You Can’t Say That

Silhouette of human body on stack of papers with red "WRONG" stamp

I was in third grade, and had just taken a spelling test. I’ve always been a good speller, so I knew I’d aced the test. But when my paper came back, I was startled to see one of my answers with a big red X next to it.

“Why did you mark this wrong?” I asked the teacher.

“Because you wrote gray or grey,” she replied.

“I wanted to be complete,” I said.

“This is a test!” she said. “You can’t give me a choice between two different answers. You have to give a single answer.”

“But they’re both right,” I said.

“I don’t care,” she said. “You have to choose one or the other.”

I was getting frustrated. “How do I pick one or the other when they’re both equally right?”

“Just pick one,” she said.

“But…”

“I’m tired of arguing with you,” she said.

“G-r-a-y,” I said, defeated.

“Correct,” she said, although it was less correct than the answer I’d originally given.

This was my initiation into the world of “you can’t say that,” in which — due to unwritten rules, norms, or business considerations — saying something that you know to be true is not allowed. I’m sure we’ve all encountered such situations. Here are a couple that stand out in my memory.


A client of the publishing company I worked for was thinking of using a new technology to create some interactive learning materials. As a young project director, I was charged with doing a feasibility study to find out whether their idea was practical. After doing extensive research, I concluded that what they were proposing was unlikely to work, and I wrote a report saying so.

“The report is fine,” said my boss, “but you have to change the conclusion.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “All of the evidence I cite in the report suggests that their idea is impractical.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “If we say that their idea isn’t practical, they won’t hire us to develop the prototypes.”

“But the prototypes won’t work,” I said. “Besides, as the person who did the research and wrote the report, don’t I get to decide what the conclusion is?”

 “Where did you get that idea?” he said.

For days afterward, I heard him telling my more experienced coworkers, “Mark thinks that just because he wrote the report, he gets to decide the conclusion!” And they would all laugh.


Starting around 2005, community colleges like the one I taught at were forced to adopt an assessment paradigm called Student Learning Outcomes, or SLOs. The point was to hold colleges accountable for their educational effectiveness by offering quantitative evidence that our students were actually learning what we claimed to be teaching.

I could understand the desire for accountability, but the idea of quantifying students’ learning in creativity-centered classes made no sense to me. Unlike in math or science, the quality of students’ imaginative work can’t be measured in any objective way. My students tended to be of a range of ages and backgrounds, and each enrolled in the course wanting to get something different out of it, so I couldn’t imagine any consistent scale that would apply to all of them. And finally, if my own experience is any guide, most of the best lessons that teachers impart don’t have immediate results — they incubate in a student’s brain and may not have any observable outcome until years later.

At the end of each semester, we were required to file an SLO report in which we would give a quantitative measure of each student’s learning, compare that to a numeric goal that we had previously set, and describe what changes we planned to make based on the difference between the two. I managed to come up with a number that represented each student’s learning, but the goal I specified was always 0. As for the changes we planned to make, I always wrote the same thing: “The measurements in this report are arbitrary and meaningless, and therefore I don’t plan to make any changes based on them.”

I did that for years, and no administrator ever complained — chiefly, I think, because nobody actually read my submissions. Then, one day, I had a visit from a representative of the Student Learning Outcomes Assessment Committee, who asked, in effect, what the hell I thought I was doing.

“Everything I wrote is true,” I said. “The data are meaningless.”

“I don’t care if it’s true,” he said. “You can’t say that in the reports.”

“Nobody has complained up until now,” I said.

“Our accreditation is up for renewal,” he reminded me. “The committee from the ACCJC [the Accrediting Commission of Community and Junior Colleges] will be coming here to examine all of our records. They’re expecting to see 100 percent SLO compliance. Based on what you’ve written, they could put us on warning.”

“But I haven’t technically violated the rules,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You have to play the game.”

Playing the game required me to rewrite six years of SLO reports. The revised reports, of course, had no more value than the original ones; they were just longer and contained the right words.


What can we conclude from stories like these? We’re taught as children always to be honest; then, as adults, we’re required not to be. And the examples I gave here take place only in the business world. There are many instances of “you can’t say that” in our personal lives, as well.

Sometime in my 20s, I got a phone call from an old friend — someone I’d known since childhood and had become buddies with in high school — inviting me to his annual Halloween party. I’d been to his Halloween parties before, and I’d never had a good time. They consisted of some strained conversation among people who were as socially awkward as I was, followed by a showing of some horror movie on video. I’d gone every year out of loyalty to him, but I just didn’t feel like it this time.

“You know I value your friendship,” I said. “We’ve known each other for a long time, and I wouldn’t feel right lying to you. Driving from New Jersey to Brooklyn is a long way to go, and it doesn’t feel worth it to me. The truth is, I don’t really enjoy your Halloween parties that much.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I waited, hoping that he would respect and appreciate my honesty.

