My Best and
Worst Speech Genres
Improvisational
Session at Emory University
Saturday,
November 8,
2008, 10 am – 1.30 pm
Nine
participants: graduate students and instructors of the course "Mikhail
Bakhtin and His Circles" taught by Prof. Walter Reed and Prof. Mikhail
Epstein, Fall 2008
Topics
Suggested:
lampshade,
the future, fleas, blues, the Bakhtinian social, sand, c(h)ords, intercourse,
my best and worst speech genres
Selected by
Majority:
My Best and
Worst Speech Genres
Duration of
writing: 1 h. 5 m.
Duration of
session: 3,5 hours
Texts (in the
order of readings):
1. Jackie
Wyse (Religion). The Bus Stop and the Seminar Table: Small Talk.
2. Catherine
Doubler (English). There is Something in the Pop–Corn Butter. I am the
Sarah Palin of Phone Banking.
3. Kwesi
DeGraft-Hanson (ILA).
"Damn Good
Mornings": On the Genres of Encouragement and Profanity.
4.
Navyug Gill (History). The Poverty of Praise.
5. Prof.
Walter Reed (ILA, English). Singing the Blues.
6. Kevin
Barbour (Religion). An Essay as a Totally Different Story.
7.
James Howard (English). Where is my Script? The Anxiety of Meditation of
Utterance.
8.
Elizabeth Bishop (English). The Future Lasts Forever.
9. Prof.
Mikhail Epstein (REALC). Silence
as a Speech Genre: Why I love Collective Improvisations.
1. The bus stop and the seminar table
Jackie Wyse, Religion,
Hebrew Bible
(One
of) my best speech genre(s) is small talk. Small talk, though often denigrated
as insignificant, is actually quite sophisticated in its aims and goals. Small
talk is what you talk about when you are talking about ÒrealÓ life – the
concrete minutiae of the everyday. Small talk makes exterior the things that
occupy oneÕs interiority. Small talk is stream-of-consciousness turned inside
out. And yet, for all of its ordinariness, small talk is not an intimate speech
genre. One talks small with strangers, acquaintances, or when thrown into a new
situation with someone known well only within another context.
Where
does small talk happen? At parties. In line. On the bus. While walking. At a
reception after a lecture. When meeting the in-laws for the first time. In
small talk, we find a balm for our awkward souls.
There
are at least two turns that small talk can take.
One
is small talk with strangers, people you donÕt know from Adam (or Eve). There
are formulaic lines for beginning such exchanges: commenting on something
– no matter how trivial – that you have in common. The weather:
standing at the bus stop, waiting for a ride, umbrellas unfurled, sneakers
getting soaked. You smile at your shared predicament. Your eyes and the thunder
roll in unison. You make a comment: ÒWhat a day to be riding the bus.Ó
Another
turn is possible, exemplified by small talk with people you know well but with
whom you usually converse in another genre. For example: talking with a
professor at a departmental party about her newly acquired kittens, or about
how the word ÒbarbequeÓ means something completely different in Georgia than it
does in Ohio.
With
friends or family, within intimate relationships, the genre of small talk no
longer exists because it has outlived its usefulness. The same sentence –
the exact same words – when said to a lover, mean differently than they
do when said to a stranger or a recent acquaintance. ÒWhat a day to be riding
the busÓ when said to a spouse is no longer small talk. Why? Because, in all
likelihood, if you bother to say something about the weather to someone you
know well, it is because you want to say something about the weather, and not
because you wish to ease the awkwardness imposed by silence.
Small
talk, by definition practiced among people who do not know each other
intimately, is therefore simultaneously a compassionate and a selfish speech
genre: compassionate insofar as the one who makes the first utterance responds
to what she perceives as the awkward silence between two people who do not know
one another well; selfish insofar as she speaks primarily in order to soothe
her own soul, in order to alleviate her own sense of anxiety, her own question
about what the other is thinking, about whether she measures up in the eyes of
the other. Small talk can be a reaching out, an acknowledgement of the
precarious way that humans are all thrown into life together, a nod toward the
delightful serendipity of standing at the bus stop with someone you would have
no other opportunity to meet, a Òcarpe diemÓ sense of openness toward the place
an utterance can take you. With apologies to Bilbo Baggins: ÒIt is a dangerous
and wonderful thing to make an utterance: You open your mouth, and if you donÕt
keep your tongue, thereÕs no knowing where you might be swept off to.Ó But
small talk can also be intentionally shallow and limiting. It can be deceptive.
With no commitment toward the other, you can massage their ears with
pleasantries until you have a chance to escape. Small talk, done monologically,
can be a way of using the other, a socially acceptable way of ignoring their
humanity when silence just will not do.
I
am good at small talk.
A
speech genre that comes less naturally to me is that of the doctoral seminar.
Whereas small talk is largely improvised and immediate, the doctoral seminar is
a speech genre within which there are guidelines. Participants prepare by
reading, taking notes, forming opinions. Participants gather at a specified
time for a pre-determined number of weeks. Perhaps there is a discussion
leader. Perhaps a power-point presentation. Perhaps a handout. Material is
presented; participants discuss.
There
is much that the doctoral seminar has in common with small talk. For example,
there is the compulsion to fill awkward silences lest any participant be
perceived as unprepared. However, the stakes are quite a bit higher in the
seminar room than at the bus stop, and in spite of the seminarÕs formality, as
a genre it is quite a bit more personal. Not only is the atmosphere of the
seminar on the line – so is each participantÕs very intelligence, their
very suitability for their chosen profession. With each meeting, the
possibility emerges anew that someone will be revealed as a fraud. What if they
find out that I have never read Saussure? What if they find out that I am a
pretender in the world of ideas? What if they find out that I am more
comfortable making small talk at the bus stop than I am debating the merits of
Marxist linguistics? Participants enter the seminar room already masked, their
opinions at the ready. The doctoral seminar can be a battlefield: each
participant defending their territory, shooting down the ideas of another,
picking through the defenses of an opposing argument. At the end of the three
hours, there are sometimes winners and losers: the winners being the most
articulate, the most clever; the losers being the least of these.
