Group Work: The Beginning of the End

Working together with other people in the context of a group project should foster a creative atmosphere that benefits from a wide spectrum of points of view, experiences, and other such subjective assets. Group work should teach participants the value of teaming up to solve complex problems that one would find too difficult to do alone. It should bestow virtues of personal initiative and perseverance upon people while at the same time allowing them to rely on each other, secure in the knowledge that, together, they can achieve great things.

It should, but it doesn't. Allow me to describe how a typical group project gets done. If you actually like group work, stop reading this right now (not only because I plan to systematically dismantle group work and show how it does more harm than good, but also because you're likely one of the people that makes it so horrible for the rest of us). You arrive at the library. The time is 4:45 PM, giving you plenty of time to find a table, set up your work station and, if you're diligent, get a cup of coffee. Having accomplished two of your three goals with about eight minutes to spare, you indulge in a hot beverage and settle in, ready for the most grueling task your class can throw your way.

At 5:10 PM, you begin to feel a bit antsy. The agreed meeting time was 5:00 sharp, wasn't it? Your restlessness evolves into slight annoyance at the fact that you alone were able to get to the library on time when nobody mentioned anything that would inhibit them from doing the same. By 5:20, you are no longer annoyed; you're just plain angry. You notice (after a minute or two of rage-fueled inner monologue) that you've received a text from one of your group members, which reads, “Hey, sorry, I fell asleep, be there in 5. Anyone else there yet?” How does this person expect you to react to such a message? Dumbfounded, you manage to reply, “Nope, just me,” which, you feel, is just passive-aggressive enough to make them realize that you're not a happy camper.

At 5:27, you receive a message, which reads, “Haha. Cool. Leaving now.” There are few words worthy of describing your degree of lividity in this moment; perhaps “awesome” will suffice, since you are now visibly enraged and the people at neighboring tables don't know how to react, so they sit there and stare as if in awe. You clench your hand as tight as humanly possible, crushing your coffee cup into a tiny ball as if it were made of aluminum foil. The caffeine from your double shot of espresso squeezes blood through your veins at five hundred miles an hour, feeding your fury in a way not dissimilar to how jet fuel propels a fighter plane. A steady eye, if only for brief instances, can spot tufts of what looks like steam languidly creeping out of your ears. This “steam” is actually pure, condensed rage that was simply forced out of your body, which is long past capacity at this point.

An eternity passes. You fester in your seat, your head drooping over your notebook. Your grip on your pen suggests that it owes you money and it's time to pay up. At 5:43, you get a phone call from another group member, who says, “Hey, oh my God! I had this last minute Kappa Kappa Derp meeting and the girls wanted to get some Panera afterwards. I didn't even notice the time! How much have you guys gotten done? Oh, really? Oh, I'm sorry! I'll be there in a few minutes!” As you hang up, you glance across the table and acknowledge the existence of the first idiot, who says, “Hey bro, what's up? Where's that other chick?” With most of your mind shredded to pieces, the primal urge to limit sensory input fixes your eyes on the seemingly random button-pressing by Brick (this seems like a fair name) while he continually expresses his opinion, which can be reduced to this: “Thinking is hard. This is gonna be a bitch, man. I'm glad you know what's going on, herp derp.”

TO BE CONTINUED!

Various Thoughts and Observations

It is 10:59 AM. I am sitting in a classroom situated in the atrium of a large building. The room has a rectangular orientation to it; at one end of it (longwise, that is) sits a table with a sort of tabletop podium on it; I resent the idea that any scumbag with an idea can hide behind a symbol of order and spew filth, free from the threat of persecution. Fortunately for me, the lecturer in this class is worthy of my attention, podium or otherwise. The rest of the room is primarily occupied by what one could call a genealogical museum exhibit as performed by desks; there are about three relatively new desks – that is, probably built within the last five years – nestled in the back of the room. In front of these are several desks that, in all likelihood, weathered their first lectures in the late seventies. Some, however, simply appear dated because of the design. These “golden oldies” as I like to call them for the sake of this story, are a tribute to the industrial-strength approach to equipment; that is, ergonomic design is an afterthought. As long as the product can be mass produced and withstand decades of half-asleep asses bearing down on it, there's little room for improvement. These desks are built at an on-campus plant in the same style as the Nixon-era ones. “If it ain't broke, don't fix it,” right?

It's surprisingly simple to detect who hasn't read the assigned material on which the present lecture is based. Several things in particular stick out that give them away, such as maintaining a stern brow and feverishly writing while holding the assigned text open with the other hand. Underlining parts of the text generally satisfies the professor's glance, but to me it says, “If I underline this, I can just quote it in an essay and get points.” The people with laptops are doing one of two possible things: browsing pictures of their friends on Facebook or looking at the SparkNotes for the present book.

