Some time ago, I received a call from Jim, a colleague of mine, who teaches physics. He asked me if I would do him a favor and be the referee on the grading of an examination question. I said sure, but I did not quite understand why he should need my help. He told me that he was about to give a student a zero for his answer to a physics question, but the student protested that it wasn't fair. He insisted that he deserved a perfect score if the system were not set up against the student. Finally, they agreed to take the matter to an impartial instructor. And I was selected.
I went to my colleague's office and read the examination question. It said: "Show how it is possible to determine the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer." The student had answered: "Take the barometer to the top of the building, tie a long rope to it, lower the barometer to the street, and then bring it up and measure the length of the rope. The length of the rope will be the height of the building."
I laughed and pointed out to my colleague that we must admit the student really had a pretty strong case for full credit since he had indeed answered the question completely and correctly. On the other hand, I could also see the dilemma because if full credit were given to him it could mean a high grade for the student in his physics course. A high grade is supposed to prove competence in the course, but the answer he gave did not show his knowledge on the subject. "So, what would you do if you were me?" Jim asked. I suggested that the student have another try at answering the question. I was not surprised that my colleague agreed, but I was surprised that the student did, too.
I told the student that I would give him six minutes to answer the question. But I warned him that this time his answer should show some knowledge of physics. He sat down and picked up his pen. He appeared to be thinking hard. At the end of five minutes, however, I noticed that he had not put down a single word. I asked him if he wished to give up, but he said no. He had not written anything down because he had too many possible answers to this problem. He was just trying to decide which would be the best one. I excused myself for interrupting him and asked him to go on. In the next minute, he dashed off his answer, which read: "Take the barometer to the top of the building and lean over the edge of the roof. Drop the barometer and time its fall with a stopwatch. Then, using the formula S = 1 /2 at2, calculate the height of the building."
At this point, I asked my colleague if he would give up. He nodded yes, and I gave the student almost full credit.
When I left my colleague's office, I recalled that the student had said that he had other answers to the problem. I was curious, so I asked him what they were. "Oh, yes," said the student. "There are many ways of getting the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer. For example, you could take the barometer out in a sunny day and measure the height of the barometer, the length of its shadow, and the length of the shadow of the building, and by the use of a simple proportion, determine the height of the building. The beauty of this method is that you don't have to drop the barometer and break it."
"Fine," I said. "Any more?"
"Yes," said the student. "There is a very basic measurement method that people will like, because it is so simple and direct. In this method, you take the barometer and walk up the stairs. As you climb the stairs, you mark off the length of the barometer along the wall. You then count the number of marks, and this will give you the height of the building in barometer units. The only trouble with this method is that it doesn't require much knowledge of physics."
"Of course, if you prefer a more sophisticated method, a method that will really show some knowledge of physics, you can tie the barometer to the end of a rope, swing it as a pendulum and determine the value of'g' at the street level and at the top of the building. From the difference between the two values of'g' the height of the building can, in principle, be worked out."
Finally, he concluded that while there are many ways of solving the problem, "Probably the best and the most practical in a real-life situation is to take the barometer to the basement and knock on the superintendent's door. When the superintendent answers, you speak to him as follows: Mr. Superintendent, I have here a fine barometer. If you will tell me the height of this building, I will gladly give you this barometer!"
At this point, I asked the student if he really didn't know the expected answer to this question. He smiled and admitted that he did, but said he was fed up with standard answers to standard questions. He couldn't understand why there should be so much emphasis on fixed rules rather than creative thinking. So he could not resist the temptation to play a little joke with the educational system, which had been thrown into such a panic by the successful launching of the Russian Sputnik.
At that moment I suddenly remembered the question: How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? We teachers are always blaming the students for giving wrong answers. Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we are always asking the right questions.
2010年9月24日星期五
The Monsters Are Due On Maple
It is Maple Street, a quiet, tree-lined, residential street in a typical American town. The houses have front porches where people sit and talk to each other across their lawns. STEVE BRAND polishes his car parked in front of his house. His neighbor, DON MARTIN, leans against the fender, watching him. A Good Humor man rides a bicycle and is just stopping to sell some ice cream to a couple of kids. Two women gossip on the front lawn. Another man waters his lawn.
At this moment one of the boys, TOMMY, looks up and listens to the sound of a tremendous roar from overhead. A flash of light plays on his face, then moves down the street past lawns and porches and rooftops, and then disappears. STEVE BRAND, the man who has been polishing his car, stands there speechless, staring upwards. He looks at DON MARTIN, his neighbor from across the street.
Steve: What was that? A meteor?
Don: That's what it looked like. I didn't hear any crash, though, did you?
Steve: Nope, I didn't hear anything except a roar.
Mrs. Brand (from her porch): Steve? What was that?
Steve: Guess it was a meteor, honey. Came awful close, didn't it?
Mrs. Brand: Much too close!
(People stand on their porches, watching and talking in low tones. We see a MAN screwing in a light bulb on a front porch, then getting down off the stool to turn on the switch and finding that nothing happens. A MAN working on an electric power mower plugs in the plug. He turns on the switch, on and off, but nothing happens. Through the window of a front porch a WOMAN is seen dialing her phone.)
Woman: Operator, operator, something's wrong with the phone, operator!
(MRS. BRAND comes out on the porch.)
Mrs. Brand (calling): Steve, the power's off. I had the soup on the stove, and the stove just stopped working.
Woman: Same thing over here. I can't get anybody on the phone, either. The phone seems to be dead.
First Voice: Electricity's off.
Second Voice: Phone won't work.
Third Voice: Can't get a thing on the radio.
Fourth Voice: My power mower won't move, won't work at all.
(PETE VAN HORN, a tall, thin man, is seen standing in front of his house.)
Van Horn: I'11 cut through the back yard . . . see if the power' s still on on Cherry Street. I'll be right back!
Steve: Doesn't make sense. Why should the power and the phone line go off all of a sudden?
Don: Maybe it's an electrical storm or something.
Charlie: That doesn't seem likely. Sky's just as blue as anything. Not a cloud. No lightning. No thunder. No nothing. How could it be a storm?
Woman: I can't get a thing on the radio. Not even the portable.
Charlie: Well, why don't you go downtown and check with the police, though they'll probably think we're crazy or something. A little power failure and right away we get all excited.
Steve: It isn't just the power failure, Charlie. If it was, we'd still be able to get a broadcast on the portable.
(There's a murmur of reaction to this. STEVE walks over to his car.)
Steve: I'll run downtown. We'll get this all straightened out. (STEVE gets into his car, turns the key. The engine is dead. He then gets out of the car.)