The
doctoral seminar does not have to have this character. In fact, I have
participated in many that are closer in style to a learning party than a
battlefield. However, there is always the sense that even the most collegial
doctoral seminars are departures from a genre in which defensiveness is the
norm, in which people enter with fortresses around their hearts, with snipers
haunting the parapets of their intellects, ready to shoot down the proposals of
others at the least sign of inconsistency or irrationality. The doctoral
seminars I have enjoyed the most, in which I have been able to relax into my
role as student and risk the exposure of my opinions and ideas, have been those
which seem, in one way or another, to wink at the speech genre in which they
participate: they are mildly carnivalesque. There is laughter. There is
occasional comment on everyday life: family, food, politics, the weather. There
are cracks through which the presence of other genres are just barely visibleÉ
sometimes even the edges of small talk can creep into the academic discourse!
Here
is where the boundaries of speech genres seem to me their most amorphous: at
these moments of rupture, when the unexpected is said, or remains unsaid. When
for a moment, the whole person breaks through. When someone IÕve never met
before reveals himself to have been a religion major in college, and we talk
for fifteen minutes about Psalm 82. Or when my colleague in a doctoral seminar
stops talking about Psalm 82 for a few minutes, and reflects on what it means
to find a place for yourself as a biblical scholar in the broad, wide world of
the humanities.
I
am happiest when speech genres rupture. In that rupture, I can relax in all of
my particularity as a whole person. No longer do I obsess about opinions: mine,
others, what they are, how to defend them. Instead, I smile. I laugh. I am
oriented toward an open future, not constricted by an anxious present. This
rupture, which is beyond speech genre, could not be created without it. The
structures of speech genres are necessary in order to move beyond them.
* *
* * *
2. There is Something in the Pop–Corn Butter. I am the Sarah Palin
of Phone Banking.
Catherine Doubler (English)
There's Something in the
Popcorn Butter
Since
high school, I have been perfecting the post-movie opinion genre. I think
it started when I saw some generic action movie with mountain climbing stunts
and a fight with a bear, a vacuous love-plot put in for good measure. The
credits begin and the packed theater roars with applause; I stand up, grab my
coat, yell something to the effect of "WHAT A WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT
MOVIE," and storm out the door. I consider this a breakthrough
moment for me in perfecting this speech genre. I've become more agreeable since
then, but for whatever reason I am stricken with incredible self-confidence and
the ability to be straightforward and coherent after I see a movie in the
theater. I can map out an argument for the brilliance of the ending of
There Will Be Blood in the time it takes for me to find a trash bin in which to
put my empty popcorn bowl. Often I make rather daring claims with
disturbing levels of aplomb; once I tried to make the argument that Oliver
Stone was the most underrated practitioner of camp, sometimes just as good as
John Waters. In the theater bathroom, I can go on and on about the
artistry of a particular tracking shot. In the bathroom, I can actually
remember what a tracking shot is. Disappointment over Almodovar's ten
year masterpiece in the making, Bad Education, was voiced very quickly on the
way out of the theater. I find the exit ramps of a movie theater to be a
safe space, for whatever reason, to voice very direct opinions. Maybe
it's some chemical in the popcorn butter that allows this. Maybe it's because I
find it extremely self-gratifying to voice my opinions in this particular
forum. Perhaps I take pleasure in the sensation of having other people
listen to my brilliant pontifications. All-in-all, my best speech genre
is also the one in which I am the most narcissistic.
I am the Sarah Palin of
Phone-Banking
This
past year marked the first time that I volunteered for a presidential campaign,
and I can say without hesitation that I suck at phone-banking. The genre
of phone-banking itself is straightforward and simple: you are given a script
and a page of 100 phone numbers by a helpful and enthusiastic staff person, you
call the numbers, you recite the script. The purpose of phone-banking is
to see if a person is registered to vote, has voted, and has voted for the
right person. If they haven't voted, you mobilize other volunteers to
take them to the polls, and if they're voting for the wrong person, well, you
try your best to convince them in a matter of minutes that your candidate is
the right one. I have never gotten to this persuasive stage of the
phone-banking narrative, mainly because I have never been able to say the
script in a coherent fashion. I look at the page, and my command of
English fails me--I can't make a simple greeting, I forget how to pronounce my
name, I am barely able to ask them the questions with the right intonation. Sometimes
I recite the script with a Spanish accent. I am the Sarah Palin of
phone-banking. After I have stumbled over the script, there's the
inevitable awkward silence at the other end. Often I hear the phone
click. Occasionally someone has managed to make sense of my guttural
caveman gruntings and shouts "YEAH BARACK OBAMA BABY WOO!"
These are the most gratifying moments. Post-election, my
phone-banking experiences continue to haunt me. Sometimes I wake up in
the middle of the night sweating, wondering if my ineptitude cost Barack Obama
Georgia. Looking back, I wonder if it is the scripted nature of the genre
that bothers me, or if I have problems with pushing people towards a certain
candidate, even if I think that candidate is incredibly awesome.
* *
* * *
3. ÒDamn Good MorningsÓ: On the Genres of Encouragement and Profanity.
Kwesi DeGraft-Hanson, Institute
of Liberal Arts
M.
M. Bakhtin, the Russian philologer, is perhaps the best known proponent of the
idea of speech genres. He contended that there are different types (genres) of
speech. We have all heard of the English ÔCockneyÕ, or American ÔSouthernÕ
brogue; we also know, and have heard referents to Ôstreet talkÕ, or to Ôthe
QueenÕs EnglishÕ. It is these characteristic verbal (and written) typologies, with
their inherent and necessarily distinct and various terminologies, accents,
tempos, pitches, decibel levels and ÔtypicalÕ participants that Bakhtin alludes
to in the idea of speech genres. Speech genres are at once both social
and temporal – born in and of particular social milieu and times, though
constantly in consort and interaction with other speech genres. We all agree
that there is ÔOld EnglishÕ, as well as ÔCreoleÕ, or Ôpidgin EnglishÕ, and
while we understand and can appreciate their particularities, we also recognize
their underlying connectedness and similarities, if not their progenitor(s).
