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?