As I shift my gaze around the room I begin to notice a trend of unwavering, concentrated glances downward, facing each student's copy of the text. Nobody yields to the inherent desire to familiarize his or herself to the current setting but me. I wonder: what could they be thinking? Are they so desperate for a simplified analysis of an intentionally complex piece of literature? I tend to believe that the way a book can grab each reader differently is just as important an aspect of study as the story the book tells. For instance, if you find yourself identifying with a “stream of consciousness” (SoC) writer, it could be for multiple reasons. In one respect, you may tend to drift into SoC on a regular basis. It's also possible that you may not encounter SoC often (or at all), in which case you may find writing of that style challenging at first, but intriguing. I find it highly likely that, were you to ask a reader fitting the latter description – as well as one fitting the former – their readings of certain characters, themes or concerns in a book, their answers would be fundamentally different. In the spirit of this observation, I listen to what my professor has to say about the book and take to heart his message, but I don't often find satisfaction with just one interpretation.

It is 11:51 AM. This is my favorite part of the class (bear in mind that I find no reason not to frequently interchange “class” and “social experiment” in my writing). After delivering a lecture that ran just short of an hour, the professor now turns to his audience and invites questions about the readings. Like before, almost every head in the room is set at a fixed inclination towards it's respective desk as the deafening silence pervades the room. Finally, somebody reluctantly chokes out a simplistic, open-ended question in the hope that the professor will tangentially explain his perception of what the answer is. At these interludes, the collective gaze of the class shifts to the professor, protected by the thought that they can safely score eye contact-associated participation points. Sometimes, someone will make a loose association between the current readings and a pop culture item, such as a contemporary film. The professor, whom I can only assume is, at this point, just as dumbfounded as I am, attempts to quickly strengthen the connection with a one or two-sentence analysis of the movie. I am not so benevolent, particularly when they say, “Oh, wow! This book is just like that movie!” Some of the best literature ever written is not “like” any movie; a movie may have characteristics similar to the book, but not vice-versa. I speak, of course, of classic literature that predates most, if not all, of the idiotically associated movies.

It is 12:21 PM. I think of Rush's album 2112, but inverted to fit our primitive conception of time. I don't have much time left before my next academic endeavor begins. Unfortunately, The teacher of that class will not accommodate my needs and allow me to use my laptop even though she uses one herself. What kind of example does that set? This is America, damnit. I reserve the right to do whatever I want, screaming, “MANIFEST DESTINY!” if I encounter resistance.

It is 1:02 PM. I am demoralized by role call yet again. What is the point of expecting me acknowledge the sound of my own name? Even further, why say the names out loud? Having my life forcibly thrust into someone else's conception of order is traumatic for the reflective counter-culture agent. The boredom is staggering. My eyes desperately survey the classroom for something on which they can settle for more than a fleeting moment. No luck. I am now the object of surveillance. Game over for now.

Order, Disorder and the Rest of Us

Is it possible to re-imagine the nature of chaos? It isn't very satisfying for me as a skeptic to simply accept that there are two completely distinct, incompatible forces at work (those of order and disorder). Recently I've been considering the possibility that it's not as simple as people would like it to be. I've found that, over time, one can map instances of chaos and, contrary to what one would assume, bring disorder into order. The beautifully harmonious part is that the ability for disorder to be mapped brings our prior conceptions of order into disarray, even if only for an instant. Balance, then, seems to be more of an ideal than anything else. It helps me to picture this conceptual notion as a planet orbiting a star. The star itself, or, more importantly, the space it inhabits, houses at it's center absolute equilibrium (represented by it's gravitational pull; once something reaches the center it lacks inclination). An object orbiting this star incessantly gravitates toward the source, occasionally coming relatively close to its goal but never quite reaching it. The pull of balance is so great that, in its attempt to reach harmony, it whips the planet right past the star, emblematic of the overcompensation of each force in pursuit of dominance, and the cycle repeats itself. The force of the pull in one direction is proportional to the extent to which the object travels in the other direction, again pointing to a sort of natural balance.

It is no coincidence, then, that the death of a star throws the entire system into disarray. The interaction of order and disorder must be an understood, ordered system. Without balance, what middle ground could exist between the two? What would moderate the cycle? The planet would be doomed to drift, seemingly endlessly, through interstellar space. Perhaps it could be assumed into another balanced system of order and disorder, mediated by a different sort of harmonious agent. Similarly, if either chaos or order found itself unchecked by the other, I feel that the nature of the prevailing side would change, allowing it to be balanced by some other form of the opposition. What do you think?