In
this brief paper, I will discuss (my) best and worst speech genres. The word
ÔmyÕ is in parentheses because I have the option of discussing my own
personal best or worst speech genres, or those of other individuals or
groups (or eras) that I admire or abhor. I will address my own (personal)
speech genre that I consider my best – something I feel that I aspire to
do well, and enjoy doing – encouraging others (the genre of
encouragement), and will discuss a speech genre that I personally abstain (try
to, anyway) from participating in, but that is pervasive in society –
profanity.
I
will discuss my best speech genre – of encouragement - first,
followed by the (othersÕ) speech genre of profanity, and then seek to
make some generalizing comments about their roles in our society. Notice that I
personalize my best, but eschewing, or more correctly, shielding my personal
worst speech genre, I daylight the worst speech genre that I can safely posit
as belonging to others. I am sure my readers will not be fooled.
My
personal best speech genre, one that I appreciate using, or participating in,
and one that I observe invigorates and strengthens others, is the speech
genre of encouragement. Somewhere in the Bible, humans are advised to
Òencourage one anotherÓ. I am not a scholar of religion, or of religious texts,
but I am certain that the major religious texts and their attendant traditions
all exhort humans to encourage one another. Even outside of religion, and in
the more secularity of our ÔregularÕ lives, personal encouragements are often
appreciated, if not desired. Personally, I like to greet my family, friends and
even strangers I pass on the streets with a cheery Ôgood morningÕ or Ôgood
dayÕ! If I have opportunity, I make a statement or two about how beautiful the
day is, or how welcome the rain is, or indeed how wonderful the person looks,
if that will not be, or perceived, as inappropriate. In parting, I like to end
my encouragements with a positive: ÔHave a wonderful dayÕ! Some people regard
this type of speech genre as Ôpositive speechÕ or Ômotivational speechÕ;
regardless of varying terminology, I classify these as encouraging speech. I
try to be an encourager, and to inhabit the speech genre of encouraging speech
as often as possible, with all people I meet, and at all times of the day
precisely because I have been the recipient of many such encouragements from my
parents, especially, friends, and a lot of my teachers, past and present. I
know, without a shadow of a doubt, that such encouragements have made all the
difference in my life, in guiding me in the positive choices I have sometimes
made, definitely in spite of myself.
Perhaps
the worst speech genre (not my own) I observe in modern society in general, is
that of profane speech. Profanity, once the purview and prerogative of
(supposedly, and admittedly castigatingly) ÔsailorsÕ and Ôbar room brawlsÕ and
the like, is now mainstream parlance especially among high school and college
age students. Some faculty members, perhaps to ensure that they ÔreachÕ their
students, use some (admittedly measured) profanity in their regular classroom
discussions. The most common words and expressions are expletives which seem to
privilege human orifices (typically hidden, but graphically and forcibly
conjured to mind by these profanities), other body parts and natural body
processes (again, typically private), or otherwise refer to maternal and or
paternal reproductive parts and processes. Excretion and procreation dominate
such parlance. Profanity as a speech genre has certainly been around, I am
sure, for as long as humans have lived; however, its current Ôin vogueÕ status
within mainstream halls of especially, academe, is alarming. Without
sounding any more prohibitionist, puritanical or ecclesiastical, let me say
that while I do not think of a utopic situation devoid of all but ÔcleanÕ
words, I do lament that especially the very young, especially teens, are seeing
profanity as verbal rights of passage into adulthood, and becoming perhaps just
as prolific in the use of many such choice words, at the expense of more
mainstream academic parlance.
The
speech genres of encouragement and of profanity are ostensibly diametrically
(dialectically?) opposed to each other, though in truly Bakhtinian fashion,
they are dialogically related as well; indeed, just as the ÔQueenÕs EnglishÕ
and Òstreet talkÓ converse with each other. Can it be said that the genres of
encouraging speech and of profanity dialogue with each other? Do they in any
way reinforce each other (not in a semantic form, but in reinforcing their
separate genre characteristics? Does profane language ever help encouraging
language, or vice versa? When I first wrote this piece, I concluded that:
ÒWhile encouraging speech uplifts the human spirit and exhorts both proponent
and recipient(s), I submit that profanity rather damns and demeans the human
spirit, notwithstanding the crude laughter profanities can elicit from even the
most devout. I would like to encourage all humans to exhort more, and profane
lessÓ. After reading this piece in a group discussion, and engaging in the
dialogue that followed, I saw more of what I had written in my concluding
statement about profanity sometimes eliciting crude laughter; does laughter
encourage the human spirit? Absolutely. I realized in this written exercise
that the preponderance of profane verbiage seems to evoke life, by
dwelling on human reproduction and genitalia, and the necessary excretions that
herald and acknowledge life! In an arcane way, most profanities loudly
celebrate (and encourage) life, if only by reminding us all of the beauty and
pleasures of life. In a way, my encouragement tomorrow might as well be: Ò(What
a) Damn Good MorningÓ!
* *
* * *
4. The Poverty of Praise.
Navyug Gill, History
Perhaps
it is due to my commitment to self-reflection, or my distain for liberalism, or
just my oppositional disposition, perhaps neither and perhaps something even I
cannot discern, but I am compelled to reflect on my worst speech genres before
or rather than my best, and, as a result, have begun to compile an almost
endless list of genres in which I judge my performance to be reproachable.
However, I will put aside encyclopedic cataloging since I realize that this
exercise requries me to decisively cut through what would become a litany of
shortcomings or inadequacies (that assumes I should be proficient in everything
that I do – very modernist notion I admit), and center in on the one
genre that I find fault with and fault myself in at the same time. It is the
genre, dialectically of giving and receiving, of the Ôpersonal compliment.Õ I
abhor this genre; I am neither good at making it, nor at accepting it.