Steve: I don't understand it. It was working fine before—
Don: Out of gas?
Steve (shakes his head): I just had it filled up.
Woman: What does it mean?
Charlie: It's just as if. . . as if everything had stopped. ( Then he turns toward STEVE.) We'd better walk downtown.
Steve: OK, Charlie. ( He turns to look back at the car.) It couldn't be the meteor. A meteor couldn't do this.
(He and CHARLIE exchange a look. Then they start to walk away from the group. TOMMY, a serious-faced young boy tries to stop them.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand...you'd better not!
Steve: Why not?
Tommy: They don't want you to.
(STEVE and CHARLIE exchange a grin. STEVE looks back toward the boy.)
Steve: Who doesn't want us to?
Tommy (jerks his head in the general direction of the distant horizon): Them!
Steve: Them?
Charlie: Who are them?
Tommy (very intently): Whoever was in that thing that came by overhead. I don't think they want us to leave here.
(STEVE walks over to the boy. He kneels down in front of him. He forces his voice to remain gentle. He reaches out and holds the boy.)
Steve: What do you mean? What are you talking about?
Tommy: They don't want us to leave. That's why they shut everything off.
Steve: What makes you say that? Whatever gave you that idea?
Woman (from the crowd): Now isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard?
Tommy (persistently): It's always that way, in every story I ever read about a ship landing from outer space.
Woman (to the boy's mother, SALLY,): From outer space yet! Sally, you'd better get that boy of yours up to bed. He's been reading too many comic books or seeing too many movies or something!
Salty: Tommy, come over here and stop that kind of talk.
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. We 'll be right back. And you 'll see. That wasn't any ship or anything like it. That was just a... a meteor or something. (He turns to the group, now trying to sound optimistic although he obviously doesn't feel that way himself.) Meteors can do some crazy things. Like sun spots.
Don: Sure. They raise Cain with radio reception all over the world. And this thing, being so close-why, there's no telling the sort of stuff it can do. (He wets his lips, smiles nervously.) Go ahead, Charlie. You and Steve go into town and see if that isn't what's causing it all.
(STEVE and CHARLIE again continue to walk away down the sidewalk. The people watch silently. TOMMY stares at them, biting his lips and finally calling out again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand!
(The two men stop again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand. . .please don't leave here.
(STEVE and CHARLIE stop once again and turn toward the boy. There's a murmur in the crowd, a murmur of irritation and concern.)
Tommy: You might not even be able to get to town. It was that way in the story. Nobody could leave, except—
Steve: Except who?
Tommy: Except the people they'd sent down ahead of them. They looked just like humans. And it wasn't until the ship landed that—(The boy suddenly stops again, conscious of his parents staring at him and of the sudden quietness of the crowd.)
Sally: Tommy, please, son, don't talk that way—
Man: The kid shouldn't talk that way... and we shouldn't stand here listening to him. Why, this is the craziest thing I ever heard of.
(STEVE walks toward the boy.)
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. What about the people that they sent out ahead?
Tommy: That was the way they prepared things for the landing. They sent people who looked just like humans... but they weren't.
(There's laughter at this, but it's a laughter that comes from a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.)
Charlie (rubs his jaw nervously): I wonder if Cherry Street's got the same deal we got. (He looks past the houses.) Where is Pete Van Horn, anyway? Didn't he get back yet?
(Suddenly there's the sound of a car's engine starting to turn over. LES GOODMAN is at the wheel of his car.)
Sally: Can you get it started, Les?
(GOODMAN gets out of the car, shaking his head.)
Goodman: No.
(As he walks toward the group, he stops suddenly. Behind him, the car engine starts up all by itself. GOODMAN whirls around and stares at it. His eyes go wide, and he runs over to his car. The people stare toward the car.)
Man: He got the car started somehow. He got his car started!
Woman: How come his car just started like that?
Sally: All by itself. He wasn't anywhere near it. It started all by itself.
(DON approaches the group: He stops a few feet away to look toward GOODMAN's car and then back toward the group.)
Don: And he never did come out to look at that thing that flew overhead. He wasn't even interested. (He turns to the faces in the group.) Why? Why didn't he come out with the rest of us to look?
Charlie: He was always an oddball. Him and his whole family.
Don: What do you say we ask him?
(The group suddenly starts toward the house.)
Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!
(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)
Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of the people.)
Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power, no radio. Nothing except one car—yours!
(The people pick this up, and their murmuring becomes a loud chant filling the air with demands for action.)
Goodman: Wait a minute now. You keep your distance—all of you. So I've got a car that starts by itself—well, that's weird—I admit it. But does that make me a criminal or something? I don't know why the car works—it just does!
(This stops the crowd, and GOODMAN, still backing away, goes up the steps and then stops to face the mob.)
Goodman: What's it all about, Steve?
Steve (quietly): Seems that the general impression holds that maybe the people in one family aren't what we think they are. Monsters from outer space or something. Different from us. You know anybody that might fit that description around here on Maple Street?
Goodman: What is this, a practical joke or something?
(Suddenly the engine of the car starts all by itself again, runs for a moment, and stops. The people once again react.)
Goodman: Now that's supposed to make me a criminal, huh? The car engine goes on and off? (He looks around at the faces of the people.) I just don't understand it... any more than any of you do! (He wets his lips, looking from face to face.) Look, you all know me. We've lived here five years. Right in this house. We're no different from any of you!
Woman: Well, if that's the case, Les Goodman, explain why—(She stops suddenly.)
Goodman (softly): Explain what?
Steve: (cutting in): Look, let's forget this—
Charlie: Go ahead; let her talk. What about it? Explain what?
Woman (a little reluctantly): Well... sometimes I go to bed late at night. A couple of times... I'd come out here on the porch and I'd see Mr. Goodman here standing out in front of his house... looking up at the sky. (She looks around at the circle of faces.) That's right, looking up at the sky as if... as if he were waiting for something.
Goodman: She's crazy. Look, I can explain that. Please... I can really explain that. She's making it up anyway.
(He takes a step toward the crowd, and they back away. He walks down the steps after them, and they continue to back away. He's suddenly and completely left alone. He looks like a man caught in the middle of a menacing circle.)
Read the text a second time. Learn the new words and expressions listed below.
At this moment one of the boys, TOMMY, looks up and listens to the sound of a tremendous roar from overhead. A flash of light plays on his face, then moves down the street past lawns and porches and rooftops, and then disappears. STEVE BRAND, the man who has been polishing his car, stands there speechless, staring upwards. He looks at DON MARTIN, his neighbor from across the street.