“You know,” he finally said in a hurt and angry voice, “you could have just said that you were busy.”

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Voices In My Head

I’ve just finished listening to a 29-hour audiobook by one of my favorite writers, historian Jill Lepore. Unlike most recordings of books, this one was read by the author herself. She’s not a professional voiceover talent, so it was interesting to note how her delivery varied — I could easily tell when she was engaged, or bored, or worn out. (When she was especially tired, her voice got hoarse and she read at breakneck speed, as if to get it over with.) Ordinarily I would find that inconsistency distracting, but it helped that her speaking voice perfectly matches her authorial voice, so her reading just felt human, as if Lepore was sitting nearby and speaking to me.

That’s not always the case. There are some writers whose speaking is so different from their writing that it’s hard to accept that they both come from the same person. In the 1980s, I was a great admirer of Michael Kinsley’s political writing, and I used to eagerly await each new issue of The New Republic to see what smart, incisive things he had to say. He gradually made the transition to being a TV pundit, and the first time I heard him speak, I was immediately let down by his weak, nasal voice and Michigan twang. I never enjoyed his written work as much after that, because I mentally heard the words in his voice as I was reading.

I have to confess that my own speaking voice is more in the Michael Kinsley category than the Jill Lepore category. My writing style is confident and articulate — or at least I like to think so —but my speaking is the opposite: My voice is thin, often strained, and somewhat doofy, and I tend to mumble and stammer and slur words together. Much of the time, before a sentence is fully out of my mouth, I know that the person I’m talking to is going to say, “What?”

For much of my life, I had a parallel voice, what I called my “narrator voice.” It was a voice that I started to cultivate when I got my first tape recorder at eight years old, and that came into full flower when I reached my teens. In ninth grade, I got out of writing a term paper by volunteering to record a dramatized series of African folktales, complete with sound effects and original music. Throughout high school, I wrote and produced radio-style commercials for the shows we were doing in the drama club, which got played over the school’s PA system during the morning announcements. All of these recordings featured my narrator voice — a credible imitation of a 1940s radio announcer, all rounded vowels and clipped consonants. It was a voice that, in retrospect, was corny even in the 1970s, when people on the radio were beginning to adopt the more laid-back, conversational style that’s standard today. It was a voice that I certainly couldn’t use socially, but defaulted to using onstage, which is presumably why I so often got cast as professors and judges.

I also tended to use that voice when I was singing. I never realized how strange that was until I started taking singing lessons in my 20s, and my teacher — hearing me perform a song that I was then doing in a children’s play — said, “Why are you over-enunciating your words that way?” It was the first time I really became aware of the phoniness of it. Why, indeed?

I don’t think it happened consciously, but from that time on, I gradually shed all vestiges of mannerism in both speaking and singing. I may not like my voice very much, but at least I know it’s authentic. This, surprisingly, has become something of a handicap when I try to sing popular songs. Have you ever noticed that singers of folk and rock music pronounce their words with a sort of pseudo-western or southern accent — the kind of accent where “I’m singing” comes out as “Ah’m singin’ “? Everybody does it, and I don’t think it’s done deliberately; it’s just the way people learn to sing. I don’t talk that way, and I just can’t bring myself to sing that way. When I try, it comes out sounding awkward and unnatural. When I hear someone else do it, It feels as much like an affectation of informality as my narrator voice was an affectation of formality.

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Hands Down

Screenshots from “100 Hands”

There’s a literary device called synecdoche, in which a part of something is used to represent the whole. The example that’s usually taught in school is “head of cattle,” a phrase that refers to the whole animal, not just its head; but I’ve never liked that example, because the phrase also contains “of cattle,” which makes it less than pure synecdoche.1

A better example is the use of “hand” to represent a person, as in “ranch hand” or “stagehand.” I find that use of synecdoche particularly significant, because for me, a person’s hand physically does represent the person. I’ve always paid close attention to hands, to the extent that I tend to recognize and remember people by their hands.2 There have been a few occasions when I’ve been reunited with an old school friend whom I haven’t seen in thirty or forty years, and I feel awkward because their face has changed so much as to be virtually unrecognizable; but as soon as I look at their hands, I immediately relax — “Ah, yes, that really is So-and-So.”3

Even better is if I can feel someone’s hands as well as look at them. Unfortunately, as I talked about in “People Say Things,” our society offers very little opportunity to touch each other. Usually all I get is a handshake, which allows me to take at least a brief impression, but in the age of the coronavirus, even that opportunity seems like it’s gone away permanently.

When I go to movies, I tend to sit very close to the screen, mainly because I like to be immersed in the action — I want it to take up my whole field of vision. But another advantage of sitting that close is that I have a really good chance to see the actors’ hands. Looking at their hands is a way to get beyond the artifice of lighting and makeup and costumes, to get a visceral reminder that those were living, breathing people in front of the camera.