For
the sake of honesty and maybe humility (which, but mentioning it, I know I
negate it), I will say that this does not occur frequently, either way. But
when it does occur, I am utterly deficient at it. When someone gives me a
compliment, I find it straight away unnecessary. I am confident; or at least, I
need to believe that I am confident at all costs. And therefore, I am committed
to believing that I do not require someone elseÕs praise under any
circumstances. A compliment interrupts my imagined autarky and self-reliance.
It makes my well-being, my satisfaction and my general mood susceptible to
someone elseÕs manipulation. Shall I be sad or upset if I donÕt receive a
compliment?
A
compliment is also concomitant with an abuse of adjectives. It is never enough
to say, Ôwell done.Õ More likely, words such as Ôgreat,Õ Ôhandsom,Õ
Ôimportant,Õ Ôinsightful,Õ Ômeaningful,Õ Ôclear,Õ Ôdeep,Õ ÔpowerfulÕ etc. are
routinely deployed in conjunction with a compliment. The most cherished
compliments are always in excess – magical realism. In other words, a
surplus of meaning has to be produced in order to convey positive recognition
of some act or quality. Knowing this, the honesty of a compliment is always
suspect. Is a personÕs compliment, though I refuse to need it to begin with,
really how they think about me, or is it an exercise in thesaurus-izing the
word ÔgoodÕ? Receiving a personal compliment is boring, it dulls the senses, it
is a fictitious solidarity that presumes the necessity of evaluative praise
following almost anything a person does.
The
personal compliment hinges both on the facial expression of the recipient and
on some form of reciprocity. I refuse to smile broadly like an idiot or mumble
some platitude to someone when hearing something good about me. I have resorted
at times to a tight pursing of the lips, though even this is performed with
much awkwardness and discomfort. You donÕt know if you should shake hands, hug
the other person, or nod politely. Rarely can a compliment be received without
furnishing some obligatory counter-compliment – ÔI like your shoes too,Õ
Ôyour paper was very interesting as well,Õ Ôyou must have done even better,Õ
etc. This does not enhance relationships; it is the impoverishments of them.
As
a verbal genre, the compliment is overused, over-determined. That is not to say
that praise or appreciation should not be given. If someone says something I
find admirable, I will try to include or implement what they have said into my
own thoughts and actions; something akin to Ôimitation is the best form of
flattery.Õ Or, to be more precise, incorporation is the best (and should be the
only) form of complementation. In another scenario, at the scene of the
intimate, I will not say, for example, ÔI think you have nice hairÕ – I
will touch or smell it instead, I will hold it in my hand or brush it across my
face. Someone once said that words are all we have. They were wrong. The resort
to the non-verbal is actually liberating, it is a more enriching exchange of
affect. And it lasts longer, or we imagine that it lasts longer.
As
a result of this tirade, it should be clear that I am incapable, or weary to
the extreme, of deciding, rather disclosing, my best speech genre. This
discussion obviously obviates the genre of the self-compliment. There are
things that I am good at, of course. But, (more modernism I know), I want to
improve on and at them all the time. And the road to improvement is paved with
critique, critique and more critique. Onwards, by leaving your personal
compliments by the wayside.
Thank
you – or rather, no thank you and no Ôthank yous.Õ
*
* * *
*
5. SinginÕ
the Blues
Prof.
Walter Reed, Institute of Liberal Arts, English
Huh? What? The speech genres in which I am at my best—in
my own mind? Or the ones which I
admire most in the performance repertoires of others? That is, the ones I envy others being proficient with, while
IÕm not? The ones I do best
with—a legend in my own mind—but with which other people tell me
IÕm really a complete flop—with which, as I do them, execute them (what
is the right word?) I embarrass my friends and family members. (ÒOh, no! There goes Dad trying to do his miserable Elvis
impersonation!Ó) And what is the
relation of speech genres to written texts? My wife writes out her sermons, then delivers them orally with great skill. But some people want her to just get up
in the pulpit and start talking, heart to heart. Can you imagine ÒJohnnyÓ Donne in St. PaulÕs, improvising
off the cuff?
OK—IÕve
got it. (IÕm impersonating an
improviser here.) My favorite
speech genre is the blues. (See
how a fertile mind can always steer the conversation back to his own hobby
horse?) In fact, though I love the
musical instruments on which the blues (generic term) can be played (acoustic
guitar, 6 or 12 string, electric guitar, Hammond B organ, saxophone, most of
all the harmonica, blues harp, ÒMississippi saxophoneÓ etc.), it is the words
of the blues that fascinate me—the folk poetry of the classic prosodic
form of the 12-bar blues: 5-
stress line, repetition of this 5-stress line, rhyming punch line (AAB, AAB,
AAB, ad infinitum). But I get
frustrated trying to figure out just what Blind Lemon Jefferson is saying as he
tears his way through a classic blues lament. Clarity of diction and the QueenÕs English pronunciation are
not characteristics of the genre.
I
love to write blues—lyrics, at least--as a way of gaining a comic or
ironic perspective on a difficult situation. (The serious, heartfelt, gut wrenching blues—ÒIÕd
Rather Go Blind,Ó ÒLove in Vain,Ó ÒDeath Letter BluesÓ—are a variety of
the genre (a sub-genre?) that I think I wish I could write (hell, compose and
perform, in front of a select audience of blues aficionados at the Northside
Tavern, on their Monday Open Mike night)—but these are too much of a
challenge, too much of a threat.
What would happen if I really told the world how awful I feel about life
sometimes? LaughinÕ to keep from
cryinÕ—a classic blues phrase, a Òfloater,Ó as itÕs called, that moves
from song to song, whatever the ostensible topic.
OK—youÕve
all been waiting. When is he going
to give us a sample of his wares?
Check this out for an opening verse of ÒThe Mikhail Mikhailovitch
Bakhtin BluesÓ:
IÕm
just a dialogic daddy, with a monologic momma on my mind,
Yes,
a dialogic daddy, got a monologic momma on my mind.
I
canÕt believe that woman treats me so unkind!
Enough!