Steve: What was that? A meteor?
Don: That's what it looked like. I didn't hear any crash, though, did you?
Steve: Nope, I didn't hear anything except a roar.
Mrs. Brand (from her porch): Steve? What was that?
Steve: Guess it was a meteor, honey. Came awful close, didn't it?
Mrs. Brand: Much too close!
(People stand on their porches, watching and talking in low tones. We see a MAN screwing in a light bulb on a front porch, then getting down off the stool to turn on the switch and finding that nothing happens. A MAN working on an electric power mower plugs in the plug. He turns on the switch, on and off, but nothing happens. Through the window of a front porch a WOMAN is seen dialing her phone.)
Woman: Operator, operator, something's wrong with the phone, operator!
(MRS. BRAND comes out on the porch.)
Mrs. Brand (calling): Steve, the power's off. I had the soup on the stove, and the stove just stopped working.
Woman: Same thing over here. I can't get anybody on the phone, either. The phone seems to be dead.
First Voice: Electricity's off.
Second Voice: Phone won't work.
Third Voice: Can't get a thing on the radio.
Fourth Voice: My power mower won't move, won't work at all.
(PETE VAN HORN, a tall, thin man, is seen standing in front of his house.)
Van Horn: I'11 cut through the back yard . . . see if the power' s still on on Cherry Street. I'll be right back!
Steve: Doesn't make sense. Why should the power and the phone line go off all of a sudden?
Don: Maybe it's an electrical storm or something.
Charlie: That doesn't seem likely. Sky's just as blue as anything. Not a cloud. No lightning. No thunder. No nothing. How could it be a storm?
Woman: I can't get a thing on the radio. Not even the portable.
Charlie: Well, why don't you go downtown and check with the police, though they'll probably think we're crazy or something. A little power failure and right away we get all excited.
Steve: It isn't just the power failure, Charlie. If it was, we'd still be able to get a broadcast on the portable.
(There's a murmur of reaction to this. STEVE walks over to his car.)
Steve: I'll run downtown. We'll get this all straightened out. (STEVE gets into his car, turns the key. The engine is dead. He then gets out of the car.)
Steve: I don't understand it. It was working fine before—
Don: Out of gas?
Steve (shakes his head): I just had it filled up.
Woman: What does it mean?
Charlie: It's just as if. . . as if everything had stopped. ( Then he turns toward STEVE.) We'd better walk downtown.
Steve: OK, Charlie. ( He turns to look back at the car.) It couldn't be the meteor. A meteor couldn't do this.
(He and CHARLIE exchange a look. Then they start to walk away from the group. TOMMY, a serious-faced young boy tries to stop them.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand...you'd better not!
Steve: Why not?
Tommy: They don't want you to.
(STEVE and CHARLIE exchange a grin. STEVE looks back toward the boy.)
Steve: Who doesn't want us to?
Tommy (jerks his head in the general direction of the distant horizon): Them!
Steve: Them?
Charlie: Who are them?
Tommy (very intently): Whoever was in that thing that came by overhead. I don't think they want us to leave here.
(STEVE walks over to the boy. He kneels down in front of him. He forces his voice to remain gentle. He reaches out and holds the boy.)
Steve: What do you mean? What are you talking about?
Tommy: They don't want us to leave. That's why they shut everything off.
Steve: What makes you say that? Whatever gave you that idea?
Woman (from the crowd): Now isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard?
Tommy (persistently): It's always that way, in every story I ever read about a ship landing from outer space.
Woman (to the boy's mother, SALLY,): From outer space yet! Sally, you'd better get that boy of yours up to bed. He's been reading too many comic books or seeing too many movies or something!
Salty: Tommy, come over here and stop that kind of talk.
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. We 'll be right back. And you 'll see. That wasn't any ship or anything like it. That was just a... a meteor or something. (He turns to the group, now trying to sound optimistic although he obviously doesn't feel that way himself.) Meteors can do some crazy things. Like sun spots.
Don: Sure. They raise Cain with radio reception all over the world. And this thing, being so close-why, there's no telling the sort of stuff it can do. (He wets his lips, smiles nervously.) Go ahead, Charlie. You and Steve go into town and see if that isn't what's causing it all.
(STEVE and CHARLIE again continue to walk away down the sidewalk. The people watch silently. TOMMY stares at them, biting his lips and finally calling out again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand!
(The two men stop again.)
Tommy: Mr. Brand. . .please don't leave here.
(STEVE and CHARLIE stop once again and turn toward the boy. There's a murmur in the crowd, a murmur of irritation and concern.)
Tommy: You might not even be able to get to town. It was that way in the story. Nobody could leave, except—
Steve: Except who?
Tommy: Except the people they'd sent down ahead of them. They looked just like humans. And it wasn't until the ship landed that—(The boy suddenly stops again, conscious of his parents staring at him and of the sudden quietness of the crowd.)
Sally: Tommy, please, son, don't talk that way—
Man: The kid shouldn't talk that way... and we shouldn't stand here listening to him. Why, this is the craziest thing I ever heard of.
(STEVE walks toward the boy.)
Steve: Go ahead, Tommy. What about the people that they sent out ahead?
Tommy: That was the way they prepared things for the landing. They sent people who looked just like humans... but they weren't.
(There's laughter at this, but it's a laughter that comes from a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.)
Charlie (rubs his jaw nervously): I wonder if Cherry Street's got the same deal we got. (He looks past the houses.) Where is Pete Van Horn, anyway? Didn't he get back yet?
(Suddenly there's the sound of a car's engine starting to turn over. LES GOODMAN is at the wheel of his car.)
Sally: Can you get it started, Les?
(GOODMAN gets out of the car, shaking his head.)
Goodman: No.
(As he walks toward the group, he stops suddenly. Behind him, the car engine starts up all by itself. GOODMAN whirls around and stares at it. His eyes go wide, and he runs over to his car. The people stare toward the car.)
Man: He got the car started somehow. He got his car started!
Woman: How come his car just started like that?
Sally: All by itself. He wasn't anywhere near it. It started all by itself.
(DON approaches the group: He stops a few feet away to look toward GOODMAN's car and then back toward the group.)
Don: And he never did come out to look at that thing that flew overhead. He wasn't even interested. (He turns to the faces in the group.) Why? Why didn't he come out with the rest of us to look?
Charlie: He was always an oddball. Him and his whole family.
Don: What do you say we ask him?
(The group suddenly starts toward the house.)
Steve: Wait a minute... wait a minute! Let's not be a mob!