Observation's Role in Expression

So, as you may have noticed from the style of my last post that I'm trying to expand my abilities as a writer by incorporating narrations of my various experiences. You probably also noticed that I'm lousy at it, a fact that I'm okay with because when I was writing that post I felt a sense of genuine happiness. I had initially figured that the entirety of my examination of bus passenger interactions would take up as much space as what has now been deemed “part one.” Once I started describing something, I felt inspired to push it a bit further than normal.

Knowing that I have the ability to express literally anything elicits in me a feeling of immeasurable power. Again, no claim is being made that I'm a good writer, but I would certainly like to become one. I feel like that's a good enough reason to practice regularly, to experiment with atypical diction, etc. I feel like writing, paired with the mountains of reading associated with being an English major, offers me an opportunity to develop skills of exceptional worth.

One such skill (and one I hadn't anticipated) is observation. Being an amateur writer, I ran out of things to describe fairly often. My solution was to pay more attention to things, look for patterns in events, and attempt to gather information about people from how they're dressed, what they're carrying, what they're doing, what emotions are they exhibiting (or hiding), etc. Being able to deconstruct a situation is undoubtedly something worth learning how to do, regardless of occupation.

I'd even go so far as to say it could be beneficial to teach, say, high school students how to get as much contextual information about any given scenario as possible. Maybe as freshmen, perhaps later. I could even see it as a senior-level class that attempts to prepare the graduating class for whatever they plan to pursue after high school. If nothing else, the class would stress the value of observation as a means of becoming effective communicators; in familiarizing oneself with one's surroundings in any given circumstance, one gains all the tools necessary to provide a satisfactory account of something.

I feel like too much miscommunication takes place just in my own life, not to mention in the lives of over six billion other people. That fact has motivated me to learn by experience as well as example, to expand my vocabulary, to broaden my cache of sentence structures, etc. Those who can best express themselves have a distinct advantage over most people in terms of societal or economic advancement. They can speak to the largest audience, and thus can gain the attention of masses of people.

Imagine the fluidity of a society with perfect (or nearly perfect) communicative abilities. Would the benefits outweigh what would certainly be lost (potentially all poetic imagery, if you think about it)?

Human Interactions While Using Public Transportation, Part 1

Allow me to begin by saying that I am not an expert in social sciences. I am simply recounting my observations of a social phenomenon that I find moderately interesting. It is unremarkable that billions of people pass by each other every day without even acknowledging one another, but the fact that this behavior continues when they must remain uncomfortably close to each other is worth considering.

Yesterday, like many days, I opted for a ride on the bus over a trek across campus. The bus stop is a great place to see a preview of the awkwardness to come. Even before they're crammed together on the bus, a dozen or so students stand in a sloppy sort of line formation, each stealing glances at each other in what they perceive to be secrecy (I often wear sunglasses, so I can watch people shift their gazes periodically without drawing attention to myself). Occasionally someone will be in the middle of a phone call as we all wait. I particularly enjoy this because there's no way to ignore a single voice in the midst of an otherwise silent crowd. If my fellow students are anything like me (and I'd like to think they are), they can't help but do a bit of eavesdropping in such a situation.

Before we can discuss the ride itself, we must consider the trials of boarding. Our group of students is now beginning to get anxious as the bus comes into sight down the road, across the intersection. As it approaches, the countdown begins on the walk signal that signifies how much longer you've got until the light changes. Finally the bus starts to lurch toward our stop, but what's this? The light's gone yellow... and... red. Red like the wind-whipped faces glaring intently at vehicular salvation, now unabashedly exhibiting disdain at their extended wait.

After what feels like at least ten minutes, the light turns to green and the bus coasts to our stop. The doors open to reveal, in most cases, a driver with little hope left in the decency of human beings. Even the most enthusiastic ones seem to be putting on a show for you. Whatever semblance of an ordered line that existed up to this point is demolished, with a bottlenecked semicircle left in its place.

When I finally got past the people who walk so slowly that they make you wonder how early they have to leave for things to get there on time, I faced a gauntlet of eyes, examining every aspect of me as I carefully treaded down the walkway. I don't like the way they look at me; I feel alienated for utilizing a resource that part of my tuition supports. I glanced to my left to find a guy using the seat next to him for his backpack. He was staring intently out the window, noticeably attempting to avoid eye contact with anybody. He didn't want anyone near him, but he didn't want to bear the burden of the condescending "standing room only" crowd's collective gaze. His inconsiderate act is noted, but never challenged.

At this point I have made the transformation from passenger-to-be to passenger en-route. I had no choice but to occupy a space quite close to the rear doorway. A steel tube divides the space in this area while also providing something to hold onto. Now, this particular bus ride took place before ten o'clock in the morning, so it was understandably packed. Most logical students prefer to get their classes done early so they can use the rest of their day to do other productive things, you see. This being the case, I found myself nearly pressed up against the glass of the folding doors.

