Policing Shakespeare Discussion

By the time I'd been in Prof. Green's Shakespeare course for a couple of weeks, I'd begun to notice something strange. She would often present a thesis or a point of view that seemed to be, if not at odds with the text, at least a very strained interpretation. Moreover, while she would regularly pose questions to the class and solicit student input, it was clear what responses she wanted to hear -- and she was very quick to dismiss, without discussion, ideas that diverged from her point of view, even when her view seemed plain wrong.

In our discussion of Twelfth Night, for example, she emphasized at length how Olivia is in earnest about mourning her dead brother for seven years and not admitting any suitors during that time. This is indeed what the audience is initially led to believe, since a couple of characters make statements to that effect about Olivia before she appears.

Once Olivia does appear, however, this impression is overturned. She is free-spirited, playful, and romantically attracted to a man called Cesario from the time she first encounters him. The prof's viewpoint was therefore quite difficult to understand.

Cesario is actually a woman in disguise. Although Olivia does not know this, the prof argued in class that Olivia's romantic interest in Cesario was not inconsistent with her mourning intention since, at some level, she sensed that Cesario was less than a man, or not fully a man.

I found this interpretation unsustainable from the text for several reasons, and I emailed the prof. Her response suggested a tendency that she was to manifest over and over again. Eventually the pattern became unmistakable:

I don't think that Olivia sees Cesario as a non-man; however, she eventually realizes that Cesario is not yet a man. And, ironically, Olivia is the one that is not prepared to wait--she is the one who hears the clock chime and notes how, both metaphorically and literally, she has been wasting time.

This answer puzzled me at the time, and I thought I might somehow have misunderstood her in class. I replied:

I thought you'd suggested in class that Olivia views Cesario as safe and permissible because he appears to be something less or other than a man, and thus does not interfere with her resolve about mourning. However, the only indication I can see that she feels he might be less than a man is the line, "when wit and youth is come to harvest, / Your wife is like to reap a proper man", which comes only after her pursuit is finally terminated by his rejection. The waste of time signalled by the clock represents the pursuit of indifferent lovers, which she has reason to know is futile.

But I hadn't misunderstood what the prof had told the class. As time went on, a consistent pattern emerged. Again and again, she would make a statement to the class that was dubious or simply wrong; I would question it; then she would pretend she'd said something different and attempt to cloud the issue by diverting the discussion to extraneous factors (like the clock chiming, above).

In one of the classes on King Lear, to take a clearer example, she had stressed that there was a deep social stigma attached to being a bastard (like the character Edmund). Edmund does have a speech in which he bitterly condemns the social prejudice against bastards, but every single character we see encountering him (until his villainy is finally exposed) is very favorably disposed towards him. When I pointed this out in class, the prof hastily dismissed it, maintaining that the social prejudice definitely existed and that Edmund's speech demonstrated he had been treated prejudicially by others in the past.

But when I later returned to this point via email, she replied:

I am not going to repeat the argument I made yesterday regarding the stigma of Edmond's illegitimacy as you remain unconvinced by it. It was not my argument that the other characters treat Edmund disrespectfully. I was suggesting that he feels the stigma of his illegitimacy and the lack of a place in the social order regardless of how others might treat him.

But of course, she was shifting the ground again. Her claim in class had not been merely that he feels a stigma. That much is obvious from his speech, and no one could be "unconvinced" about it.

Similarly, she declared to the class that the character Kent (also in King Lear) is a "truth-teller." I pointed out a passage in which he lies. She foreclosed discussion of the point in class -- and, responding later via email, offered a protracted discussion of the separate issue of exactly what it is that leads to Kent's punishment, concluding with: "I agree that Kent is an interesting and complex character, and we could have spent more time discussing his relationship with Lear."

Shifting the ground; diverting the focus to a separate issue. I replied in my turn: "my point about Kent is that we directly see him lying -- which contradicts your declaration that he's a truth-teller." She never responded.

My messages were getting more curt. But her evasions, her cynical readiness to mislead students and use bluff and bluster to avoid simply acknowledging errors (which were in themselves acceptable), were getting to be offensive.