My attention to hands tends to show up in my creative work. More than ten years ago, I did a project called “100 Hands,” which took the form of a black-and-white computer display that pulled up random data screens containing photos and quantified assessments of people’s hands. (I especially liked making that, because it gave me a chance to hold one hundred people’s hands and record my pseudo-scientific impressions of their temperature, texture, and degree of moisture.)4 More recently, I made “Humandala,” a sort-of mandala made up of body parts, and “Simple Dancers,” a series of images in which dancers are reduced to their most elemental components — hands and feet.  This year, in the first months of the COVID-19 pandemic and lockdown, I was inspired to make “Chain of Hands,” for which I asked people to send me “hand selfies” from wherever they were sheltering in place, and linked them into a long, unified chain. Not only did that project give me something useful to do during that long lockdown period; it also helped me feel connected with my friends, because (at least virtually) I had their hands in front of me.5

As much as I rely on people’s hands to give me a sense of who they are,6 there’s a part of me that knows that it’s only an illusion. There’s an old saying that “the eyes are the windows to the soul,” and we do so often get the feeling that when we look into someone’s eyes, we’re seeing deep down into their essence. In reality, while we certainly get lots of subliminal information from minute changes in the size of people’s pupils, we’re not literally seeing inside them.

I’m sure it’s the same with hands. I genuinely sense, when I look at or feel someone’s hands, that I’m getting a glimpse of something beneath the surface. I have to always remind myself that a person’s bodily appearance — whether hands or anything else — does not reveal anything about who they really are. As with eyes, I’m sure that that tiny changes in a hand’s muscle movement, blood flow, and amount of moisture are giving me a sense of someone’s emotional state from moment to moment, but there’s no rational way that a person’s hands can reveal anything essential about them. Still, it feels like they do. I can’t help it. I hope, once this pandemic is over, that I’ll once again be able to get close enough to people to see their hands.


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Since You Asked

Sometime in the 1980s, before the internet was in common use, a friend came to me with an odd request. “I’m doing a ten-mile walk for charity,” she said. (I don’t remember what the charity was.) “And I’d like you to sponsor me.”

“Sponsor you? I don’t get it,” I said. “Where are you walking to?

“We’re not walking to anywhere,” she said. “It’s just to raise money. Like, if you pledge two dollars per mile, and I walk the whole ten miles, then you donate twenty dollars.”

“And if you only walk five miles, then I only donate ten dollars?”

“That’s right, she said. “But I’m planning to walk the whole ten miles.”

This made no sense. “If you’re asking me to donate money to this charity, that’s fine. But what does your walking have to do with it? Why does the worthiness of the charity to receive my money depend on how far you walk?”

“That’s just how it works,” she said.

“But I could just donate twenty dollars, because you asked me to,” I said, “and then you wouldn’t have to walk at all.”

“Twenty dollars is fine,” she said. “I’ll put you down for two dollars a mile.”

So she got what she wanted, but I felt like no actual communication had taken place. I still saw no inherent connection between the money and the walking.

I wish I had a more satisfying ending to this story, but I don’t. Nowadays, I see plenty of requests from people who are walking (or running, or biking, or swimming) for charity. And the weird thing is that nobody seems to see anything strange about it! Everyone just accepts that a person’s engaging in an unproductive physical activity is a rational reason to donate money. When I donate, it’s because the charity is worthwhile and a good friend asked me to; I don’t care what my friend does for exercise.

But I’ll tell you what I won’t do — I won’t vote for someone just because they ask me to. The situation is usually like this: A friend will email me (usually as one of many “undisclosed recipients”) with a message like, “I entered Floofy in the World’s Cutest Dog contest, and if he gets the most votes, I win a lifetime supply of pet food. So please vote for Floofy as the cutest dog, and tell your friends to vote for him too!”

Originally, I used to take these requests seriously. I would have to reply, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to look at the pictures of all of the dogs, so I have no way to confirm that Floofy is really the cutest.” And they would respond, “What do you mean? I’m just asking you to vote for him. I’m your friend — don’t you want me to win the pet food?”

The thing is, if everybody votes for a particular candidate because someone asked them to, then the adorable dog photos that everyone uploaded serve no purpose at all. The winner of the contest is not going to be the cutest dog; it’s going to be the dog whose owner has the most friends. That makes the whole thing a lie. Why not just call it a popularity contest? I just ignore those kinds of requests.

Unfortunately, the contest entrant’s way of thinking also pops up in more significant situations. When I was a faculty member at Chabot College, in my roles both as a department head and a committee chair, I was often in the position of having to request things from the administration. Naturally, the equipment or staffing that I was asking for cost money, and there were other people whose roles required them to compete for the same pot of money. I would fill out the appropriate forms, in which I would make a compelling argument for why my request was necessary, but I almost never got what I was asking for.

