Toning the Mind

When I began teaching freshman English, I knew I faced a challenge. Years of teaching eighth graders had taught me girls would read pretty much whatever I put before them. Boys, though, were a different story. By their early teens, they had been conditioned—programmed—to believe reading and writing were for girls and math and science were “masculine.” And if there is one thing most adolescent boys want to prove, it’s they’re “real men.”

Fortunately for me such a man serendipitously provided the answer: George Lucas. His Star Wars trilogy would become my hook. I felt confident it would work because frosh boys, despite their puerile need to prove their masculinity, had not yet become jaded. That process would begin in a year or two.

When I told them on our first day that we would watch Star Wars, they were elated. But after the cheering subsided, I made it clear: They would KNOW Star Wars. I’d teach it in conjunction with The Odyssey, and it would become my vehicle for teaching other literary works and developing concepts like the epic hero. Decades later, I like to think they’re citing Yoda’s maxims such as “Do or do not, there is no try,” “Size matters not,” and “That is why you fail” to their children or students.

If I had simply tried to impress those notions on my students via lecture, my words would’ve fallen flat and gone in one ear and out the other. But Yoda said them, so they listened. Which gets at a fundamental aspect of literature: Even though characters might be fictional, their words can have far more impact and bearing on the human psyche than those coming from the mouths of parents, teachers, or preachers. Wise parents, teachers, and preachers know that. So too do the not-so-wise, and it scares the hell out of them.

In his New York Times essay “The Plot Escapes Me,” James Collins, the author of Beginner’s Greek, explained how the sum of our entire literary experiences remains ever in memory. He described how Professor Maryanne Wolf, a trained neuroscientist, told him they become encoded by creating “pathways in the brain, [thereby] strengthening different mental processes.”

That poses an interesting equation. For if our intellectual acumen, acquired wisdom, and philosophical outlook are in large part the sum of our reading experiences, logically it must mean the more we read, the greater is that sum. But it also must mean if one’s total of reading is sparse or zilch, the resulting sum is close to if not zero. After all, 0 + 0 = 0.

Reading, however, is not solely an intellectual endeavor. It is, or should be, a pleasurable experience, an escape from the grind of daily life or an excursion, a journey to or foray into another dimension. As the Queen makes clear to her chief attendant in The Uncommon Reader, books are not about passing the time but instead about other lives and worlds. If one wanted to do that, she suggests, one could fly to New Zealand. Or Mazatlán. Or play a video game. Or watch sports.

Books, though, are not the only repository of great thoughts. The breadth of quality, worthwhile texts ranges wide, from essays and op-eds to full-blown novels. Yoda’s aphorism aptly states it: “Size matters not.” What matters is utilizing one of your greatest gifts: your ability to read.

In the end, reading ought to be about opening and expanding the mind. Unfortunately, many read only texts that reaffirm what they already hold to be true and refuse to allow anything that might challenge their worldview to enter—to pollute—their mind. Such readers remind me of those who see education as a process of “drilling and killing.” Drilling a rigidity of thought—an ideology—into the minds of young people with the intent of killing any sense of curiosity and willingness to question.

My goal as an English teacher wasn’t limited to the immediate concerns of my classroom and curriculum. I wanted also to foster a love of reading, of story, and of complex thinking so my students would not just be lifelong readers, but lifelong learners. I encouraged them to revisit in their adult years the novels we read to see if they’d glean more from them given their more mature minds. Like quoting Yoda’s aphorisms in their middle age, I sure hope they do.

With regard to my frosh boys, I was delighted to see my strategy working. They were hooked, so much so that when reading Romeo and Juliet and other advanced works they would eagerly volunteer to read challenging roles, ask thoughtful questions, and offer insights that showed in-depth, critical thinking. They had a blast and, most importantly, they learned. Imagine that.