Once, early on, shortly after our first email exchange (the one on Twelfth Night quoted above), I made an appointment to see her after class. "Email exchange" actually seems overblown -- I'd written, she'd replied, I'd replied to that; then she'd proposed we "agree to disagree."

By the way, I hope folks won't get the idea that I was on a mission to cause grief for this prof. I'd expected to be a normal student; I didn't take up any more class time than the others; my innocent wish was merely to learn about Shakespeare. Also, I'd emailed her in advance to request permission to audit her course, mentioning that "I'd be a 'mature student' (age 40), I have degrees in computers and public policy but not too much formal literature education, and I'd probably only be able to start attending about a week from now [after start of classes.]" Her reply said I was welcome to join.

Most classic works like Shakespeare's can be found online via http://digital.library.upenn.edu/books/, which is extremely convenient for searching text or including quotations in one's own writing. I'd mentioned to Prof. Green that the Twelfth Night etext had a curious discrepancy from the Norton printed edition we were using. For a line that is spoken by another character about Olivia, Norton has:

"They say, she hath abjured the sight / And company of men"

whereas the etext I used has:

"They say, she hath abjured the company / And sight of men"

Inexplicably, the prof had remarked in her email: "Logically, one has to see something before one can be in its company; the line as printed in the Norton perhaps makes better sense in that regard."

To this I'd replied:

for some strange reason I see it the opposite way: "They say, she hath abjured the sight / And company of men" (as in Norton) is less logical, since the second thing (company) should be stronger than the first in order not to be redundant. In other words, once you're abjuring the sight, it's superfluous to add that you're also abjuring the company.

This was one of the points she'd proposed, without further discussion, that we "agree to disagree" about.

I'd accumulated a dozen points to discuss by the time I met with the prof, and I raised this one first. But she was like a brick wall, possessed, it seemed, by a ferocious determination not to yield an inch on any issue -- not even on the company / sight question, on which her position was clearly illogical. That particular issue is fairly insignificant as far as Shakespeare is concerned, but I could hardly believe how immovable she was.

The meeting lasted an hour and a half, and she emerged triumphant -- at least insofar as she yielded no ground on any issue.

On an earlier occasion, when I'd mentioned the unfortunate absence of discussion or debate of any kind among students during class, she'd attributed it to the students' fixation on grades and aversion to conflict. But since then I'd observed that the primary cause was the way she controlled class discussion, and I gently raised this in our meeting. She insisted she was open to debate, and I came away with the impression that she would henceforth welcome direct exchanges of different viewpoints between students in class discussions.

After another week of classes, I was led to email the following message, which initiated the second of our three brief email exchanges. (I've quoted snippets above.)

Sent: Thursday, August 02, 2001 3:06 PM
Subject: Something essential lacking

Despite what you said in our discussion just a few days ago about welcoming debate, I'm finding you more rigid than ever in suppressing any and all divergent ideas in class. You welcome student participation -- but only so long as it conforms to the ideas you've signalled you favor.

Your idea yesterday, for example, was that in King Lear there is a deep stigma attached to being a bastard. A succession of students gave you the corroboration you sought. But is it not worth mentioning that every single character we see encountering Edmund (until his villainy is finally exposed) is quite favorably disposed towards him; that his father's affection is obviously genuine; and that even Kent, obsessed as he is with rank and social position, shows him the utmost respect?

But these considerations strayed from your script. You dismissed them, saying that Edmund's own speech demonstrates he is a victim of social prejudice (expressed off-stage -- and outside the text).

Similarly, on Tuesday you asked the class about Cordelia's response to Lear in the early scene in which he divides his kingdom. Your script called for the view that Cordelia is true and that her love is at a perfectly appropriate level. In the Reina Green Shakespeare this is unquestionable, and the other students cooperated.

