The Crisis of University

I have a problem with the very foundations of tertiary institutions and their ways of “teaching”. What is the problem? They do very little teaching...in every sense of the word.

My understanding is that high school exists to prepare you for the world of university, which in turn exists to further prepare you for the “real” world –the world of work. University does not meet its requirements. In fact, I am inclined to believe that high school does a better job at preparing you for life than university does.

The problem with the tertiary education system is that it does very little to mould you into a thinking being. If anything, it stifles your intellect and general sense of creative thinking.

I am a Bachelor of Arts student, so I will speak from that standpoint and nothing else. The problem I have encountered with the humanities is that original thought is stifled. It is all very well and good for us to study novels in English Literature and write essays in abundance...that I have nothing against.

My issue is with the necessity of sourcing your work and having an extensive number of references. In my opinion, the thought behind this is that your opinions are juvenile and no original perception and idea can come from your uncomprehending mind.

Many a times have I read a theory and had an objection against it, only to be asked to reference my objection. I simply do not understand this. Is the whole point of studying a theory not to understand it, apply it to life, and object to it where you can? If you ask me to reference my original objection of a theory, how am I to be encouraged to thoroughly engage with the text?

This thread of thought is especially perplexing in the Faculty of Humanities. How is a faculty that is supposed to groom the writers and philosophers of the future going to instill this form of, as I see it, censorship on original thought? I am not speaking of asking one to prove their theory from the text. That is necessary.

I cannot simply say that Olive Schreiner hated fat people without providing proof from a few of her written works. It is one thing to simply say “Olive Schreiner hated fat people” and it is another to say that “Olive Schreiner hated fat people. This can be seen in her novel Story of an African Farm where Tant Sannie and Em are described as characters that ‘waddle’ when they walk”. This sort of referencing makes perfect sense and is, in more ways than one, mandatory.

The crisis of university is that, even after proving your statement from the text, you are expected to find another text supporting your claim. Errrr? THERE IS NO OTHER EXISTING TEXT TO SUPPORT MY CLAIM BECAUSE IT IS AN ORIGINAL CLAIM. From me. My head. My own mind.

Rather than groom our minds into self-sustaining entities, universities seem to be doing nothing other than grooming us into entities with perfect spelling, grammar and syntax. This is all well and good, but of what use is perfect grammar when one has no originality?

We need language to express ourselves, but what is the point of language if there is nothing to express?

Source/Reference list:

Nodada, L. 2012. “The Crisis of University”. In My Mind. Extracted in May 2012.

She sold her soul for good this time

Open legged and cross eyed. She screwed her way past the ill fated path fate had landed her on. Played fatal gamer of he said she said, waiting for her turn to get laid. Swore easy money was her hard earned honey. Jaws clenched, mouth open, she blew jobs, claiming life tasted too bitter for her to ride hard on legitimacy. Head in a daze, eyes covered in a starry glaze, running circles around the corporate maze. We all knew this was no phase. Trick played her tricks and got her kicks. Laying down her bricks but still building no future.

Professional social networker turned glorified hooker. Climbing ladders. Letting the lads climb her. Vicious cycle. Chanting fuck the masses, life's given me no free passes. Looks at good hearted philantropists and tells them to stick their supposed opportunities up their asses. It was never easy so she made it easy. Made herself easy. Adjusted her cookie jar for the hand that held the key to the biggest bar.

Never one to spit, she took what she got. Swallowed her pride and put her shame in the edges of a rusted conscience. Said moral thoughts can rot. She's living a dream.

Embrace

This was initially a Journalism (Writing and Editing) assignment I had to do earlier this year. But since I have loved this novel since the first time I read it, I had to post the assignment-turned-blog. And you have to read not only the blog, but the novel as well. It is amazing. The novel, that is.

 The gripping Embrace

Creative writing professor and author of The Smell of Apples, Mark Behr, explores the notions of sexuality, identity and politics in the complex and disturbing character of 13-year-old Karl De Man.

Embrace by Mark Behr

Published by Abacus

Reviewed by Lonwabo Nodada

                                                              “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. When you read, you begin with a, b, c. When you sing you begin with do, re, mi”.

This is the sentence that introduces the reader to 13-year-old Karl De Man’s journey in Mark Behr’s Embrace. Karl and his family move from Tanzania (then Tanganyika) to South Africa’s Kwa-Zulu Natal and immediately define themselves as an Afrikaans family. Set in 1976, the book documents a white boy’s childhood in a time when black South African learners revolted against Bantu Education, a policy that forced them to learn in Afrikaans. To keep Karl away from the uprisings, his parents send him to the Drakensburg Boys’ Choir School, an elite boys’ music school in South Africa. It is in this school that Karl discovers his sexuality. He falls in love with his best friend Dominic and goes as far as successfully seducing Mr Cilliers, his choir master. Throughout the novel, we see Karl develop as a homosexual boy in a homophobic school and as both an artist and a writer.

When one considers the parallels between Behr and his leading character, it is easy to see the novel as autobiographical. A current professor of creative writing at Rhodes College in Memphis and a former professor of world literature and fiction writing, Behr was raised in Tanzania. He and his family had to move to South Africa after the nationalisation of white farms took effect in parts of East Africa. They classified themselves as Afrikaners and his father became a game ranger in Kwa-Zulu Natal (in the same way that Karl’s father does). Behr attended, as Karl does, the Drakensburg Boys’ Choir School and later went to Port Natal High School. Upon graduating from Port Natal, he joined the South African Defence Force. The final pages of Embrace explore this concept of young Afrikaans boys having to join the defence force. We see Karl abandon his love for art and literature and rebuke his sexuality in an attempt to appease his traditionally Afrikaans father and do what is expected of him.

