Storytellersunplugged

by John B. Rosenman 

Literature comes in many forms.  There’s traditional print, electronic formats, graphic novels, cartoons, hypertext . . .  I could go on.  But the form I’d like to talk about is oral storytelling, or more exactly, memorization of literary texts and recitations in front of an audience.

Lately I had a harrowing experience with such an event.  My Department Head thought upper-class students should memorize and recite lines from exemplary literary works.  For my junior level English lit class, she required at least a dozen lines from Geoffrey Chaucer’s General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales in (Gulp!) Middle English.  She also provided web sites where students could listen to experts recite passages from Chaucer in a Middle-English accent, approximating the way we think the language sounded over 600 years ago. 

Like most students today, mine had little experience memorizing verse, let alone reciting it before others.  But hey, let it never be said that John Rosenman turned down a challenge.  Besides, I told myself, the students would be the ones doing the work, not me. 

So I jumped right in.  I began by dividing the class into three teams of six people each that would compete against each other for extra points on the Final Exam.  A stroke of genius: I named each team after one of Chaucer’s pilgrims.  Thus, we had The Knights, the Parsons, and The Clerks of Oxenford (“And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.”)  At that point I thought, “Hell, why limit myself?”  So I got the Dean to agree to judge the contest, and I arranged to have the whole thing videotaped. 

My students were less than sanguine concerning the idea, and their enthusiasm waned even further as we began to practice.  Now Anxiety reared its ugly head, because many students wouldn’t, or couldn’t, remember their lines.  Some declined (refused?) to come to the front of the class and recite them, mumbling that they’d be ready when the time came.

Students’ promises.  Ah, you can take them to the bank, just as you can rest assured that publishers will always honor their word.  Trouble was, I started to have doubts.  Soon, I’d wake up at 3 am, remembering a student’s feeble promise and the ones who had frozen like deers in the headlights when they faced the class.  Most students were struck mute at least once during their recitals, taking ten or twenty agonizing seconds to remember what came next.  And those who didn’t, often recited their lines inaccurately.  One in particular stands out. “He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght” became “He was a pretty, fairy, gentile twit.”

True, some students were masterful.  But they were far outnumbered by those who seemed unprepared or simply unable.

So I cracked the whip harder and we practiced and practiced.  I tried to tell myself it would all come together, and that my class wouldn’t disgrace me in front of my superiors.  But while they improved, they took only baby steps.  I began to ask myself, “Am I wasting my time?  Wouldn’t we spend our time more productively by studying the damned subject rather than memorizing lines we’ll soon forget anyway?” 

The night before the Great Competition, I had a nightmare.  It was the Hour of Truth, and my students shambled in like rejects from Night of the Living Dead, lacking even the hunger of flesh-eating ghouls.  When summoned to perform, they lurched forward in rigor mortis steps and faced the audience with mindless stares.  Some drooled, and all were mute.  Chaucer, that “well of English undefiled,” turned over in his grave. 

Finally, the Moment came.  I resisted the urge to call in sick and went to the classroom.  The Dean and Department Head greeted me with expectant smiles. 

The students walked (not shambled) in.  To my surprise, they were reasonably well-dressed.  No jeans with fashionable slits in the knees.  No girls’ shirts with brazen signs that said, “SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT.”  They all looked presentable. 

Dare I hope?  Could this experiment actually work? 

Every student was in place, and punctual.  It was Showtime, and I couldn’t put it off any longer. 

Dry-mouthed, I stood up.  For a moment I was like some of my students when they tried to recite.  I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.  A few lines of poetry limped through my mind. 

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Sugar is sweet,

And you are screwed.

But I’ve been teaching a long time, and I can run my motor mouth even when the tank’s empty.  I greeted everybody, introduced our guests, the rules, the first team to perform, and then sat down. 

A second passed. 

Another second. 

Five seconds more. 

Finally, a student rose and went to the front of the class.  She stared at us. 

