I am now a few weeks into my second (and final) semester of student teaching. I have been bucked, kicked, bitten, stepped on, and whinnied at (more or less literally). Thus far, I have found teaching to be an incredibly humbling process, mostly because it forces one to get intimately in touch with reality. When I say this, I don’t mean to suggest that those in the ivory tower or elsewhere are particularly out of touch with reality (although many are, mind you). I simply mean that, regardless of your profession—whether it be peddling ideas, fixing cars, growing plants, or whatever—teaching whatever knowledge you have to other people forces you to come to terms with difficulties that are rather uncommon in the day-to-day “work” you usually partake in.

These difficulties are not always the product of your shortcomings. Indeed, they usually are not: you, as a teacher, (hopefully) know the essential kernels of information that lock together the big picture in your area of expertise. In actuality, the phenomenon that makes teaching so profoundly difficult at times is deeply philosophical: to wit, the problems surrounding language/communication/whatever. One of the first and most important realizations a decent teacher makes is that no two people think (and thereby learn) in the same way. After spending years of my life considering the deeper theoretical ramifications of this truth, I am familiarizing myself with the other side of the coin—the pragmatics of these complications and, subsequently, how to overcome them.

In philosophy, we often find convenient answers that, ideally, cut at the joints of these problems and allow us to parse things out neatly. Even if the issues persist, there is some satisfaction in bumping up against an aporia and allowing it to be the last word in the matter—past a certain point, a self-aware human reason will realize its own boundaries. In philosophy, many difficulties regarding language are never fully resolved (or, at the very least, haven’t been addressed with enough rigor for us to put them behind us, as thinkers). In education, these difficulties have to be overcome if a student is going to learn. Oftentimes they are. As such, teaching provides a startling and, in a way, disturbing answer to many of philosophy’s stickier questions: “These things can be overcome…we’re just not entirely sure how it happens.”

Like training a horse, this process is not clean. It is bumpy. It cannot be quantified in any substantial way, especially when it comes down to one-on-one teacher/student interactions. This results in mental bruises and confusion and furrowed brows. And it takes sweat. And care. And passion. And some deep-seated faith, of a sort, that the seeds you are sowing will eventually—maybe years or decades from now—result in another person’s mind finding a similar beauty in the mystery of the world and our existence here.

My teenage years were filled with concern over the prototypical social molds of the 1990s. Baggy pants? All black? Flannel? These concerns evaporated by the time I hit college, one of those things that is uncanny in how much it matters one moment and how little it matters the next.

And let’s not pretend otherwise. It was vacuous. Your ability (or willingness) to drop $50.00 on a pair of JNCOs was, for a few short years, what separated the cool from the not-so-cool. A shitty pair of pants was what decided which social circles you would be permitted into and those you would be shunned by.

It all seems ridiculous. Not just seemingly ridiculous. It was ridiculous. (I’m sure said paradigms still exist, in other permutations, amongst youth today—I’m far too lazy to learn about them, although I’m sure my life as a high school teacher will enlighten me in this regard.) And now that my peer group has matured a little bit, everyone seems to be more or less comfortable in their own skins. The paradigms are gone and we all look back at the days of our youth with a smirk of embarrassment.

And now there are hipsters.

Somehow, this has caught on amongst twenty-somethings. Somehow, a weird social paradigm has managed to survive past many people’s teens and an entire generation is caught up in a milieu of tight jeans, fixed-gear bicycles, Toms, record players, and…uh…irony? And, oh yeah, obscure things you probably haven’t heard of.

Urban Dictionary’s top-voted entry for hipster is, “the blend of every failed fad of 1990s.” Independent of the accuracy of such a definition, I’m still astounded at how many people my age have committed to this…lifestyle? The thing is, I’m hesitant to call it a lifestyle because…well, it’s too easy. It’s not a lifestyle, no more than the goths, jocks, and preppies of our youth were a lifestyle.

HYPOTHESIS: The “lifestyles” (again, I use this term hesitantly) of our youth didn’t melt away, but were forced out by real (more substantial, textured, whatever) lifestyles as we developed into self-authoring adults who cultivated real interests and passions, etc.

So lifestyles/social paradigms/whatever still persist into adulthood. Hipsters are just one of them, right? Why pick on them? Well, again, because being a hipster too easy. I have many hats that I think lump me in with a group: philosophy, education, reading, descriptivist grammar. All of these are products of me cultivating a passion. Spending time doing stuff. If someone could buy a collection of Plato and become a philosopher, then my study of philosophy would be utterly meaningless. It would be silly. It would be vacuous.