It is only in the last part of the novel that Behr brings the novel into one linear story. The novel is divided into five parts, each named after the five movements of Beethoven’s “Solemn Mass”. This five part division is arguably the only thing that assists the reader in reading the book coherently. The rest of the novel combines structures in a way that could only be understood as postmodern. It is a complex read that shifts between stream of consciousness, poetry, diary entries and a linear narrative without warning. Behr has lengthy passages of Afrikaans, isiXhosa and a language that Karl and Dominic formulate that he never translates. As initially confusing as it is, the novel’s structure serves as a mirror of Karl’s complex and troubled mind and. It takes one a while to get used to the seemingly haphazard structure of the novel, but once one reads the final part it becomes clear that there is indeed method to the madness.

Embrace is a novel that could easily serve as a point of reference for every writer and journalist. The 724-page long novel is an amalgamation of writing styles and an integration of universal themes. What Behr does is document not only the life of his lead character Karl De Man but that of South African history and colonisation. He finds a way to mirror Karl’s mind through his choice of writing styles. As the novel follows Karl’s development as a writer, it becomes an impromptu lecture on the process of creative writing. We see Karl struggle to write Dominic a poem throughout the novel and as the poem eventually comes to life in the final pages, it is revealed as a lesson in the documentation of thoughts and concepts. Embrace can be considered to be both a piece of creative writing and a form of long from journalism. It is an investigation of the life of a homosexual boy in a boys’ school and a recording of a partially liberal Afrikaans boy in a South Africa ruled by racial discrimination.

Behr shows the modern journalist and writer how to use personal anecdotes as forms of commentary on political and controversial subjects. His exploration of language as a tool for identity construction and exploration encourages aspiring writers like me to find comfort in their own voices and writing styles. I commend him for that.

Silence: Our greatest myth

Silence is nothing but a well advertised concept. Complete silence is, at best, a myth.

I say this knowing full well the criticisms and counter arguments that I will receive. Let us conduct a bit of an experiment, shall we? Try as hard as you can to remember the last time you can truly say you were in the presence of silence.

Try to think of a time when you could hear no sound. There was no humming of electronics. There was no clacking of shoes against concrete. There was no sound of your own breathing.

You cannot think of such a time because no such time exists.

The hippies of the world will argue that the world has turned its back on silence because it has forgotten the simplicities of life. Before all the technology and machines we were all perfectly capable of finding silence, they will say. This belief is in want for truth in at least fifty different ways in every possible universe. Simply put, it is nonsense.

But let us entertain the idea. Let us say, momentarily, that the world could conjure up silence before cars, phones and hair dryers existed. Let us imagine a world with nothing but human beings, their basic senses and the natural world. There is no language. No music. Is silence a part of it? Was silence ever a part of us? No it is not –and it never was.

You see, even if every animate thing in existence were to lose mobility the world would be anything but quiet. There would be the wind, dry leaves against tree trunks and raindrops landing in rivers (amongst other worldly things). It does not matter if you hike up onto the highest point of the Swiss Alps, you will never find silence.

Let us conduct another experiment. Go to the quietest place you know of. Hide yourself in the depths of stillness and cover your ears to the best of your ability. What do you hear? It is not “nothing” is it? You hear your heart beating. You hear what I have concluded is your blood running through your veins. You hear...even when you strive for silence.

Your body is an orchestra in itself. Nature is life’s choir. The world is a philharmonic mass. Silence is not golden, it simply isn’t. The word itself is loaded with noise, how do we expect its manifestation to be anything else?

On Black People

I have nothing against black people. We’re funny when the occasion arises. We’re deep without even realising it. We always have the urge to find our roots even when we have had no prior knowledge of losing them.

You know, we have soul and we can dance really well and the American president is black now, so we must be smart and conscious and -insert other nonsensical stereotypes here-.

The point I’m trying to make here is that black people can be cool cats (I will hang myself later for using such a phrase). We can also, however, be full of...errr...that which comes out of your rectal region. Excuse the profound racism that appears to be building this piece, but some things need to be said with the vulgarity of a black would-be-intellectual-turned-gangster.

I have never really been one to be invested in debates and arguments that are centred in the idea of race. The idea of black versus white or white featuring black. The concept of black against white and white on black. I have had little interest in all of that and have had to bear judgement from people that I have had no interest in hearing from for it.

So here it is. I have finally been pushed to the point where I am writing about race -about black people (or, as many have insisted on reminding me, my people).

I have had to watch black families fight their way out of poverty only to be pushed back into it by their fellow “brothers”. I have witnessed many a young, black, woman educate herself only to have the door of opportunity shut in her face by her fellow black “sista”. I have listened as entire black communities discourage the key to the enrichment of their lives so often that he swears never to set foot in that community when he makes it out. True to his word, he never does.

You can understand how bearing witness to these instances makes it rather difficult for me to smile and nod when someone insists that the very fabric of black South Africans is unity and ubuntu. I have observed the hypocrite stand on the podium preaching brotherhood and a sense of community when he has not been to his birthplace since he got the “opportunity to escape”.

It is ridiculous. From a black girl to the black community: hypocrisy is a very undesirable trait in a people. If we want to be seen as a united race then I suggest we start acting as one.

When Nomathamsanqa from next door walks into your house and asks you if your daughter could teach her how to read and write, how’s about you don’t charge her? If Thandisizwe from down the road asks if he could use your car to drive into town for a job interview, how’s about you give him the damn car?

This obsession we have with getting “there” (wherever the hell there is) first is going to lead us to our ultimate demise. Lend a hand. Help a brother out. Do what you can. These clichés seem to mean nothing to the majority of black people. And it sickens me.

That is my two cents worth. As you were.