class ambivalence toward school.

Before I proceed, let me emphasize what I’m not saying. First, I’m not endorsing Newt. He’s little more than a partisan bomb thrower who builds support by ginning the fringe. His phrasing uses longstanding extremist cant to conflate poverty and race, and when he talks about firing union workers and filling their jobs with poor children, he wears his loyalties on his sleeve.

Moreover, I’m not advocating the rollback of child labor laws. Kids’ lives would not be improved if we sent them into sweat shops and salt mines. Child labor laws were written on the fairly straightforward belief that children should not work dangerous, sophisticated jobs until they had the physical strength and mental judgment. In other words, they shouldn’t work jobs that never let them achieve sufficient maturity to work those jobs.

But not all labor is a Dickensian nightmare. We can protect kids from the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire without extending infantile dependency to the cusp of adulthood. If we want kids to build strength and wisdom, we could offer them a hem of responsibility, where they could test themselves, and stretch to meet their potential. We claim to do that by giving them household chores, but many might benefit from answering to someone other than Mommy and Daddy.

We could start by scaling work according to kids’ strength and maturity. No reasonable person would think a twelve-year-old could tote a hod at a construction site, but why couldn’t that kid sort screws? A teen should not drive a forklift in a warehouse, but why can’t that same kid stock shelves? Kids who have work consummate with their ability will develop ability consummate with their work.

Critics might respond that, in tight times, putting kids on the job market would drive wages through the floor. Yet our current lopsided economy is perfectly avoidable. We have seen skyrocketing productivity, coupled with stagnant wages and almost nonexistent hiring because of a crooked system. If we enforced adult labor laws fairly, we would created good-paying jobs for grown-ups and starting opportunities for kids.

Many kids already do work, especially lower class kids. Go to any city and watch. Poor kids mow lawns, run errands, carry groceries, wash cars, and do whatever they can to bring in a little money—under the table. Though childhood crime is far less common than Newt implies, hustling is already commonplace. Sadly, middle class kids are more likely to remain sedentary and passive.

Former schoolteacher John Taylor Gatto, in A Different Kind of Teacher, describes setting up professional apprenticeships for middle school students on the sly. These kids built networks they could tap later in life, but reportedly, they also got better grades in school as well. If it could be administered fairly, I’d like to see more kids have such opportunity.