“Of course not!” my colleagues would say. “You can’t just go through official channels. You have to advocate! You have to get in their face! You have to convince them that what you need is more important that what other people need!”

But there’s no way I could do that, because in truth, I had no idea whether my needs were more important than others’. The only people who had the information necessary to prioritize the various requests were the administrators to whom the requests were made. That’s why we had to fill out forms — so that the administrators could do their job, which was to analyze the competing claims and make justifiable decisions. If their conclusion was that other departments’ needs were more urgent than mine, I had to respect that determination.

I don’t want to live in a world where the resources go to the person who yells the loudest, or the dog food goes to the person with the most connections. For that reason, I have to trust that other people don’t, either.

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Double Acting

My first training as an actor came in high school, from a teacher named William A. Lawrence. Though he was nominally an English teacher, his first love was the theater: He directed the school’s drama club, and he often staged one-act plays in his classes.

Bill (as he insisted I call him after I’d graduated) had great fondness for the traditions and lore of the theater; he was the kind of guy who would refer to Shakespeare’s “Scottish play” because it was considered bad luck to utter the name “Macbeth.” But he had no patience for people who put on airs. He had once served in the Merchant Marine, and he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He drove a sturdy old pickup truck, which he often used to haul props, scenery, and even actors.

For Bill, theater was an honorable profession, and acting was an honest day’s work. An actor’s job was to memorize the lines, hit the marks onstage, learn as much as possible about the character he or she was playing, and above all, do justice to what the playwright had written. He often made fun of directors who went on and on about a play’s subtext and a character’s motivations, when all an actor wanted to know was, “Should I say the line louder or softer?” When in doubt, Bill would simply say, “Do it like this,” and he would read the line in such a way that the character came immediately alive.

In the late 1960s, Bill had founded The World of Mime, which — so far as I know — was the only mime troupe in the country consisting entirely of high school students. As a child, I had seen occasional mimes perform on television, and I’d also seen comics such as Red Skelton and Jackie Gleason do hilarious skits without saying a word. I grew up imitating them, and it became second nature to me to pull an invisible rope or do a pratfall. So when I got to high school, I naturally became part of the troupe.

We’d tour after school or on weekends, performing at schools, fairs, and community centers around New York. We’d sometimes travel to performances in full white makeup, riding in the bed of Bill’s pickup truck and giving quite a scare to drivers along the way. We never knew what the venue would look like until we got there, and we often had to improvise to adapt to unusual locations (such as a courtroom that had a fixed bar in the middle of the “stage”). After three years of this, I came to consider myself a relatively seasoned performer.

My other influence as an actor was a unique institution called The Fiedel School, on the north shore of Long Island. During the year, Fiedel was a country day school, but during the summer, it ran a creative arts program for kids of all ages — sort of an artistic day camp. I was fortunate enough to attend Fiedel for a few summers, first as a student and later as an apprentice in the drama department.

Fiedel was an anything-goes kind of place, combining a fanatical devotion to creativity with the touchy-feely ethos of the 1970s. Though students ostensibly signed up to study something specific, such as drama, music, or creative writing, the lines between these departments ranged from thin to nonexistent. Fiedel was a place where actors could dance, dancers could sing, and musicians could make jewelry in the silversmith’s shop. Getting formal instruction was desirable, but not essential — any of us had the opportunity to pick up a stray banjo or an upright bass and figure out how to make music with it. The Fiedel approach to acting was completely opposite to that of Bill Lawrence: It wasn’t about study and discipline, but rather about inner experience and improvisation.

I was never a great actor, but I was competent, and by the time I graduated from college, I even managed to find ways to get paid for it. I worked as an actor and mime (among many other things) throughout my 20s — the last few years as part of a touring children’s theater troupe. But when I married Debra and moved to the west coast, my acting career ended. I had no theater connections in the Bay Area, and was too busy trying to establish myself as a freelance writer and producer to pursue any.

Still, the lessons I learned from Bill Lawrence and the Fiedel School have supported me in everything I’ve done since. At Fiedel, I absorbed the attitude that anyone can learn to do anything, that no special training is needed — a mindset that I’ve brought to my teaching and to my own work life. And from Bill, I got the principle that the important thing in any endeavor is to do the work, get it right, and not be pretentious about it. (I imagine that he would have had the same qualms that I have about applying the word “art” to one’s own output.) When I began to lead mime workshops in the 1970s, I synthesized their two opposite approaches to acting, combining exercises to bring out submerged feelings with a vocabulary of technique in which to express those feelings.

Alas, the Fiedel School shut down in 1984, and its visionary founders, Ivan and Roslyn Fiedel, passed on in the late 1990s. William Lawrence — who eventually left teaching to become a professional actor — passed away last year, at the remarkable age of 95. I remain in their debt.

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