Or too much! I do have a tune for
it, though all you need is the 3 chord structure of the 12 bar blues (IÕm such
an amateur musician, playing by ear, that I canÕt even transcribe it. But I can hear it in my head—or
is it my heart and soul?) Someone
has suggested that the device of repeating the first line allows a singer who
is really improvising (that word again!) to make up the third, rhyming line as
he winds his way through the verse.
(A side note: I wonder if
this had been argued about the parallelism of the biblical psalms, the Òblues
of the sky,Ó as Rosenberg has creatively called them.) (Another side note: I once wrote a blues called ÒThe Twelve
Bar BluesÓ that chronicles a pub crawl through the blues bars I have known and
loved in Atlanta: ÒA dozen bars in
a single night;/ That really wasnÕt very bright;/ ThatÕs why IÕve got the
twelve bar blues.Ó My sometime
harmonica teacher wanted me to copyright it, but that seemed too
pretentious. The whole question of
claiming copyright for traditional oral folk songs has been a vexed one in the
so-called music industry in the 20th c. Maybe IÕll send it to my new favorite Atlanta bluesman, Bill
Sheffield, whose original composition ÒGonna Get Me a New TattooÓ is my new
all-time favorite.
So
why do I favor this genre, one that arguably belongs to African Americans,
coming out of New Orleans at the turn of the 19th century, moving up
to the Mississippi Delta and on to Chicago—not to mention all the
regional varieties, styles and classic/canonical performers, that I once read
about and tried to listen to and categorize (a poetics of speech genres), back
when I was going through one of my Òphases,Ó as my mother would have called
it. (Is it relevant that my mother
became a professional story-teller, telling other peopleÕs stories rather than
her own in the middle years of her now 90-year-old life?)
In
other words, do I have any right to declare this--even in this rather friendly
and supportive circle of colleagues and students (by the way, everyone here is
both, as far as IÕm concerned), do I have any right to be a Òwhite boy singing
the blues,Ó the title of one of the first scholarly (well, semi-scholarly)
books I read on the subject? (Mose
Allison: ÒJust another little
middle-class white boy/ Out tryinÕ to have some fun.Ó) Whiteness, of course, is privileged, in
spite of the recent election of Barack Obama, in American society. But it is also, for many of us whities,
colorless—drab, boring, in need of a life begged, borrowed or
stolen. Liberal guilt, or genuine
admiration for the incredible skill and strength of a performative genre
which—OK, Reed, lay your cards on the table—represents some of the
greatest poetry going in 20th c. American literature?
Holy
cow! (to paraphrase Phil Rizzuto).
IÕve only got five minutes left and IÕve only finished half of the
assignment. I could tap dance my
way through and claim—with some cogency—that the blues are also my worst
speech genre, not only my best.
And I could tell the story of my abortive debut on the stage of Blind
WillieÕs, the premier blues club in Atlanta (where Mike Holquist and I repaired
a couple of weeks ago to hear Maria Muldauer.) They announced on the radio, on WRFG, a harmonica playerÕs
play-along, for anyone, Òyou have an old harmonica in your dresser
drawer—come on out and have some fun.Ó So I showed up, paid my entrance fee (it was a fund-raiser)
and waited my turn. My blood began
to run cold as I heard the ÒamateursÓ who preceded me, playing Paul Butterfield
riffs and jamming with the house band to beat the band—literally. This was my moment of truth—or my
moment of exposure. I stuck my
tail between my legs and beat a retreat.
YouÕre either in the band or in the house; itÕs important to know where you belong.
On
the other hand, it would be more honest (a virtue that some people close to me
keep urging me to pursue with more diligence) to say that my least favorite
speech genre is prayer. Silent
prayer, in fact. But thatÕs not
true, either. Prayer is a genre
that I admire in other people, which I wish I could be better at,
which—Dear Lord!—I even envy others for being good at. ÒHep me, Jesus!Ó (This last is a direct quotation from a
hapless character—one of the many hapless characters--in Flannery
OÕConnorÕs novel Wise Blood.)
* *
* * *
6. An essay
is a totally different story
Kevin Barbour, Religion, Hebrew
Bible
Allow
me to begin with a personal anecdote:
Two
weeks ago, I was shopping at my local Publix grocery store. I only had to pick up a loaf of bread
and some eggs. I was in no
hurry—of course, I had hours and hours of coursework to prepare for, but
I am always looking for an excuse to procrastinate (it should be noted that I
have brought the discipline of procrastination to new heights, resorting to the
most creative means to delude myself into always thinking that IÕm too busy to
do all of my coursework). Ten
minutes before the trip to Publix, I had opened my refrigerator to grab a Coke
Zero. I scanned the contents of my
stocked refrigerator, and noticed that we were low on milk, and had no
eggs. There was no need for milk and eggs at the moment,
but the only alternative to a trip to the store was to translate a few chapters
of Hebrew for class. I forced
myself to feel a need for an omelet,
so I chose to go to the store for the eggs. By the way, I donÕt really like omelets.
I
took my time in the store, browsing through the gourmet coffees before
meandering toward the milk and eggs.
I took a long time deciding on the merits of one brand of milk versus
another, the aesthetics of brown eggs versus white eggs, etc. but eventually
made my selection, and slowly walked toward the checkout. I scanned the checkout lines, and deliberately
chose the one with the longest line.
In
front of my was a woman of about 55 years old, who looked as if she was
catering a party for 50 people with all the groceries she had. Among other things, she had lobsters
and steak, expensive cheeses, and a few varieties of that gourmet coffee that I
had decided was way too pricey for me.
As the cashier scanned the items, I noticed that she was looking at
me—not in a casual way, but intensely. I pretended not to notice, until I heard a half choked sob,
and saw that tears were streaming down her face.
ÒAre
you okay?Ó I asked—I was sort of bewildered.
ÒIÕm
really sorryÓ she whispered. ÒItÕs
just that you remind me of my son, who was killed in a car accident last
month.Ó
I
didnÕt know what to say, besides ÒIÕm really sorry about that.Ó I felt for her. We chatted for a bit, and then were
silent. I began to peruse the
National Enquirer when I didnÕt know what else to say.