One of the key aspects of these more substantial, textured lifestyles is that they are predicated on things besides owning shit. I.e., you can’t study philosophy by purchasing a pair of pants. And this, I think, is what makes the hipster paradigm so goddamn puzzling. I can go drop a couple hundred dollars on some paraphernalia, claim that my appreciation for everything mainstream is tongue-in-cheek, and become a hipster overnight. And since there’s no substantial investment required to do so, my ownership of said products is necessary and sufficient for me to become a hipster.

I thought we were done with this…?

But I have also been applying for some additional part-time gigs to pay the bills. After all, I really should consider trying to pay off my student loans at some point. So some of my precious free time has been used for applying to jobs. It is monotonous, on the whole, but occasionally I have experiences so surreal that I can’t help but revel in the peculiarity.

I went in for an interview yesterday with a personal practice attorney. Attorneys, as people, vary as much as any other group, but when they are quirky, they are absolutely quirky—quirky with an energetic absurdity that is almost beyond imagination. I’ve worked extensively with engineers, too, who more or less come as close to the Platonic form of “weird” or “awkward” when they are weird or awkward, but they are decidedly not quirky. No. Lawyers have within them the seeds of pure, undistilled quirkiness. I have felt this way for a long time, but this interview reinforced this sentiment so strongly. After the usual introductions, the exchange went something like this:

Lawyer: Here, fill out this short little personality test.

Me: OK… [This is downright weird. Personality tests belong in big corporations looking to quantify human capital, not in a personal practice attorney's office. I have never seen anything like this. Nevertheless, I quickly complete it.]

Lawyer: All right, let’s see…you’re yellow. Which means you’re creative!

Me: I’ve always considered myself more analytic, but I guess I have a creative streak.

Lawyer: If you’re creative, why aren’t you writing poetry? Or a book?

Me: Well, I’ve never been that interested in writing fiction. I enjoy reading it…

Lawyer: Now, it says you studied philosophy on your resume. In the context of this personality test, you just discuss ideas forever and ever, on and on! [No, I am not making this up.]

Me: Well, I enjoy discussing ideas, but I’ve always been drawn to philosophy that can be applied to the world.

Lawyer: You didn’t listen to me! I said, in the context of this personality test! That wasn’t a comment about philosophy generally. [Having read over said personality test, I am sure there was nothing about philosophy, or philosophy majors, on it.]

Me: OK…

Lawyer: All right. Tell me when you were born?

Me: Uh…September 28.

Lawyer: Ah, so you’re a Libra! Libras like to talk a lot!

Me: Uh…I enjoy discussions, but I really don’t talk all that much, I don’t think.

Lawyer: Do you happen to know what time you were born? [Yes, really.]

Me: 9:30 a.m.? …I think? I’m not really sure.

Lawyer: That’s alright. I’ve heard enough. I like what you have said here and I may be in touch to schedule a follow up interview.

Me: [seriously puzzled, standing up] Uh, OK. Thanks…thanks for meeting with me.

Lawyer: Sure! That’s the backdoor over there. Just take that door out. Yeah. See you later.

Click for a bigger image.  (Made with Wordle, hat-tip to Bill.)

Foreign tongues are the same way, singing a siren song devoid of anything intelligible and still so full of meaning.  You will taste tastes.  Smell smells.  It will cut you deep and trample all over you and leave you exhausted in bed longing for more.

I remember the first time I stepped out of a metro stop with a bag on my shoulder and the cobblestones beneath my feet.  I remember sipping coffee while the sounds of an accordion bounded down the narrow avenue.  And I remember, for the first time, discovering an itch that I would never, ever be able to scratch.

Things still creak.  Unusual features stick out in my memory and punctuate just how long it has been—the weird shelves, the desk that’s really a door, the low ceiling.  It—and I suppose you, by extension—smell pretty much the same.  Nothing has changed.

I remember that peculiar night so long ago.

Your sink was full of dishes and your bed was sunk in the middle.  For a long time there I forgot what your face looked like when it wasn’t seen through the lens of a camera and that scared me.  You were never that interested in figuring me out, but I like to think this hinted at an enjoyment that wasn’t cognitive at all.  Everything has changed.

I think the issue was always one of knowing, even though it probably doesn’t matter any more.

More than that: the chance, the fate, that suffuse the past before my eyes are conspicuously present in the accustomed confusion of these books.  For what else is this collection but a disorder to which habit has accommodated itself to such an extent that it can appear as an order?

—Walter Benjamin, “Unpacking My Library”

I do not consider myself a collector.  Quite the opposite, really—the burden of objects weighs heavy on me and I purge often, with gusto and without hesitation.  Books, though, hold a special place in my heart, more than any other category of objects I own.  Here are a few of my favorite pieces from the collection that resides just a few feet from my bed:

Religious "literature"

I acquired this gem over the summer when I was visited by some really nice people who turned out to be Jehovah’s Witnesses.  The beauty of this text is its utility.  When I encounter other door-to-door proselytizers (typically Mormons, but I’ve seen all sorts in this neighborhood), I’ll grab this book and turn the tables.  Plus, the illustrations are really good for a laugh.