(The people seem to pause for a moment. Then, much more quietly and slowly, they start to walk across the street. GOODMAN stands there alone, facing the people.)
Goodman: I just don't understand it. I tried to start it, and it wouldn't start. You saw me. (And now, just as suddenly as the engine started, it stops. There's a frightened murmuring of the people.)
Don: Maybe you can tell us. Nothing's working on this street. Nothing. No lights, no power, no radio. Nothing except one car—yours!
(The people pick this up, and their murmuring becomes a loud chant filling the air with demands for action.)
Goodman: Wait a minute now. You keep your distance—all of you. So I've got a car that starts by itself—well, that's weird—I admit it. But does that make me a criminal or something? I don't know why the car works—it just does!
(This stops the crowd, and GOODMAN, still backing away, goes up the steps and then stops to face the mob.)
Goodman: What's it all about, Steve?
Steve (quietly): Seems that the general impression holds that maybe the people in one family aren't what we think they are. Monsters from outer space or something. Different from us. You know anybody that might fit that description around here on Maple Street?
Goodman: What is this, a practical joke or something?
(Suddenly the engine of the car starts all by itself again, runs for a moment, and stops. The people once again react.)
Goodman: Now that's supposed to make me a criminal, huh? The car engine goes on and off? (He looks around at the faces of the people.) I just don't understand it... any more than any of you do! (He wets his lips, looking from face to face.) Look, you all know me. We've lived here five years. Right in this house. We're no different from any of you!
Woman: Well, if that's the case, Les Goodman, explain why—(She stops suddenly.)
Goodman (softly): Explain what?
Steve: (cutting in): Look, let's forget this—
Charlie: Go ahead; let her talk. What about it? Explain what?
Woman (a little reluctantly): Well... sometimes I go to bed late at night. A couple of times... I'd come out here on the porch and I'd see Mr. Goodman here standing out in front of his house... looking up at the sky. (She looks around at the circle of faces.) That's right, looking up at the sky as if... as if he were waiting for something.
Goodman: She's crazy. Look, I can explain that. Please... I can really explain that. She's making it up anyway.
(He takes a step toward the crowd, and they back away. He walks down the steps after them, and they continue to back away. He's suddenly and completely left alone. He looks like a man caught in the middle of a menacing circle.)
Read the text a second time. Learn the new words and expressions listed below.
Message of the Land Pira Sudham
Yes, these are our rice fields. They belonged to my parents and forefathers. The land is more than three centuries old. I'm the only daughter in our family and it was I who stayed with my parents till they died. My three brothers moved out to their wives' houses when they got married. My husband moved into our house as is the way with us in Esarn. I was then eighteen and he was nineteen. He gave me six children. Two died in infancy from sickness. The rest, two boys and two girls, went away as soon as we could afford to buy jeans for them. Our oldest son got a job as a gardener in a rich man's home in Bangkok but later an employment agency sent him to a foreign land to work. My other son also went far away.
One of our daughters is working in a textile factory in Bangkok, and the other has a job in a store. They come home to see us now and then, stay a few days, and then they are off again. Often they send some money to us and tell us that they are doing well. I know this is not always true. Sometimes, they get bullied and insulted, and it is like a knife piercing my heart. It's easier for my husband. He has ears which don't hear, a mouth which doesn't speak, and eyes that don't see. He has always been patient and silent, minding his own life.
All of them remain my children in spite of their long absence. Maybe it's fate that sent them away from us. Our piece of land is small, and it is no longer fertile, bleeding year after year and, like us, getting old and exhausted. Still my husband and I work on this land. The soil is not difficult to till when there is a lot of rain, but in a bad year, it's not only the ploughs that break but our hearts, too.
No, we two haven't changed much, but the village has. In what way? Only ten years ago, you could barter for things, but now it's all cash. Years ago, you could ask your neighbors to help build your house, reap the rice or dig a well. Now they'll do it only if you have money to pay them. Plastic things replace village crafts. Men used to make things with fine bamboo pieces, but no longer. Plastic bags litter the village. Shops have sprung up, filled with colorful plastic things and goods we have no use for. The young go away to towns and cities leaving us old people to work on the land. They think differently, I know, saying that the old are old-fashioned. All my life, I have never had to go to a hairdresser, or to paint my lips or nails. These rough fingers and toes are for working in the mud of our rice fields, not for looking pretty. Now young girls put on jeans, and look like boys and they think it is fashionable. Why, they are willing to sell their pig or water buffalo just to be able to buy a pair of jeans. In my day, if I were to put on a pair of trousers like they do now, lightning would strike me.
I know, times have changed, but certain things should not change. We should offer food to the monks every day, go to the temple regularly. Young people tend to leave these things to old people now, and that's a shame.
Why, only the other day I heard a boy shout and scream at his mother. If that kind of thing had happened when I was young, the whole village would have condemned such an ungrateful son, and his father would surely have given him a good beating.
As for me, I wouldn't change, couldn't change even if I wanted to. Am I happy or unhappy? This question has never occurred to me. Life simply goes on. Yes, this bag of bones dressed in rags can still plant and reap rice from morning till dusk. Disease, wounds, hardship and scarcity have always been part of my life. I don't complain.
The farmer: My wife is wrong. My eyes do see—they see more than they should. My ears do hear—they hear more than is good for me. I don't talk about what I know because I know too much. I know for example, greed, anger, and lust are the root of all evils.
I am at peace with the land and the conditions of my life. But I feel a great pity for my wife. I have been forcing silence upon her all these years, yet she has not once complained of anything.
I wanted to have a lot of children and grandchildren around me but now cities and foreign lands have attracted my children away and it seems that none of them will ever come back to live here again. To whom shall I give these rice fields when I die? For hundreds of years this strip of land has belonged to our family. I know every inch of it. My children grew up on it, catching frogs and mud crabs and gathering flowers. Still the land could not tie them down or call them back. When each of them has a pair of jeans, they are off like birds on the wing.
Fortunately, my wife is still with me, and both of us are still strong. Wounds heal over time. Sickness comes and goes, and we get back on our feet again. I never want to leave this land. It's nice to feel the wet earth as my fingers dig into the soil, planting rice, to hear my wife sighing, "Old man, if I die first, I shall become a cloud to protect you from the sun." It's good to smell the scent of ripening rice in November. The soft cool breeze moves the sheaves, which ripple and shimmer like waves of gold. Yes, I love this land and I hope one of my children comes back one day to live, and gives me grandchildren so that I can pass on the land's secret messages to them.