Finally,
when the cashier had nearly finished ringing her out, she again turned to
me. ÒCould you do me a favor?Ó she
asked.
ÒOf
courseÓ I answered, Òwhat is it?Ó
ÒI
never had the chance to say goodbye to my son—would you say goodbye to
me?Ó
I
felt a little awkward about it, but as she pushed her cart away toward the
door, I waved to her and said, Ògoodbye mom—I love you.Ó
She
smiled through her tears, and went out the door.
The
cashier proceeded to ring out my bread and eggs, and then said ÒThatÕll be $546
and 23 cents.Ó
ÒWhat?Ó
I said. I thought it was a
joke.
ÒOhÉÓ
the cashier said, Òyour mom said that youÕd be paying for her groceries.Ó
Without
a word, I darted for the door. My
initial shock was beginning to give way to anger. I spotted the woman who was frantically shoving the
groceries into the car.
I
confronted her: ÒYou had no right to do that to me!Ó I shouted.
People stopped, and I felt them watching us.
ÒGet
away from me! I donÕt know you!Ó
she yelled. People began to
gather. My face flushed. She continued yelling at me, but then
she opened her car door to get in.
ÒYouÕre
not going anywhere until the police get here!Ó I shouted.
ÒGet
away from me, I donÕt even know you—why are you harassing me? Somebody help me!Ó she screamed.
I
didnÕt know what else to do. She
sat in the front seat of her car, but I somehow managed to grab onto her left
foot. She struggled, and I
pulled. I really didnÕt want her to get away. So there I was, in the middle of the Publix parking lot,
yanking on this ladyÕs leg so she couldnÕt get away. She kicked at me and continued to cry out for help, but I
held on for dear life. I was just
yanking and yanking, pulling on her leg.
I pulled and pulled. I was really pulling this womanÕs leg.
Just like IÕm pulling all of
yours.
This
story is all a lie. I confess: I
am a liar.
Telling
stories is my best speech genre. But if I had to be really honest about
it, my stories are almost all fiction. They are simply not Òtrue.Ó Therefore, I often lie to friends,
family, and even new acquaintances via stories in informal or casual
situations. I consider myself a true storyteller because I never feel
particularly constrained by unimportant details like Òthe way things really happened.Ó A story about going out to buy eggs and
milk with no snags, and then returning home (ie. Òthe truthÓ) is just plain boring. I would rather be interesting
than truthful when it comes to mundane everyday conversations with people. My life is not terribly interesting,
but IÕd like to think my stories are.
I donÕt like conversations about the weather, about how IÕm ÒdoingÓ in
general, about movies IÕve seen.
IÕd rather have white lies, hyperbole, imagination, and
exaggeration—to me it gets no better than this.
But
am I the boy who cried wolf? Am I
trustworthy? IÕve preached sermons
in churches on many occasions—what about then? But this is a different genre. People want to know the ÒTruthÓ in such settings, so I try
to steer clear of hyperbole there.
It is difficult for me, though.
But
in an everyday setting, like sitting among friends and acquaintances while I
read this, IÕm not always sure people want the Òtruth.Ó People like to laugh, shout, gasp, be
surprised, etc. In other words,
they like to be engrossed in a good story. I like the
attention, so I will tell a story whenever I can, often substituting
exaggeration or hyperbole for the boring Òtruth.Ó My wife actually hates this about me—sometimes I tell
stories to others that involve her when sheÕs not around.
ÒOh,
Kevin told me that story about you and the blind elk when you two were living
in Montana,Ó they might say to her.
ÒIt was so funny.Ó
Allison
will raise here eyebrows. ÒKevin
and I never lived in Montana,Ó sheÕd
say flatly.
But,
by the way, we really did live in Montana. IÕm serious. I
drove one of those red antique tour buses, and gave narrated tours while
working with the organization ÒA Christian Ministry in the National
Parks.Ó Allison did too. I swear IÕm not making this up. Well, at least IÕm not really making this up. Well, I suppose most of this is mostly true.
Therefore,
it is clear to me that telling stories is my worst speech genre. I
rarely reveal anything significant about myself
because people who know me also
know not to trust my stories.
People who donÕt know me may still
know nothing about me after I meet them and launch into a few stories. They might introduce me to their
friends: ÒThis is Kevin, he taught high school English in Las Vegas and most of
his kids were in gangs. He lived
at the Grand Canyon too. He was
just telling me how he hiked to Mount Everest Base camp two years ago in June,
and it actually snowed and he nearly died. He was guided out of there by a wild dog who apparently knew
the path to the closest Nepalese village.
He called the dog ÔRedÕ and fed him a Snickers bar as a way of saying
thanks.Ó
That
last one, by the way, is true.
Hmmm. Or is it? I donÕt really remember the details. I did teach in Las Vegas and I did work
at the Grand Canyon too. Those
details are likewise fuzzy, though.
It was a while ago. My memory
isnÕt so good anyway.
Telling
hyperbolized stories in casual conversation—that is my best and worst
speech genre. I do it all the
time. Hmmm. Or do I? Sometimes I donÕt always remember if something really happened, or if I just told it
one too many times.
Or
do I remember these things like they were yesterday, and IÕm just not being
honest with you? You probably
donÕt trust me anymore. After all,
this has been a casual essay among friends and acquaintances. But the speech genre of this essay is totally different than one of
my stories. I swear.
Totally different.
In
other words, the speech genre of an essay is a totally different story.
(Note:
a basic version of the Ògrocery storeÓ story told in the above essay was
initially told to me by a friend, who had heard it from another friend. The version above has been modified,
expanded, and personalized based upon that original basic story outline I once
heard years ago. I wish I could
give credit to its original author, but I canÕt. But IÕll gladly take credit for my own version of it).