People of all ages and races worship the "True God" by...trekking mountain paths (?)

Abercrombie & Fitch Quarterly, Issue 25, "Back to School 2003"

This was given to me by my good friends, Alex and Adam, and stands out as one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received from anyone.  I generally avoid Abercrombie & Fitch products—and catalogues—but this one stands out as a fascinating cultural artifact because it has commentary from Slavoj Žižek, a significant figure in contemporary Continental philosophy.

Pretty much

When asked about his choice to provide copy for the quarterly by the Boston Globe, Žižek said, “If I were asked to choose between doing things like this to earn money and becoming fully employed as an American academic, kissing ass to get a tenured post, I would with pleasure choose writing for such journals!”  Brilliant.

Published in Rolling Stone Magazine

Shortly after David Foster Wallace’s suicide in September 2008, Rolling Stone put out the best eulogy/article on him that I know of.  I made a point of purchasing the magazine for this article alone (the version made available online is severely amended to its detriment).  I later snipped the article out and got rid of the rest of the magazine, but this piece gets read once every few months.

The beloved tome

I read Infinite Jest for the first time in the summer of 2007.  It changed my perspective on damn near everything and continues to pop into my head quite often.  I’ll be rereading it this summer.  With two bookmarks, of course.

The sign of a truly loved book

Ms. G's favorite

My favorite teacher in high school was Kay Goodman.  She taught me how to act, cast me as Mercutio, and was probably the most passionate person I have ever met.  She loved what she did and I remember her often as I think about my probable future as a teacher.  When You Comin’ Back, Red Ryder? was one of Ms. Goodman’s favorite plays.  She was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) a few months into my sophomore year.  The disease attacks nerve tissue, but targets different nerve tissue in each person.  In Ms. Goodman’s case, it went straight for her throat.  Just a year after the diagnosis, she lost the ability to enunciate words, forcing her to retire prematurely.  Watching her exhaust herself directing our last play together stands out as one of the most tragic things I have ever witnessed.  Months before her retirement (and just a year or two before her death), I volunteered to help her clean out a closet.  She let me keep whatever I found on the shelves of books and plays.  I took this book.  It still has her notes in it.

Five males, three females

I have both endured and helped friends endure heartbreak of varying degrees.  In spite of it all, it seems like our generation doesn’t really suffer from an overabundance of heartbreak, but a profound deficit of risk-taking.  While unreciprocated love has always received some attention in cultures of practically every sort, it seems to be the dominant theme these days.  We are the generation of pining, sitting on one’s hands, and avoiding grand gestures for fear of rejection.

It’s not so much that the feelings aren’t there.  Love is nigh unavoidable.  The willingness to put it out on the line and explain to another person exactly how you feel, though—the gesture of really, truly exposing your deepest sentiments—is what freaks most people out.  And it’s not like this is anything new.  Only now our generation’s heroes are the ones that wallow in their self-pitying longing and have to be pushed over the edge by external circumstances or desperation, rarely will power (see, e.g., the cultural epics of 90s television, Friends and Sex and the City).

Similarly, there is a lack of grand gestures in the other direction as well.  Breakups are rarely actual breakups—instead, a breakup merely signals the start of a series of ambiguous and painful hookup sessions with your ex and other people to the point of exhaustion for both parties.  The door never completely shuts because, hey, neither party was really willing to ever make a grand gesture in the first place that would have really tested both parties’ mettle.  And so it goes.

Faced with difficulties that inevitably arise from these norms—and they really are becoming the norm—I dispense one bit of advice: figure your shit out.  This entails a whole number of commitments, duties, and general provisions.  To wit:

1. Don’t start a relationship (emotional, physical, or otherwise) when someone else is on your radar.  Even if the someone else is geographically distant, taken, or otherwise unavailable.  If you’re unsure about someone, make a grand gesture that adequately expresses how you feel, even if that’s mostly confusion.  If you don’t know what constitutes a grand gesture, ask yourself if you’re completely comfortable doing X.  If the answer is no, then it’s probably a grand gesture.  The other person’s response will almost always give you enough certainty to pull out of the gray area.  On that note…
2. You will never be absolutely certain about anything.  People change.  Relationship dynamics change.  The other person might decide that they prefer members of the opposite/same gender.  Or maybe they’ll become a furry, or decide that they have some other fetish that you can’t satisfy, or that celibacy seems like a good idea.  Who knows?  The fact that certainty is impossible doesn’t give you carte blanche to be a jackass, though.  As such…
3. There will be a gamble involved.  Everything is contingent.  Take a deep breath and suck it up.  With great risk comes great reward.  You won’t become a millionaire playing the penny slots.  If you make the gamble, though, make the fucking gamble.  Commit yourself to it.  Really try the other person on for size.  Make some grand gestures.  You can’t do that with some other potential partner on the horizon.  Which is why the first step is so important.

