Everybody makes mistakes. Some mistakes are just bigger than others. Let me tell you the tale of a eager freshman who naively took an honors course entitled "The Postmodern". The course name alone should have been enough to warn her, but, as I mentioned, she was naive.
JANUARY, 1998 Nine unsuspecting students fell into the clutches of two diabolical professors. There was Dr. Darb, a history professor with a habit of rubbing his chin as he cackled with evil glee. His partner in crime was psychology professor Dr. Love, who was as well known for his emphatic gesturing as he was for deliberately goading his students into anger. From day one these "co-facilitators" manipulated the minds of their frustrated students, delighting in their discomfort and dropping loaded, cryptic comments just when the ideas are beginning to compute. It was a class seemingly without structure, taught by two men with no pity. For three hours a week the class met, attempting to discover what the postmodern was (or wasn't). The discussion was great...the reading was horrible.
POSTMODERN READING (or lack thereof): The texts recommended for this class were written by mostly by men with unpronounceable last names (another clue I missed). The first book I attempted was by Lyotard, and after struggling to understand it, I resorted to desperately flipping through the rest of the pages, looking for ANY words that I recognized. Finally I gave up on old Francois, and turned to Peter Sacks. His book, GENERATION X GOES TO COLLEGE, was easy to understand...and infuriating. After conquering Sacks, I attempted POSTMODERNITY by David Lyon, also easy to read. I began to have more confidence in my ability to understand the postmodern, but Foucault and Lyotard soon taught me that I knew nothing.
POSTMODERN OUTINGS: Our class had a little excursion to Kansas City early in the semester to visit a postmodern art exhibit. The maniacal Dr. Love drove, running numerous stop signs, creeping down alleyways, and driving purposefully onto someone's lawn. We then spent a lot of time and money eating at a local vegetarian restaurant, served by the most surly waitress imaginable. Tired, but still in high spirits, we began the long trip back to campus. We all had a good time talking, until one student revealed his secret desire to kill another human being. I, for one, was very frightened. Our second outing was "Bowling for Midterms". Clad in designer bowling shoes and armed with a video camera, the class soon proved dangerous to the welfare of all present. The day ended with Dr. Darb attempting to bowl the camera down a lane, and instead crashing to the floor, a wiser, humbler man.
AND THEN THERE WERE EIGHT... A few weeks later, to the surprise of all, our token male student withdrew from the class. We all miss him very much, but rumor has it that his ghost still haunts our listserve.
WHAT HAPPENS NOW? The Postmodern class has only two meetings before we all adjourn for the summer. There are plans to create a class homepage and suggestions for a picnic and/or camping trip. Some of the students, and both of the professors, will return for Postmodern II (aka Reading Foucault) next semester. I look forward to another wild ride.