* *
* * *
7. WhereÕs My Script? The Anxiety of Meditation in Utterance.
James Howard, English, Medieval/Early
Modern Literature
First,
there are several ways that I can approach ÒbestÕ and Òworst.Ó There are some
speech genres that I feel at ease in, but perhaps the lack of nervous adrenaline does not give it the
projective energy for others to see the performance as fantastic. Similarly,
there are speech genres where I get nervous and flustered to the point of
having no reckoning of my performance, but others will either appear placated
or give compliments. So any ÒbestÓ or ÒworstÓ that I give may not have to do
with how easygoing I feel in the position, but in the listener responses that I
get. After all, that is what we look for, listen for, and yearn for when we
speak and listen.
For
example, one speech genre where I always get nervous, sweaty, and twitchy is
the formal speech, the podium banger, or the staged monologue. The audience is
sometimes there voluntarily, but in a class or mandatory function they are
captive. The impetus is to please the ones holding the grade, or some perverse
sense of formality, while interjecting humor, energy, and vitality to please
even the indifferent, as in a valediction before the impatient. Tone with
personality is the ideal, but it must be clear. When insufficiently prepared,
nervousness and doubt cannibalize my performance. But when I have the time to
write and practice a whole speech, that nervousness is the energy of
spontaneous improvisation, and the full feeling of being in communion with a
topic and giving an audience what they want while remaining true to the inner
substance is ecstatic when it works, and so I have a particular fondness for
giving and listening to speeches.
Perhaps
in a related way, I also have a hidden enjoyment for reading aloud in class,
like in high school English classes, where everyone would be assigned a part to
a play. Like the speech, I saw it my job to give a lively voice to the prose,
even if my gusto was often greater than my actual ability. Read well enough,
new tensions could open up for discussion, as when I voiced Abigail in The Crucible. The vocal interpretation
is useful and productive to me, and I hope itÕs my best, but may properly be my
favorite.
Also,
I find exchanges to be more comfortable over IM or by e-mail due to its
meditative qualities. The overall speech genre of a fast written exchange is
perfect, because I can think and edit my response before I send it, but not
leave the other person with a verbal silence but a textual one, which is far
less awkward. That doesnÕt say such awkward silences donÕt happen, but the
silence can be more casual, since amidst the banter it is easily assumed that
the other person could be fixing dinner or playing online checkers without any
breach of etiquette.
In
contrast, I feel like I suffer in fast-paced conversations of acquaintance. I
donÕt know the other person enough to do more than ask questions, but the
questions themselves seem inadequate and trivial, and there isnÕt any way to
establish an easy, frank, and intelligent rapport without risking the other
personÕs unease by an inappropriate utterance. There is no context of Òfriend.Ó
It is like a game in which I do not know the rules, and where silence would
ordinarily be a comfort (the silence of solace or companionability) it turns
awkward because thereÕs no sense of a mutual comfort. Which utterance is worse
– that of an awkward silence, or that of awkwardly trying to cover it up?
Also, when someone says something, I think of the best thing to say after the
moment has passed. Of course, I need not say the best thing in every situation
(who could?), but learning how to think socially in speech on my feet is a
place where I feel inadequate.
To
provide a more fixed speech genre where my inadequacy is more evident and may
not carry the fantasy of universality so heavily, I have trouble saying how I
am. ÒHow are you?Ó is the question, and of course the response is automatic, as
it should be. ItÕs always an approximate gauge, a variation on Ògood,Ó Òwell,Ó
Òokay,Ó Òalright,Ó Òfine,Ó Òswell,Ó Ògreat,Ó and so on. Sometimes it will be
Òfantastic,Ó Òsuper,Ó Òmeh,Ó or Òmagnificatasticalastic.Ó So perhaps I am great
at the general genre, but once people ask, ÒWhatÕs so great?Ó or ÒWhatÕs
wrong?Ó the effluence of vocabulary melts away. Unlike an IM, how do I
self-edit for propriety and give a quick, efficient, cogent, and true answer?
At best, I can trust to the description of an event to satisfy, but it is
somehow so difficult to give the feelings actual words. My mother said I play
my cards close to my heart. Or perhaps IÕm a ÒprivateÓ person, though I feel
the want of sociability as well.
Maybe
speech genres can be classified in certain ways, but in that, the possibility
of relation to speech genres ought to be considered, whether psychologically or
socially. Is it that I feel best in speech roles with a clear rather than
ambiguous spontaneous context, or is it a distinction of formal performance
versus an anxiety of alienation in informal exchange via breaking a rule?
Neither? Both? Something else too? The answer will differ from person to
person, but such relationships also constitute the use of the genre. It is a
linguistics dependent on my relation to language, how I perceive others to
relate to language, how they relate to mine, and the assumed truths within all
of these relations.
8. ÒThe Future Lasts ForeverÓ
Elizabeth
Bishop, English
The
inspirational speech is my best speech genre. It is never to a crowd, but one
person. This I am good at, because I am an outspoken person, and they believe I
will tell them the truth. But truth doesnÕt exist for the subject. I donÕt know
why I know so many directionless waifs. I think it is our generational
condition, a crisis of meaning and while I am deeply upset by this crisis, this
is not how you inspire. You decentre the crisis, you re-assert the importance
of the subjectÕs conditional existence. This appears in a way to be the
apologist for all the subjectÕs bad decisions. But this is necessary. In many
ways. To inspire confidence in the weak, you have to invalidate the past,
remark on its worthlessness—of course this isnÕt true, if I have one
illness it is nostalgia, but when your sister talk about her problems, you
donÕt talk about her faults, you talk about the future. The wide open,
non-essentialised, gorgeous golden future. And in some basic human way, this is
all a lot of people need—someone else to tell them its okay to start
over, a thousand times, because as Althusser says, ÒThe Future Lasts Forever.Ó
My
worst speech genre is the academic presentation. The burden of conveying final
meaning is unbearable. The weight of being a vessel of certain truth. Whereas I
can thrive in the moment of the extemporaneous speech, the academic
presentation is as repugnant as a bough of pine. Part of this is due to the
required logic. Thesis, reasons, evidence, calm steady voice, simulated
interest of the audience, the appearance of authority. This may be what I
dislike the most—the false pose of authority. Which may seem ironic
because I have a tendency to polemicize. But IÕd like to think I do it in a way
that inspires, opens up, not fences in—whereas most shows of authority
only lead to imprisonment. I am engendered to a more organic, circuitous manner
of speech that allows the audience to provide their own meaning, evidence, so
we circulate around each other instead of me doing a moses down from the
mountain. This genre is the worst because it is set solely in the present, it
has no potencial for the future. I live and die with the information I am
imparting in class. Whereas inspirational, extemporaneous speech rears up
unexpectantly, and has no end, survives with each personÕs drive to live, to never
give up. But academic
presentations are about the mastery of knowledge, and I think this is wrong.
