In Defense of the (English) Major

You may not be aware of this but, English, as a major area of study, is under constant scrutiny from outsiders who believe that it's a waste of time and money.  At least once a week I am subject to a line of questioning that begins with my major and almost immediately ends or shifts to another topic.  The normal, “so what do you want to do with that degree?” question doesn’t seem to apply to those interested in studying English.  In a world full of technology, and a country full of capitalism, no one can seem comprehend why someone would want to devote their life to the study of books and essay writing. The reason that they can’t understand is because they have been misinformed. The major no longer begins and end with the pedagogical arts.  Nor does it rise and fall at the whim of the creative writers. Owing much to structural changes in outdated curriculums, English majors have now countless opportunities in front of them — far greater than most graduates from other areas of study— they just have to recognize and seize the opportunity from the competition.

Former National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) president Kathleen Blake Yancey first spoke of two major structural changes in English in 2005, during her presidential address at the CCCC, “Made Not Only in Words: Composition in a New Key.” In this address, Yancey stated that “literacy today is in the midst of a tectonic change.” The change referenced is an ongoing, systematic rewriting of how we think about the major, brought on by a re-envisioning of literacy to account for advances in communication technologies.  What this means is, unlike whatever graphs and marketing strategies business majors will forever be studying, English majors will now be specializing in the new, revised definition of literacy: a process involving the creation and conveyance of meaning. Yancey is talking about improving the flow of information in a technological society meaning. She’s addressing the refinement of communication techniques meaning. 

But she doesn’t stop there. Yancey is also advocating a new definition of composition–one for the twenty-first century that includes “[those who] compose words and images and create audio files on Web logs (blogs), in word processors, with video editors and Web editors and in e-mail and on presentation software and in instant messaging . . . in whatever genre will emerge in the next ten minutes.”  In short: if it is created, it should be considered composition and thus be included in the curriculum. Unlike the current model of composition (thankfully on its way out), Yancey’s master of composition will be a multi-headed beast who can tackle pen-and-paper assignments, emails, text messages, and a presentation all while correcting a coworker’s laughable grammatical errors (because who messes up their and there?).  All of this is good for marketability in a competitive world.  Think of it this way: where a business or history major may struggle with how to keep a complex proposal under 400 words, an English major has already submitted a succinct 399-word proposal-presentation hybrid to the boss on paper and backed it up with a digital copy, which was then emailed to all of the executives so the company could save money on prints. Wow, even I’m impressed by this renaissance man.

All of this isn’t to say we aren’t marketable in our current form.  In his Huffington Post article “Why I Hire English Majors,” author and small business expert Steve Strauss confesses that hiring English majors is something he loves to do.  He explains that they are “the type of teammate who can make us all better,” and goes on to say that “they are taught to think critically . . . they know how to think, to think for themselves, and how to analyze a problem,” whereas business majors are “preoccupied with theory . . . and doing it ‘right’.”

It’s great that English is finally getting some of the respect it deserves through modern revisions, but, until the day that those revisions are finally recognized, we shouldn’t sell ourselves short.  We are a group of intelligent individuals brought together by our love of the English language and our rise to power will mark a new era of intelligence throughout the world.