This clearly isn’t a surefire way to avoid heartbreak, but it’s really the only way to be an authentic, decent person.  And really, the lack of authentic, decent people is probably at the root of all this other bullshit.

• Woods | Songs of Shame: I had several lengthy discussions with my friend, Jesse, over our differing musical temperaments this year.  We had a lot of musical synchronicity over 2008, but we were pretty split on most albums this last year.  I’ve been in a really lo-fi mood lately and I think Woods’s album is nearly perfect—she was non-plussed with it.  Excepting “September of Pete” (a nine minute, self-congratulatory jam session that doesn’t really fit with the rest of the album and jarringly cuts the album in half), Songs of Shame is melodic and mellow without being dispassionate.  Just skip track four.
• Bibio | Ambivalence Avenue: I can’t really describe this album.  It’s a mix between dance music and folk music.  Considering folk is probably the first type of music that humans danced to, I think Bibio is doing something really extraordinary by crafting folk music conditioned by our generation’s culture.  As such, one shouldn’t expect traditional folk music here, but instead a truly unique musical experience.
• The Antlers | Hospice: This album grabbed me and wouldn’t let go for about a month.  This is probably one of the most “complete” albums of the year, as it tells a deeply personal story of a man losing his lover to cancer.  Having lost my grandfather at the beginning of 2009 after several weeks in the hospital, this album resonated with me in a significant way.  Coming back to it near the end of this year with a slightly less emotion, it’s still musically brilliant, lyrically brilliant, and shows a really deep level of care and craftsmanship.  I’m excited to hear The Antlers’s next project.

And staying in threes, my most disappointing albums of 2009:

• Volcano Choir | Unmap: Bon Iver produced my favorite album of 2008 and I was hoping for another experience akin to For Emma, Forever Ago.  Instead, I listened to a shoddy post-rock album that is weak, gutless, and boring.  The thing is, the album inspires nothing in me.  I’m not annoyed by it, I’m not passionately upset by it, I’m bored by it.  What a disappointment.
• Beirut | March of the Zapotec/Realpeople Holland: When I heard Zach Condon was orchestrating a new album with southwestern influences in mind, I was elated.  Beirut’s past two albums have put an original spin on traditional, regional styles to produce incredible musical experiences.  Strangely, this album was split into two parts.  March of the Zapotec is clearly inspired by New Mexican culture and is quite good, even though it’s far from being Beirut’s best album.  Then it’s cut with Realpeople Holland, which is mostly slow synthesizer music with plaintive vocals.  The two don’t mix—each one keeps the other from ever getting off the ground.  And it’s disappointing because if either of them had been given adequate attention, either of them could have been great.
• Bibio | The Apple and the Tooth: After loving Ambivalence Avenue, I expected great things and was subsequently let down.  Hard.  Half of the album is comprised of earlier songs by Bibio remixed by other artists and the other half—while catchy—don’t really feel carefully composed or thoughtful.  What’s more it just doesn’t feel musically coherent.  I’m curious what was going on behind the scenes here.  Specifically, I wonder if Bibio’s studio, thrilled with the reception of Ambivalence Avenue, pushed for another release as soon as possible.  What we got was a series of leftover songs that didn’t make the cut in the past along with some mediocre remixes of songs that really aren’t improved in any noticeable way.

Other stuff worth mentioning:

• I didn’t list Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Paviliion because I didn’t really enjoy it.  I felt like Atlas Sound’s Logos was a better album that tried to incorporate classical pop music with a post-rock/noise sound.  I felt like Fuck Buttons’s Tarot Sport was a better album that did the traditional noise/experimental sound akin to Animal Collective’s older stuff.  Sandwiched between these two, Merriweather Post Pavilion just wasn’t that satisfying.
• Can the Yeah Yeah Yeahs just stop producing music please?  It’s Blitz! was gimmicky and thoughtless.  And after listening to what Karen O did with the Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack, I’m convinced that she’s a one trick pony.  It’s time to put her out to pasture.  I’d say the same thing about Passion Pit, but I want to see what their next album has in store before writing them off entirely.
• Dark Was the Night was not included in my best-of list because I think of it more as a compilation than an album.  Still, it’s absolutely superb and deserves mentioning as one of the most enjoyable listening experiences from this last year.  Also, it’s probably the best collection to introduce a newbie to the current music scene.