One of our daughters is working in a textile factory in Bangkok, and the other has a job in a store. They come home to see us now and then, stay a few days, and then they are off again. Often they send some money to us and tell us that they are doing well. I know this is not always true. Sometimes, they get bullied and insulted, and it is like a knife piercing my heart. It's easier for my husband. He has ears which don't hear, a mouth which doesn't speak, and eyes that don't see. He has always been patient and silent, minding his own life.
All of them remain my children in spite of their long absence. Maybe it's fate that sent them away from us. Our piece of land is small, and it is no longer fertile, bleeding year after year and, like us, getting old and exhausted. Still my husband and I work on this land. The soil is not difficult to till when there is a lot of rain, but in a bad year, it's not only the ploughs that break but our hearts, too.
No, we two haven't changed much, but the village has. In what way? Only ten years ago, you could barter for things, but now it's all cash. Years ago, you could ask your neighbors to help build your house, reap the rice or dig a well. Now they'll do it only if you have money to pay them. Plastic things replace village crafts. Men used to make things with fine bamboo pieces, but no longer. Plastic bags litter the village. Shops have sprung up, filled with colorful plastic things and goods we have no use for. The young go away to towns and cities leaving us old people to work on the land. They think differently, I know, saying that the old are old-fashioned. All my life, I have never had to go to a hairdresser, or to paint my lips or nails. These rough fingers and toes are for working in the mud of our rice fields, not for looking pretty. Now young girls put on jeans, and look like boys and they think it is fashionable. Why, they are willing to sell their pig or water buffalo just to be able to buy a pair of jeans. In my day, if I were to put on a pair of trousers like they do now, lightning would strike me.
I know, times have changed, but certain things should not change. We should offer food to the monks every day, go to the temple regularly. Young people tend to leave these things to old people now, and that's a shame.
Why, only the other day I heard a boy shout and scream at his mother. If that kind of thing had happened when I was young, the whole village would have condemned such an ungrateful son, and his father would surely have given him a good beating.
As for me, I wouldn't change, couldn't change even if I wanted to. Am I happy or unhappy? This question has never occurred to me. Life simply goes on. Yes, this bag of bones dressed in rags can still plant and reap rice from morning till dusk. Disease, wounds, hardship and scarcity have always been part of my life. I don't complain.
The farmer: My wife is wrong. My eyes do see—they see more than they should. My ears do hear—they hear more than is good for me. I don't talk about what I know because I know too much. I know for example, greed, anger, and lust are the root of all evils.
I am at peace with the land and the conditions of my life. But I feel a great pity for my wife. I have been forcing silence upon her all these years, yet she has not once complained of anything.
I wanted to have a lot of children and grandchildren around me but now cities and foreign lands have attracted my children away and it seems that none of them will ever come back to live here again. To whom shall I give these rice fields when I die? For hundreds of years this strip of land has belonged to our family. I know every inch of it. My children grew up on it, catching frogs and mud crabs and gathering flowers. Still the land could not tie them down or call them back. When each of them has a pair of jeans, they are off like birds on the wing.
Fortunately, my wife is still with me, and both of us are still strong. Wounds heal over time. Sickness comes and goes, and we get back on our feet again. I never want to leave this land. It's nice to feel the wet earth as my fingers dig into the soil, planting rice, to hear my wife sighing, "Old man, if I die first, I shall become a cloud to protect you from the sun." It's good to smell the scent of ripening rice in November. The soft cool breeze moves the sheaves, which ripple and shimmer like waves of gold. Yes, I love this land and I hope one of my children comes back one day to live, and gives me grandchildren so that I can pass on the land's secret messages to them.
Going Home Pete Hamill
They were going to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, and they got on the bus at 34th Street, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags. They were dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the grey, cold spring of New York vanished behind them. Vingo was on the bus from the beginning.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a plain brown suit that did not fit him. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he chewed the inside of his lip a lot. He sat in complete silence and seemed completely unaware of the existence of the others.
Deep into the night, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's restaurant and everybody got off the bus except Vingo. The young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain; maybe he had run away from his wife; he could be an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls became so curious that she decided to engage him in a conversation. She sat down beside him and introduced herself.
"We're going to Florida," the girl said brightly. "You going that far?"
"I don't know," Vingo said.
"I've never been there," she said. " I hear it's beautiful."
"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
"You live there?"
"I was there in the Navy, at the base in Jacksonville".
"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig from the bottle. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others as Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they got back on the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again. After a while, slowly and painfully, he began to tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the last four years, and now he was going home.
"Are you married?"
"I don' t know."
"You don't know?" she said.
"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife. I said, 'Martha, I understand if you can't stay married to me.' I said I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. Get a new guy—she's a wonderful woman, really something—and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write to me or anything, and she didn't. Not for three-and-a-half years."
"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through I wrote her again. I told her that if she had a new guy, I understood. But, if she didn't, if she would take me back she should let me know. We used to live in Brunswick, and there' s a great oak tree just as you come into town. I told her if she would take me back, she should tie a yellow ribbon to the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it, no ribbon and I'd understand and keep going on through."
"Wow," the girl said. "Wow."
She told the others, and soon all of them were caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took the window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment. Then it was 10 miles, and then five, and the bus became very quiet.
Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances, shaking clenched fists in triumph and exaltation. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree through his misty eyes. The tree was covered with yellow ribbons, 30 of them, 50 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome, blowing and billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat, holding himself tightly, and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a plain brown suit that did not fit him. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he chewed the inside of his lip a lot. He sat in complete silence and seemed completely unaware of the existence of the others.
Deep into the night, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's restaurant and everybody got off the bus except Vingo. The young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain; maybe he had run away from his wife; he could be an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls became so curious that she decided to engage him in a conversation. She sat down beside him and introduced herself.
"We're going to Florida," the girl said brightly. "You going that far?"
"I don't know," Vingo said.
"I've never been there," she said. " I hear it's beautiful."
"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
"You live there?"
"I was there in the Navy, at the base in Jacksonville".
"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig from the bottle. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others as Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they got back on the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again. After a while, slowly and painfully, he began to tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the last four years, and now he was going home.
"Are you married?"
"I don' t know."
"You don't know?" she said.
"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife. I said, 'Martha, I understand if you can't stay married to me.' I said I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. Get a new guy—she's a wonderful woman, really something—and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write to me or anything, and she didn't. Not for three-and-a-half years."
"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through I wrote her again. I told her that if she had a new guy, I understood. But, if she didn't, if she would take me back she should let me know. We used to live in Brunswick, and there' s a great oak tree just as you come into town. I told her if she would take me back, she should tie a yellow ribbon to the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it, no ribbon and I'd understand and keep going on through."