Rewriting the Rhetorical Narrative

Jim Corder, in his relatively well-known article entitled “Argument as Emergence, Rhetoric as Love,” begins by quoting A.G. Mojtabai, who writes that “we are all authors.”  Corder uses this idea as the structure for his article but extends the metaphor to a greater extent, asserting that, instead of simply being the authors, “each of us is a narrative.”  In this somewhat philosophical approach to human understanding (read: empathy), Corder is attempting to redefine the ways that we identify ourselves, as well as approach arguments and conflict, by simply searching for a greater awareness of each other’s “narrative”. This narrative, as Corder explains, is the story of you—it’s an account of how you got to where you stand and how experiences (and arguments) along the way have impacted your (un)belief.  Marc Santos, in his article "How the Internet Saved My Daughter and How Social Media Saved My Family," addresses Corder's narrative, summarizing that "[the] rhetorical narratives provide a frame of reference for understanding and navigating the world."  Similar to  Kenneth Burke before him, it can be inferred the message that Corder is advocating suggests that rhetoric can be about discovering an identity; how to become the people we think we are, through the people we know, and the experiences we share.  However, with today’s web-centric technology, the narratives that we write through shared experiences are decreasing exponentially.  This begs the question: in a generation of often anonymous interconnectivity, how can you write your own narrative if the pathetic experiences that are supposed to shape it are not experiences at all, but second-hand, revised versions of someone else’s life? Technology has enabled us to be connected in ways we never have before.  A computer, or phone, becomes extensions of your hand, allowing you to reach out and connect with someone hundreds of miles away.  For the younger generation, one that has grown up knowing only vast social networks, the ability to establish far-reaching networks becomes the standard and the experiences are amplified by the sheer amount of time they spend being connected.  According to a 2010 study conducted by the Kaiser Family Foundation entitled “Generation M2: Media in the Lives of 8-to 18-Year-Olds”, young people, age 8-18 years old, “devote an average of 7 hours and 38 minutes (7:38) to using entertainment media across a typical day (more than 53 hours a week)”.  Resulting from this increased familiarity/obsession with entertainment mediums such as Facebook, the Corder's narrative (which used to be created through first-hand experiences) has become something that is simulated; it has (d)evolved a pseudo-narrative that is rapidly moving away from real-life encounters and pushing further into the virtual realm.  If a rhetorical narrative is the story of how you got to where you are (both physically and philosophically) and the influences of others along the way, how is that narrative impacted by technologies that alter the story before it gets to you?  Instead of experiencing people’s stories first- hand, as they're told, we read them on a Facebook or Twitter feed. What we read has usually (at least in my case) been edited, revised, and completely rewritten before it is published for the world to see.

For my generation, many of the arguments and past experiences that help to shape the rhetorical narrative have already occurred, so it is hard to conceive of a reality other than the one we currently occupy. If, as Corder states, “the narratives . . . create and define the worlds in which we hold our beliefs”, then I invite you to imagine a world in which false narratives are created unwittingly because they are being shaped by the presence of technology. What happens then when an entire generation lives online (“53 hours a week,”) and their narrative is being written from dynamic and subjective standpoints under constant revision?  It seems that the concept of rhetorical narrative needs to be the subject of a post-modern revision, one that takes into account the presence of technology and addresses the impact that being constantly connected can have.

“Journey” as Art: Capturing Catharsis in Video Games

In Roger Ebert’s controversial 2010 blog entitled “Video games can never be art,” Ebert goes on record, once again, by clearly stating “video games cannot be art” and that “no video gamer now living will survive long enough to experience the medium as an art form.” What follows these overly presumptuous statements is a diatribe through which Ebert attempts to validate his claims by using a TED Talks, delivered by Kellee Santiago in which she asks "Are Video Games Art?", as ammunition to shoot holes in the idea of artistic video games; however, the argument has one side to it and the problems with his evaluation quickly become evident through the narrow scope of his critique.

When Ebert references art, he conjures up artists like Picasso and writers such as T.S. Eliot and Samuel Beckett for his point of reference.  While there isn’t a question as to whether or not these figures produced art, Ebert refuses to acknowledge the idea that most art wasn’t considered as such until many years later when the definition of art finally caught what was being produced.  Furthermore, Ebert seems resistant to the idea that an artistic medium outside the confines of traditional thought could exist whatsoever.  To conclude his blog, he argues that “Bobby Fischer, Michael Jordan and Dick Butkus never said they thought their games were an art form,” — why should a video game be any different?

A video game should be different. The definition of what a video game actually is has been somewhat dynamic throughout the years.  When video games first arrived, they were simplistic—equivalent to the scratches on the walls of caves seen during the TED Talk.  They were, by definition, games that you play on your television.  As the years have progressed, video games have taken on a certain cinematic-like artistry that seems to transcend the traditional tag of “video game”; this progression has caused video games to transform from simple games into something that the user experiences, in the same way they would a movie or a novel.  It could be said that some modern-day video games are more attuned at bringing the player closer to achieving Aristotle’s cathartic experience than most movies.  One of these video games that seem to transcend the label and provide an artistic, aesthetically satisfying experience is 2012s critically acclaimed “Journey”.