I suddenly came to the realization that, even when forced to stand within inches of one another, people continue to pretend that nobody else exists. It's quite a sight to behold. I will continue this narrative-based analysis tomorrow, but I imagine that there's enough here for a bit of discussion in the meantime.

Don't Be That Guy

Lately I've been struggling with a problematic situation. It is necessary that I tread lightly, lest I slip and careen into an abysmal horror that is best described as “being that guy.” Let me begin by asking this: have you ever found yourself in a class that was painfully simple for you but seemingly not for anybody else? Did the teacher of this class ever get frustrated when you were the only person to raise your hand, prompting them to quite thoughtlessly say, “Is X the only person who's going to answer today? Does nobody else, NOBODY besides X want to try? X, I've called on you too much today, let's give someone else a chance!” This is pretty much exactly how my problem started.

First of all, how is the person who actually knows the answer and wants to talk about it supposed to feel? Even before teachers make statements similar to the aforementioned examples, it's evident when they start to get tired of calling on you. The way their eyes first fix on you, then trail aimlessly through the classroom as they hope, even PRAY that somebody else shows interest, then back to you (as a side note, I find it particularly interesting how long some instructors allow this to go on). At this point, aware that he or she can't outright refuse to call on you, the teacher reluctantly allows you to speak your mind. Now, I tolerated this throughout my grammar school and high school career, but now that I'm in college I've had enough. Should I honestly have to sit there with the answer in my head while somebody else stutters out nonsense? How does that benefit me in any way? I'm not saying that I'm unwilling to listen when somebody else thinks they know the answer and want to participate. That is an entirely different situation. What I'm saying is this: when a teacher knows that I am the only person in the room besides him or her that actually cares about what's going on and decides to force someone else to talk, I call shenanigans.

As a result of this, I started to feel less and less obligated to attend the class. Honestly, why even go if all I do is occupy space? Am I supposed to follow along with busy work that I've been able to do for over a year? However, I digress.

Recently this teacher has started to treat me with a noticeable degree of disdain for being absent often. I, for one, find this to be an act of gross hypocrisy. If I'm not going to be called on, why should I even waste my time? What incentive is there for me to attend a class that has been stripped of value? I honestly feel that every time I go to that class and don't answer regularly, I may as well have stayed in bed that day. It's as though I'm being told, “I am literally taking points from your final grade because you can find better uses for your time.”

Up to now I've only described one half of the whole situation. The lame part is that it's quite difficult to find someone who can empathize with me. I'm aware of how easily someone could come to the conclusion that I'm just a snotty nerd if I just say, “Don't you hate how easy this class is?” I mean, my friends generally side with me when I present them the scenario, but that's really more a product of them knowing me than appreciating my dilemma, I feel.

Now I ask you to weigh in on this topic. Not necessarily my specific issue, but anything of the like. Perhaps together we can eliminate at least one possible incarnation of “that guy.”

Formalities

Let me begin by welcoming you to my blog, the fireside symposium. As the name suggests, this blog, I hope, will serve as a relaxed environment for discussion on various topics. It occurred to me the other day that most of the arguments I engage in with my peers end in some degree of disappointment on my part, so I began to consider the vast amount of perspectives to be found via the internet. As I read, I found that not only was I correct regarding the volume of opinionated discourse online, but also that expressing one's thoughts might be more of a challenge than I had initially envisioned. Therefore, I intend to also use this blog as a means of improving my writing skills, and I would invite anyone who feels like learning a bit about how to write to join me in this quest. After all, one must practice if one wishes to get better at something.

Let's talk a little bit, then, about expression. Have you ever been engaged in a conversation with someone and suddenly come to the realization that he or she has absolutely no idea what you're talking about? Few things, dear reader, are more frustrating to me than when that happens. My frustration is compounded when a person believes that he or she is completely following my logic and then regurgitates a version of what I've said that instantly brings the conversation to a standstill. Now, as I am an egotistical person (I will make no claim otherwise), I would often conclude that the listener was at fault for not being able to comprehend my statements. Only recently did I even DARE to consider that I was at least partly responsible for the confusion. This consideration, however, has opened many doors for me. Ridding myself of the notion that everything I say is universally understood was one of the most beneficial things that I could have done for myself.

This being said, there are certain people out there who make fully explaining yourself an impractical venture. Time and time again I've found myself unable to continue conversing with somebody due to how difficult it is to convey a crucial point. Normally I respond to these situations by attempting to diversify my vocabulary and altering my delivery. If after that, however, I have made no progress, I generally like to move on. I would ask that anybody who runs into similar issues on the blog treat them the same way. It would be best for the functionality of this blog if everybody would exert more effort than usual in making people able to understand just what it is you're trying to convey.