"Wow," the girl said. "Wow."
She told the others, and soon all of them were caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took the window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment. Then it was 10 miles, and then five, and the bus became very quiet.
Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances, shaking clenched fists in triumph and exaltation. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree through his misty eyes. The tree was covered with yellow ribbons, 30 of them, 50 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome, blowing and billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat, holding himself tightly, and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
Half a Day Naguib Mahfous
I walked alongside my father, clutching his right hand. All my clothes were new: the black shoes, the green school uniform, and the red cap. They did not make me happy, however, as this was the day I was to be thrown into school for the first time.
My mother stood at the window watching our progress, and I turned towards her from time to time, hoping she would help. We walked along a street lined with gardens, and fields planted with crops: pears, and date palms.
"Why school ?" I asked my father. "What have I done ?"
"I'm not punishing you, " he said, laughing. "School's not a punishment. It's a place that makes useful men out of boys. Don' t you want to be useful like your brothers?"
I was not convinced. I did not believe there was really any good to be had in tearing me away from my home and throwing me into the huge, high-walled building.
When we arrived at the gate we could see the courtyard, vast and full of boys and girls. "Go in by yourself, " said my father, "and join them. Put a smile on your face and be a good example to others. "
I hesitated and clung to his hand, but he gently pushed me from him. "Be a man, " he said. "Today you truly begin life. You will find me waiting for you when it's time to leave. "
I took a few steps. Then the faces of the boys and girls came into view. I did not know a single one of them, and none of them knew me. I felt I was a stranger who had lost his way. But then some boys began to glance at me in curiosity, and one of them came over and asked, "Who brought you?"
"My father, " I whispered.
"My father's dead, " he said simply.
I did not know what to say. The gate was now closed. Some of the children burst into tears. The bell rang. A lady came along, followed by a group of men. The men began sorting us into ranks. We were formed into an intricate pattern in the great courtyard surrounded by high buildings; from each floor we were overlooked by a long balcony roofed in wood.
"This is your new home, "said the woman. "There are mothers and fathers here, too. Everything that is enjoyable and beneficial is here. So dry your tears and face life joyfully. "
Well, it seemed that my misgivings had had no basis. From the first moments I made many friends and fell in love with many girls. I had never imagined school would have this rich variety of experiences.
We played all sorts of games. In the music room we sang our first songs. We also had our first introduction to language. We saw a globe of the Earth, which revolved and showed the various continents and countries. We started learning numbers, and we were told the story of the Creator of the universe. We ate delicious food, took a little nap, and woke up to go on with friendship and love, playing and learning.
Our path, however, was not totally sweet and unclouded. We had to be observant and patient. It was not all a matter of playing and fooling around. Rivalries could bring about pain and hatred or give rise to fighting. And while the lady would sometimes smile, she would often yell and scold. Even more frequently she would resort to physical punishment.
In addition, the time for changing one' s mind was over and gone and there was no question of ever returning to the paradise of home. Nothing lay ahead of us but exertion, struggle, and perseverance. Those who were able took advantage of the opportunities for success and happiness that presented themselves.
The bell rang, announcing the passing of the day and the end of work. The children rushed toward the gate, which was opened again. I said goodbye to friends and sweethearts and passed through the gate. I looked around but found no trace of my father, who had promised to be there. I stepped aside to wait. When I had waited for a long time in vain, I decided to return home on my own. I walked a few steps, then came to a startled halt. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these cars invade it? And when did all these people come to rest on its surface? How did these hills of rubbish find their way to cover its sides? And where were the fields that bordered it? High buildings had taken over, the street was full of children, and disturbing noises shook the air. Here and there stood conjurers showing off their tricks or making snakes appear from baskets. Then there was a band announcing the opening of a circus, with clowns and weight lifters walking in front.
Good God! I was in a daze. My head spun. I almost went crazy. How could all this have happened in half a day, between early morning and sunset? I would find the answer at home with my father. But where was my home? I hurried towards the crossroads, because I remembered that I had to cross the street to reach our house, but the stream of cars would not let up. Extremely irritated, I wondered when I would be able to cross.
I stood there a long time, until the young boy employed at the ironing shop on the corner came up to me.
My mother stood at the window watching our progress, and I turned towards her from time to time, hoping she would help. We walked along a street lined with gardens, and fields planted with crops: pears, and date palms.
"Why school ?" I asked my father. "What have I done ?"
"I'm not punishing you, " he said, laughing. "School's not a punishment. It's a place that makes useful men out of boys. Don' t you want to be useful like your brothers?"
I was not convinced. I did not believe there was really any good to be had in tearing me away from my home and throwing me into the huge, high-walled building.
When we arrived at the gate we could see the courtyard, vast and full of boys and girls. "Go in by yourself, " said my father, "and join them. Put a smile on your face and be a good example to others. "
I hesitated and clung to his hand, but he gently pushed me from him. "Be a man, " he said. "Today you truly begin life. You will find me waiting for you when it's time to leave. "
I took a few steps. Then the faces of the boys and girls came into view. I did not know a single one of them, and none of them knew me. I felt I was a stranger who had lost his way. But then some boys began to glance at me in curiosity, and one of them came over and asked, "Who brought you?"
"My father, " I whispered.
"My father's dead, " he said simply.
I did not know what to say. The gate was now closed. Some of the children burst into tears. The bell rang. A lady came along, followed by a group of men. The men began sorting us into ranks. We were formed into an intricate pattern in the great courtyard surrounded by high buildings; from each floor we were overlooked by a long balcony roofed in wood.
"This is your new home, "said the woman. "There are mothers and fathers here, too. Everything that is enjoyable and beneficial is here. So dry your tears and face life joyfully. "
Well, it seemed that my misgivings had had no basis. From the first moments I made many friends and fell in love with many girls. I had never imagined school would have this rich variety of experiences.
We played all sorts of games. In the music room we sang our first songs. We also had our first introduction to language. We saw a globe of the Earth, which revolved and showed the various continents and countries. We started learning numbers, and we were told the story of the Creator of the universe. We ate delicious food, took a little nap, and woke up to go on with friendship and love, playing and learning.
Our path, however, was not totally sweet and unclouded. We had to be observant and patient. It was not all a matter of playing and fooling around. Rivalries could bring about pain and hatred or give rise to fighting. And while the lady would sometimes smile, she would often yell and scold. Even more frequently she would resort to physical punishment.