But is there no ambiguity whatever in Cordelia's angelic perfection? ("those happy smilets, / That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know / What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, / As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief, / Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved, / If all could so become it.") What should we make of her unswerving loyalty to her selfish, tyrannical and contemptible father? Is virtue consistent with support for such a king? Is her love indeed so unequivocal, given her aggressively principled refusal to express the love he plainly wants to hear, and given her unwillingness to soften the "nothing" (which as you noted in class he misinterprets)?

What about Kent's support for Lear, offered with what could be considered overzealous violence? Can this be unconnected with his complacency with his own position in the old social order, expressed almost every time he opens his mouth? (At one point he says "I am too old to learn".)

We somehow went through five class hours on Lear without addressing these seemingly central questions, although we spent plenty of time discussing the relative significance of various words in the subplot and the main plot. I attempted to raise the question of Cordelia's attitude towards her father, but in customary fashion you summarily squelched it. If debate were really welcome, this would have been a natural point for you to ask other students for their responses.

The other students, sadly, go along with this. They seem not to want one whit more insight into Shakespeare than is needed to please you. They have no patience for divergences from "the right answer". And yet, just yesterday, I was able to observe your response to an unwelcome idea from someone other than myself, when a student unwittingly made a point you didn't want to hear. You had asked at what point Lear comes to see his error. The student pointed out a passage you'd apparently forgotten, in which Lear is said to be to ashamed to face Cordelia. But this response was outside your playbook, so it was intolerable. You jettisoned it by saying, "Yes, but that's when he's mad", and moved the discussion along.

But the text shows your response was incorrect: "the poor distressed Lear's i' the town; / Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers / What we are come about, and by no means / Will yield to see his daughter."

The student let it go. Who cares about truth? Let the prof have her way.

For yet another example, you announced yesterday that Kent generally speaks the truth. This seems questionable in terms of his explanation for why he's been put in the stocks. The Gentleman is more skeptical than the gullible Lear, asking: "Made you no more offence but what you speak of?" Kent says "None", which is not true (he omitted to mention the significant fact that he insulted the Duke), then immediately changes the subject -- much as you did yourself.

Your suppression of contrary ideas seems almost militant, exceeding the bounds of fair and open discussion. Yesterday after one of your peremptory retorts to a point I offered, you cut me off as I began to respond and gestured to another student to speak (on a separate point).

Of course I do not claim any expertise on Shakespeare, and I am perfectly open to my ideas being shown wrong. But it should be obvious that the proper way to get "the right answer" across to students is via a reasoning process. If "the right answer" is indeed right, it won't be threatened by rival ideas.

I find, in short, that this is a regrettable way to teach English, particularly Shakespeare, a subject that clearly invites contrary interpretations. It is remarkable that I can say I haven't once witnessed an exchange of opposing views in this class. The fact that most students seem oblivious to what they are missing (and are quite possibly indifferent) is hardly a justification.

Considering all the abuse of power, manipulation, deceit and evil portrayed by Shakespeare, it is ironic that one of the main effects on students of a university course on his works should be to have their uncritical deference to authority reinforced. One might expect such students to be putty in the hands of a modern Richard III.

Sincerely,

Uriel

Again, this led to a fairly unsatisfactory exchange. Her reply began with the strangely formal sentence, "I am sorry if the English 2214/4252 class is not fulfilling your expectations of a university class on Shakespeare." It concluded with: "Once again, I am sorry that English 2214/4252 is not fulfilling your expectations." In between, not much solace was offered, although two more pseudo-apologies were provided: "I am sorry that you feel that we should have spent longer discussing Cordelia's relationship with her father, but we did devote a significant portion of Tuesday's class to that topic. I don't remember "squelch[ing]" your question during that discussion and I apologize if you feel that I did so."

My reply commented: "Your statement of regret is in the modern style. Your position is unaltered and everyone's inalienable right to his/her own opinion is respected."

I also noted: "Unless I very distinctly missed something in our two Lear classes, no time at all was given to a view of Cordelia as anything other than an appropriately loving daughter (apart from my short-lived effort to suggest otherwise)."

But the exchange ended there. She never followed up.

The discussion was yet to get a little more personal when she suggested to the class that I was in favor of murder ....

[To be continued.]