In “Journey”, the player assumes the role of a nameless, robed wanderer in what appears to be an endless desert.  When the game first loads up, there is a brief, wordless opening sequence that aims the camera to the games ultimate objective: an imposing mountain, presumably miles off in the distance.  Unlike most games, “Journey” has no speech, text, or true instructions to assist the player; like learning how to perform a basic function in real life, the user must learn how to accomplish things through experience.  Thankfully, the experience comes quick because there are few actual things to learn – the left analog stick controls the figure while the right controls the camera; one button makes the figure jump and another emits a musical-note sounding shout that varies in intensity dependent upon how long the button is held.  The simplicity of the controls enables the user to immediately begin exploring the environment rather than learning how to do so.

It is through exploration that the true artistry of “Journey” becomes apparent. Without a clear objective, players will wander aimlessly across the game’s sweeping environments—that is the purpose of “Journey”.  No journey, real or fictional, is without elements of discovery and the developers understood that half the trip is getting there (pardon the cliché).  It is because of this simple concept that “Journey” can achieve the profound impact that it does.  Playing on human nature, it peaks the player’s sense of wonder by inviting them to explore everything.  The game’s first true cathartic experience occurs while exploring a small portion of the enormous landscape for the first time. Similar to looking up at the stars, “Journey” possesses the ability to make the player feel small and insignificant by taking the immensity of the natural world and applying it to a landscape where seemingly no one else remains. You are in awe of the immensity of your implied task.  This feeling of desolation is only intensified as the journey continues and the player begins to discover remnants of civilizations.  The resulting effect is twofold: you feel curious and sad.  These two emotions play off of one another; your curiosity drives you to discover what happened to the inhabitants of such a glorious civilization; however, you can’t help but think the worst.  This cathartic experience is just the first in what eventually becomes a spectrum of emotional release.

In one of the more creative twists in video-game history, “Journey” will insert other players into the game that you will undoubtedly venture across.  Both of you seemingly have the same objectives but, because of the games lack of interface, you have no way of communicating with them outside of the aforementioned musical-note shout.  The beauty in this design comes from a few aspects of its implementation. Because the other player has no name and never does; they forever remain an anonymous figure to you (until the game's end).  This anonymity eliminates preconceptions that a name could create and, instead, helps the player focus on forming a bond in any way possible. Since there are no objectives to race to or monsters to kill, there is no competition to be had; instead, the game’s multiplayer aspect fosters dependence and cooperation (evoking Tolstoy’s definitions of art) that challenges the player to discover their morality; who they truly are outside the realm of intelligent communication.  The game’s ambivalence to its multiplayer only adds to the artistry: you are not encouraged, nor are you discouraged, from working with another player, but working with someone ultimately makes you feel connected to something—a union in a world of separation.  When you are alone, “Journey” becomes a game entwined more so with Aristotle’s definition of art by making you feel the emotions common to the human experience.  You feel abandoned.  Your brain tells you how alone you truly are in the unfamiliar world and the resulting emotion, sadness, is released.  However, when you find someone else on the same journey, the game transforms into one about union, more aligned with Tolstoy’s definition. You get a sense of pleasure from the presence of the nameless player and develop a relationship based on mortality. Their existence alone helps connect you to the rest of the world you’re exploring.

In Aristotle’s Poetics, he suggests that because of the essential beauty in nature, we learn to create beautiful things.  “Journey” creates the simplistic beauty of a land lost in time, and abandoned by society, and urges the player to experience them, sometimes alone, sometimes aided by a nameless friend. Whether defining art through Tolstoy’s definition that describes it as a Union, challenging us to discover who we are supposed to be morally, or through Aristotle’s more conventional definition that promotes cathartic experiences —“Journey” becomes something that transcends the boundaries restricting conventional mediums. Regardless of the definition you choose for art, the resulting effect of “Journey” is art in every sense of the word.  It guides the player on an emotional journey that removes them from the world they know and encourages them to experience the beauty that’s inherent in the nature of existence.