In addition, the time for changing one' s mind was over and gone and there was no question of ever returning to the paradise of home. Nothing lay ahead of us but exertion, struggle, and perseverance. Those who were able took advantage of the opportunities for success and happiness that presented themselves.
The bell rang, announcing the passing of the day and the end of work. The children rushed toward the gate, which was opened again. I said goodbye to friends and sweethearts and passed through the gate. I looked around but found no trace of my father, who had promised to be there. I stepped aside to wait. When I had waited for a long time in vain, I decided to return home on my own. I walked a few steps, then came to a startled halt. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these cars invade it? And when did all these people come to rest on its surface? How did these hills of rubbish find their way to cover its sides? And where were the fields that bordered it? High buildings had taken over, the street was full of children, and disturbing noises shook the air. Here and there stood conjurers showing off their tricks or making snakes appear from baskets. Then there was a band announcing the opening of a circus, with clowns and weight lifters walking in front.
Good God! I was in a daze. My head spun. I almost went crazy. How could all this have happened in half a day, between early morning and sunset? I would find the answer at home with my father. But where was my home? I hurried towards the crossroads, because I remembered that I had to cross the street to reach our house, but the stream of cars would not let up. Extremely irritated, I wondered when I would be able to cross.
I stood there a long time, until the young boy employed at the ironing shop on the corner came up to me.
2010年9月19日星期日
Gender Roles from a Cultural Perspective
1 Over the past few decades, it has been proven innumerable times that the various types of behavior, emotions, and interests that constitute being masculine and feminine are patterned by both heredity and culture. In the process of growing up, each child learns hundreds of culturally patterned details of behavior that become incorporated into its gender identity. Some of this learning takes place directly. In other words, the child is told by others how to act in an appropriately feminine or masculine way. Other details of gender behavior are taught unconsciously, or indirectly, as the culture provides different images, aspirations, and adult models for girls and boys.
2 Recently, for example, a study of American public schools showed that there is a cultural bias in education that favors boys over girls. According to the researchers, the bias is unintentional and unconscious, but it is there and it is influencing the lives of millions of schoolchildren every year. Doctors David and Myra Sadker videotaped classroom teachers in order to study gender-related bias in education. Their research showed that many teachers who thought they were nonsexist were amazed to see how biased they appeared on videotape. From nursery school to postgraduate courses, teachers were shown to call on males in class far more than on female students. This has a tremendous impact on the learning process for, in general, those students who become active classroom participants develop more positive attitudes and go on to higher achievement. As a matter of fact, in the late 1960s, when many of the best all-women's colleges in the northeastern United States opened their doors to male students, it was observed by professors and women students alike that the boys were "taking over" the classroom discussions and that active participation by women students had diminished noticeably. A similar subordination of female to male students has also been observed in law and medical school classrooms in recent years.
3 Research done by the Sadkers showed that sometimes teachers unknowingly prevented girls from participating as actively as boys in class by assigning them different tasks in accordance with stereotyped gender roles. For instance, one teacher conducting a science class with nursery school youngsters, continually had the little boys perform the scientific "experiment" while the girls were given the task of putting the materials away. Since hands-on work with classroom materials is a very important aspect of early education, the girls were thus being deprived of a vital learning experience that would affect their entire lives.
4 Another dimension of gender-biased education is the typical American teacher's assumption that boys will do better in the "hard", "masculine" subjects of math and science while girls are expected to have better verbal and reading skills. As an example of a self-fulfilling prophecy, American boys do, indeed, develop reading problems, while girls, who are superior to boys in math up to the age of nine, fall behind from then on. But these are cultural, not genetic patterns. In Germany, for example, all studies are considered "masculine", and it is girls who develop reading problems. And in Japan, where early education appears to be nonsexist, both girls and boys do equally well in reading.
5 The different attitudes associated with the educational process for girls and boys begin at home. One study, for example, showed that when preschoolers were asked to look at a picture of a house and tell how far away from the house they were permitted to go, the boys indicated a much wider area than the girls, who generally pointed out a very limited area close to the home. Instead of being encouraged to develop intellectual curiosity and physical skills that are useful in dealing with the outside world, as boys are, girls are filled with fears of the world outside the home and with the desire to be approved of for their "goodness" and obedience to rules. These lessons carry over from the home to the classroom, where girls are generally observed to be more dependent on the teacher, more concerned with the form and neatness of their work than with its content, and more anxious about being "right" in their answers than in being intellectually independent, analytical, or original. Thus, through the educational process that occupies most of the child's waking hours, society reinforces its established values and turns out each gender in its traditional and expected mold.
2 Recently, for example, a study of American public schools showed that there is a cultural bias in education that favors boys over girls. According to the researchers, the bias is unintentional and unconscious, but it is there and it is influencing the lives of millions of schoolchildren every year. Doctors David and Myra Sadker videotaped classroom teachers in order to study gender-related bias in education. Their research showed that many teachers who thought they were nonsexist were amazed to see how biased they appeared on videotape. From nursery school to postgraduate courses, teachers were shown to call on males in class far more than on female students. This has a tremendous impact on the learning process for, in general, those students who become active classroom participants develop more positive attitudes and go on to higher achievement. As a matter of fact, in the late 1960s, when many of the best all-women's colleges in the northeastern United States opened their doors to male students, it was observed by professors and women students alike that the boys were "taking over" the classroom discussions and that active participation by women students had diminished noticeably. A similar subordination of female to male students has also been observed in law and medical school classrooms in recent years.
3 Research done by the Sadkers showed that sometimes teachers unknowingly prevented girls from participating as actively as boys in class by assigning them different tasks in accordance with stereotyped gender roles. For instance, one teacher conducting a science class with nursery school youngsters, continually had the little boys perform the scientific "experiment" while the girls were given the task of putting the materials away. Since hands-on work with classroom materials is a very important aspect of early education, the girls were thus being deprived of a vital learning experience that would affect their entire lives.
4 Another dimension of gender-biased education is the typical American teacher's assumption that boys will do better in the "hard", "masculine" subjects of math and science while girls are expected to have better verbal and reading skills. As an example of a self-fulfilling prophecy, American boys do, indeed, develop reading problems, while girls, who are superior to boys in math up to the age of nine, fall behind from then on. But these are cultural, not genetic patterns. In Germany, for example, all studies are considered "masculine", and it is girls who develop reading problems. And in Japan, where early education appears to be nonsexist, both girls and boys do equally well in reading.
