Change of Address

The first class I attended in the spring of my sophomore year at Princeton was for a course called Philosophy 201, Introduction to Logic. Because this course was required for philosophy majors, the lecture hall was packed. The professor, who had taught this course many times before, mounted the podium and looked out at the crowd of students. “I don’t know what you’re all doing here!” he said. “If you were logical, you would have elected one person to come and take notes and share them with the rest of you.”

He was joking, of course. But his comment opened my eyes to the strangeness of the way we were being educated: The professor draws on his knowledge of a topic to prepare a lecture (or, in this case, dusts off a canned lecture he’d already prepared years before). Referring to his notes, he recites this lecture to a room full of students who listen to his words and summarize them in a new set of notes. The students then go back to their dorm rooms and, by reviewing their notes, try to reconstruct the original body of knowledge that the professor had encapsulated in a lecture.

Not only does this process appear crazily inefficient; it also is virtually guaranteed to distort the message, as in a game of telephone. The idea that I, as a student, would walk away with the same understanding that the professor had when he prepared the lecture seemed improbable at best. We do know that writing things down with a pen and paper reinforces learning, but we have no way of knowing whether what the student is writing is accurate, or whether notes that seem clear while listening to the lecture will make equal sense when the student reviews them later on.

And yet, the custom of lecturing in the classroom lives on. Technically, it would be more efficient for a professor to write down what he or she wants to communicate (as most of them have, in articles and books), and have students read the written material. Students might even be required to copy out particularly important passages by hand, as they often were in centuries past. But we all know instinctively that such a process wouldn’t work.

Let’s acknowledge the obvious objection that a teacher who communicated solely through writing would disadvantage those students whose primary learning modality is auditory. (This issue wouldn’t even have come up when I was at Princeton, since the concept of learning modalities hadn’t yet been developed in the 1970s.) Regardless, I think the importance of lecturing goes much deeper than that.

The ritual of having a respected person get up and speak in a dedicated space has its own significance, apart from what the person says. It invites attention. It lends weight and importance to the message, and flavors it with the history and personality of the speaker, in a way that written material does not. It allows the speaker’s delivery to be influenced by audience response, whether overt (through laughter or applause) or tacit (through body language or even the atmosphere in the room), thereby creating a feedback loop. Even when the speaker writes on the blackboard or whiteboard, the words have an immediacy that they don’t have in a printed book. These elements contribute to learning beyond what language itself can communicate.

These thoughts come to mind because it’s the time of year when the president of the United States delivers the annual State of the Union address. I’ve rarely bothered to watch the live event — it’s enough for me to read the press accounts afterwards of what the president has said. The delivery of the address is just a formality, since the script has been so carefully engineered that any vestige of spontaneity is lost, and it’s been distributed to the press even before the president gets up to speak. I never saw the point of watching the president’s mouth move as he recites the scrolling words on the teleprompter.

But it occurs to me now that the way the speech is staged — in the august halls of Congress, with the most powerful figures in the federal government present and all of the media watching — is what gives the address significance beyond the written words that constitute it. Even if I don’t watch the speech itself, it’s still the gravity of the occasion of its delivery that makes the words feel important when I read them later in the news reports.

It’s astonishing how different a lecture or a speech is from, say, a series of tweets, even if the content is the same.

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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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People Say Things

A colleague of mine at Chabot College once asked me for a favor: He wouldn’t be able to attend the annual open meeting of the Faculty Association, at which the union officers would update us about their most recent negotiations with the college administration. Could I please attend the meeting, and then let him know afterwards what happened?

I saw him in the hallway late that afternoon, and he asked me, “So, what happened at the meeting?”

“Well,” I said, “Charlotte got up and said some things, and then she introduced Tom, who said some things. Then Dave said some things….”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What did they say?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably nothing important, or at least nothing significant enough for me to remember.”

He looked at me as if I were an imbecile. “I thought you were going to tell me what happened at the meeting!”

“But that is what happened at the meeting,” I said. “Charlotte said some things, and then Tom said some things….”

Needless to say, he never again asked me for a similar favor. But I learned something from that conversation — namely, that he and I had different definitions of the word “happened.”

In retrospect, I admit to having been in the wrong in that situation. But I think my mistake was understandable. People say things all the time, and hardly ever does the content of what they say matter more than the fact that they said it. Think of graduation ceremonies: Apart from the handing out of diplomas, the only thing that happens is that people make speeches. The school administrators make speeches, the valedictorian and salutatorian make speeches, and a special guest VIP makes a speech. Looking back on the graduations you’ve attended, do you remember anything that any of those people said? Most likely you don’t, because what they said doesn’t matter. What matters is that oratory was delivered, preferably with an air of great significance. If nobody gave a speech, there would be no ceremony.

What is true of graduation ceremonies is true of much human interaction. Our society offers very few ways to connect with people, other than through conversation. As much as I might want to, I can’t reach out and physically touch you unless we already know each other well. I can’t gaze into your eyes or project telepathically into your mind. I can’t even sing in close harmony with you unless we both happen to be musicians who know the same songs. All I can do is talk with you, and the fact of our talking matters much more than whatever we happen to be talking about. I have been known to claim (admittedly with some hyperbole) that the true subject of any conversation is “I love you.“

There are exceptions, of course. There are plenty of interactions whose primary purpose is the transmission of information — getting directions, for example, or listening to a news report. (Clearly, the union meeting I attended should have fallen into this category.) And even in ordinary conversations, the meaning of the words has some importance. But — like the cat who ignores the fancy pet-bed you bought in favor of the cardboard box that the bed came in — I find much more satisfaction in the vessel that contains the words than in the words themselves.

I’m not sure how much of this is universal, and how much is just me. I’ve long known that my brain is wired funny, and one symptom of the miswiring is difficulty with processing spoken language. If someone is talking, I can concentrate on parsing the words for meaning, or I can relax and experience the energy of the person who is speaking, but I can’t easily do both. As you can imagine, the more I like a person, the more I tend to savor the feeling of being in their presence — which means that I’m less likely to take in the literal meaning of what they’re saying. This often proves embarrassing later, when they assume that I’ll remember something significant that they told me, and I don’t.

But it can’t all be me. Think about the last time you went to a movie with someone, and how different that was from going to see a movie by yourself. You and your companion don’t converse during the movie — at least I hope you don’t — and yet simply having that person in the seat next to you changes the nature of your experience. That impalpable element, I believe, is what gives most conversations their flavor. Writing about this makes me sad, because we’re in the midst of a pandemic in which most human contact is off-limits. Conversing by phone or screen feels empty, because information is the only thing those media can transmit. Even meeting in person falls short, because it’s hard to feel the visceral presence of someone who is masked and sitting six feet away. All we have to offer each other is words, and words are inherently unsatisfying. I long for the return of a time when meaningful things don’t just get said, but happen.

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