I estimate that my pulse passed 200 beats a minute.  Don’t even ask about my blood pressure. 

The student opened her mouth. 

Whan that April with his showres soote

The droughte of March hath perced to the roote . . . 

It was beautiful.  And the other students weren’t bad either. 

Oh, I’m not saying there weren’t rough patches.  One student read half his lines and another swung her chair around and faced the blackboard.  She sat that way for twenty seconds.  Then, as I started to sweat, she swung back and delivered her lines like a pro. 

When she was through another student came up.  In time the second team, the Parsons, started to perform.  Then came the Clerks of Oxenford. 

Four or five students were actually superb.  As the camera ran, they declaimed their lines with magnificent aplomb. 

Finally, the last student finished and sat down.  I rose on trembling knees and called for applause. 

The room rang with it for half a minute. 

Then the Dean rose and praised them, reserving special pats on the backs to those students who had actually attempted, with considerable success, to deliver their lines in Middle English.  He held forth for five effusive minutes, then announced that he had a problem: They were all so good, he couldn’t make a choice as to who deserved First Place (Fifteen extra points on the Final); Second Place (Ten extra points); or Third Place (Five extra points). 

I myself didn’t care who won.  My job was done, and I was drunk with relief. 

To decide the winner, the Dean had each team choose a spokesperson who would discuss a history question he gave them involving The Canterbury Tales.  The teams took a few minutes to discuss the question among themselves.  When they were through, the three students responded aloud to his question. 

And they were all brilliant.  For students who seemed to have taken a vow of silence in class, they were thoroughly articulate. 

The Dean sighed and then spread his hands.  “I’m still stumped,” he said.  “You’re all good, and I can’t choose.  So, there’s only one thing I can do.”

A long pause.

“I have to give you all first place.”

The students cheered, and the event ended successfully.  These days, I’m waiting for the film’s editing to be completed, so I can show it to our faculty. 

You may be wondering what the point of all this is.  Well, as I suggested earlier, the main thing is that students (and folks in general) seldom memorize literature anymore.  Once upon a time kids did it often because their teachers required them to.  They memorized and recited Marc Antony in Julius Caesar (“Friends, Romans, countrymen . . .”) or something else.  Today, it’s a fading art, and I can’t help thinking that we’ve lost something, that a whole generation is growing up with their souls unleavened by literature, their mental hard drives clogged by the worst jingles of pop culture rather than art. 

Why has this happened?  I think it’s due mostly to the general dumbing down of America.  The short story is on the endangered species list, and novels struggle to find readers unless they have short, action paragraphs seasoned with sex, violence, and simple words from a ninth grader’s vocabulary.  These days, too much is text-messaged with capitals, periods, and correct spelling omitted.  As for the Gods of the Marketplace, they have become fleeting and disposable, with a half-hour shelf life.  Yes, technology has brought web sites and electronic publishing and online literary communities like Storytellers Unplugged, but I can’t ignore the down side, the loss that society has sustained because of technology.  Special effects, Glitz, Special effects.  Americans want an instant fix, immediate gratification, and a new, gaudy gimmick for their jaded, overdosed sensibilities.  All too often, that gimmick is only a variation on an old formula, designed for those with the attention span of a fly.  Gawd help writers if they actually expect the reader to think or follow subtleties of plot, character, or (horrors!) delicate and prolonged descriptions of the natural world.

I’m probably overstating the problem.  Still, in a fast food, broad band, HD age suchas this one, we all need to treasure literary jewels more than ever.  The sublime orwell-turned phrase, the moving, unforgettable line or passage – they are precious, and if we lose them, we lose a part of ourselves we may never replace. 

So, was I wrong to take time from more orthodox studies to have my students memorize lines they will probably soon forget?  No, I was right.  Join me in the spring for my next project.  Who knows, perhaps it’s time to have students memorize a creepy, suspenseful, even gory passage from the realms of horror, penned by one of the fine writers on this site.

     — John B. Rosenman