5 The different attitudes associated with the educational process for girls and boys begin at home. One study, for example, showed that when preschoolers were asked to look at a picture of a house and tell how far away from the house they were permitted to go, the boys indicated a much wider area than the girls, who generally pointed out a very limited area close to the home. Instead of being encouraged to develop intellectual curiosity and physical skills that are useful in dealing with the outside world, as boys are, girls are filled with fears of the world outside the home and with the desire to be approved of for their "goodness" and obedience to rules. These lessons carry over from the home to the classroom, where girls are generally observed to be more dependent on the teacher, more concerned with the form and neatness of their work than with its content, and more anxious about being "right" in their answers than in being intellectually independent, analytical, or original. Thus, through the educational process that occupies most of the child's waking hours, society reinforces its established values and turns out each gender in its traditional and expected mold.
Boys Are Teachers' Pets
The classroom is a man's world, where boys get two-thirds of the teachers' attention even when they are in a minority. They are allowed to tease the girls and they receive praise for sloppy work that would not be tolerated from girls.[1] Boys are accustomed to being teachers' pets, and, if girls get anything like equal treatment, boys will protest and even disrupt lessons.
These claims are made in a book out[2] this week, written by Dale Spender, a lecturer at the London University Institute of Education. She argues that discrimination against girls is so typical of co-educational schools[3] that single-gender classes are the only answer.
Her case is based on tape-recordings of her own and other teachers' lessons. Many of them, like Spender, had deliberately set out to give girls a fair chance. "Sometimes,"says Spender, "I have even thought I have gone too far and have spent more time with the girls than the boys."
The tapes proved otherwise. In 10 taped lessons (in secondary school and college), Spender never gave the girls more than 42 percent of her attention (the average was 38 percent) and never gave the boys less than 58 percent. There were similar results for other teachers, both male and female.
In other words, when teachers give girls more than a third of their time, they feel that they are depriving the boys of their rightful share[4]. And so do the boys themselves. "She always asked the girls all the questions," said one boy in a classroom where 34 percent of the teachers' time was allocated to girls. "She doesn't like boys, and just listens to the girls,"said a boy in another class, where his gender got 63 percent of the teacher's attention.
Boys regarded two-thirds of the teacher's time as a fair deal[5]—and when they got less they caused trouble in class and even complained to a higher authority. "It's important to keep their attention," said one teacher. "Otherwise, they behave very badly."
According to Spender's research , double[6] standards pervade the classroom. "When boys ask questions, protest, or challenge the teacher, they are often met with respect and rewards; when girls engage in exactly the same behavior, they are often met with criticism and punishment."
A boy seeking attention will quickly get a response from a teacher. "But girls can be ignored; their hands can be held up for ages, and their often polite requests for assistance are disregarded as the teacher is obliged to remain with the boys."
One girl, talking about a male teacher, commented: "You wouldn't want to have your hand up to tell him there was a fire, if you were a girl. We'd all burn to death before he asked you what you wanted to say."
Boys' written work, too, is judged by different standards, says Spender. When she asked teachers to mark essays and projects, the same work got better marks when teachers were told that it came from boys. "When a boy decides to make a thing of it, there's not a girl that can match him,"[7] one teacher said of a project on inventions. But, in fact, the work had been done by a girl.
Neat and tidy work from girls was treated with some contempt. "I think she could have spent more time on getting some facts than on making it look pretty," was one comment. "Typical, isn't it? All that effort just to make it look nice[8]—you can't beat girls for being concerned with appearances,"was another. But when Spender indicated that the work came from a boy, the tune changed dramatically.
Spender concludes that, in mixed classes[9], the girls are at a disadvantage. If they are as noisy and ambitious as the boys, they are considered "unladylike"; if they are quiet and passive, they are ignored.
A few schools have introduced single-gender groups for math and science, says Spender, and have found significant improvements in girls' results. Separating boys and girls within schools for certain subjects—rather than a return to single-gender schools—is the most hopeful solution she suggests.
These claims are made in a book out[2] this week, written by Dale Spender, a lecturer at the London University Institute of Education. She argues that discrimination against girls is so typical of co-educational schools[3] that single-gender classes are the only answer.
Her case is based on tape-recordings of her own and other teachers' lessons. Many of them, like Spender, had deliberately set out to give girls a fair chance. "Sometimes,"says Spender, "I have even thought I have gone too far and have spent more time with the girls than the boys."
The tapes proved otherwise. In 10 taped lessons (in secondary school and college), Spender never gave the girls more than 42 percent of her attention (the average was 38 percent) and never gave the boys less than 58 percent. There were similar results for other teachers, both male and female.
In other words, when teachers give girls more than a third of their time, they feel that they are depriving the boys of their rightful share[4]. And so do the boys themselves. "She always asked the girls all the questions," said one boy in a classroom where 34 percent of the teachers' time was allocated to girls. "She doesn't like boys, and just listens to the girls,"said a boy in another class, where his gender got 63 percent of the teacher's attention.
Boys regarded two-thirds of the teacher's time as a fair deal[5]—and when they got less they caused trouble in class and even complained to a higher authority. "It's important to keep their attention," said one teacher. "Otherwise, they behave very badly."
According to Spender's research , double[6] standards pervade the classroom. "When boys ask questions, protest, or challenge the teacher, they are often met with respect and rewards; when girls engage in exactly the same behavior, they are often met with criticism and punishment."
A boy seeking attention will quickly get a response from a teacher. "But girls can be ignored; their hands can be held up for ages, and their often polite requests for assistance are disregarded as the teacher is obliged to remain with the boys."
One girl, talking about a male teacher, commented: "You wouldn't want to have your hand up to tell him there was a fire, if you were a girl. We'd all burn to death before he asked you what you wanted to say."
Boys' written work, too, is judged by different standards, says Spender. When she asked teachers to mark essays and projects, the same work got better marks when teachers were told that it came from boys. "When a boy decides to make a thing of it, there's not a girl that can match him,"[7] one teacher said of a project on inventions. But, in fact, the work had been done by a girl.
Neat and tidy work from girls was treated with some contempt. "I think she could have spent more time on getting some facts than on making it look pretty," was one comment. "Typical, isn't it? All that effort just to make it look nice[8]—you can't beat girls for being concerned with appearances,"was another. But when Spender indicated that the work came from a boy, the tune changed dramatically.
Spender concludes that, in mixed classes[9], the girls are at a disadvantage. If they are as noisy and ambitious as the boys, they are considered "unladylike"; if they are quiet and passive, they are ignored.
A few schools have introduced single-gender groups for math and science, says Spender, and have found significant improvements in girls' results. Separating boys and girls within schools for certain subjects—rather than a return to single-gender schools—is the most hopeful solution she suggests.
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