The humanities are not about what we know, but what questions we are concerned
with. How we breathe in our disciplines, what they mean to politics, society. I
would be satisfied with few answers in my life, but an abundance of inquiries.
A
never-ending open wonder.
* *
* * *
9. Silence as a speech genre: Why I love collective improvisations
Prof. Mikhail Epstein,
Russian and East Asian Languages and Cultures
The
most enviable speech genre for me is that of silence. Can we regard
"silence" as a genre? Why not? Genre is a mode of speech behavior,
and silence is definitely one of them. The abstention from speech is as
meaningful and "telling," as any manifestation of speech. Moreover,
silence can be viewed as an utterance because it has a certain author and
certain time boundaries, a beginning and an end, as it is framed by utterances
of the others. Silence has its own topic, is it always about something, it is
intentional, in distinction from the "natural" state of quiet. Only
the creatures who can speak can be silent as well, not just mute or quiet, like
rocks, stars, tables and other. It is quite legitimate to ask: "what are you silent about?"
Wittgenstein famously
pronounced: "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent."
Usually it is understood to mean the opposition of speech and silence, and obviously Wittgenstein meant it to
be precisely this. But in fact this statement also implies the similarity of
speech and silence, because both of them share the "of," the
"ofness," the topicality and intentionality. One can be silent only
about the same things about which one can speak. Therefore we can think silence
not just as a single speech genre, but as a universe of genres which may turn
out to be no less diverse than the universe of pronounced speech genres. Look
at the variety of silence genres in the gospels: on how many occasions when
speech would be appropriate and even desirable Jesus remains silent. Silence
may be more eloquent and meaningful than speech. There is silence of consent
and silence of dissent, silence of contempt and silence of piety, silence of
understanding and silence of ignorance... As Pasternak put it: "Silence — you sound better than anything I've heard."
I would add: "...and better than anything I've uttered. " On so many occasions I envied those people who had the courage and
wisdom to be silent when I had the weakness of speaking or at least murmuring
something.
This is only an introduction to my eulogy of
collective improvisation as a speech genre, or rather as a combination of many
speech genres including that of silence.
How did it begin? I felt my inadequacy in the genre of a party talk
that, on the other hand, I attempted to promote on the occasion of my birthday
parties (the last one occurred when I turned 34). I had a number of friends
with whom I had a deep speech interaction in the genre of "private
conversation" or even "existential conversation." Some of these
people were very talented in their professional fields, from physics to
linguistics. I imagined that by inviting all of them at the same party will
increase the pleasure of conversation manifold. For example, six bright
interlocutors talking to each other at one party table will increase six times
the shining of the common conversation. In reality, instead of multiplication
of gifts it was a division and
reduction. When coming together people tend to broaden the zone of a
communication in such a way that would be inviting for everybody – and
therefore for nobody. Politeness ruins the conversation. The necessity for
mediation promotes mediocrity. People begin to talk about the latest news,
commonly known facts and events and, instead of beeng themselves, become
no-selves, anyselves. Again and again, from year to year, I felt the same
disappointment finding the brightest people growing grey and dull in the
presence of each other.
How to maintain and multiply this brightness
instead of diminishing it for the
sake of communality? Such is the problem of speech genres. A party talk,
whether it is held in a restaurant
or at home, is a kind of speech communism where the private property is
nationalized in favor of the collective speaking body; individuals find
themselves to be organs of this body which utters platitudes in order to be
equally comfortable for everybody.
Is it possible to sit at one table and communicate
in a diffent, non–communist mode, with a private property of speech and
thinking left intact but at the same time contributing to the common wealth of
communication? For this very purpose a collective improvisation wasinitiated as
a complex speech genre, or even a multigeneric ritual. For the first time it
took place among the three of us, the artist Ilya Kabakov, the sociologist
Iosif Bakstein and myself, in 1982. Later it embraced a permanent group of 7-8
participants though some individual sessions have been visited by many people.
Perhaps the most important in the art of collective improvisation is that it
incorporates the period of silence, the precious speech genre of silence while
getting it at the service of communication. People talk, suggest their topics,
discuss them, select one of them. Thus the moment of commonality is established
which then gives way to the moment of complete privacy and interiority. Writing
is a miraculous speech genre in itself because it is a silent spech, a silent communication. Is it possible to speak and
be silent at the same time? Yes, if you are writing.
Now,
if the party talk is one of my worst genres, what is my best? Strange as it may
sound, I like the genre of interview. Not a job interview, to be sure, but a
personal interview that can be mutual, interpersonal, existential and
metaphysical. I like unexpected questions that make me think aloud about
something I've never had a chance to think before. This genre sometimes emerges
in the end of a lecture or a seminar when students begin to ask questions and
are encouraged to do so in the least predicable and most provocative way, on
the variety of topics at least tangentially related to the subject of
discussion. I ask them in my turn, and in this way the space of conversation
resounds best with my innate speech genres. Perhaps we are born with these genres
in our genes. My favorite genre is an unexpected question that has a chance to
provoke a surprising answer.
For
this very reason I love collective improvisations. Each of them is in fact one
big unpredictable question that makes possible many diverse and equally
unpredictable answers. Is "unpredictability" itself a speech genre
since it deals with "dictum" (word, saying)? Is unpredictability a
silence in the future tense, something that is doomed to be silent but still
has a small, improbable chance to explode with speech? Could we initiate a new
division at our academic institutions: Departments of Silentology and
Unpredictability?