Now Let Us Pray

            In reading Shannon Carter’s fascinating discussion of “Living Inside the Bible (Belt)," I found myself remembering a time in my life, not so very long ago, when I was confronted with similar challenges.  Not identical but similar. 

            My husband received a job offer to teach a photography course at a liberal arts college in Chicago (that will remain nameless).  He was led to believe it might result in a permanent position.  He is a freelance photographer, and the promise of regular work was tempting -- so tempting, in fact, that we picked up and moved.  It was temporary, we told ourselves, an adventure, and an opportunity to find out if we liked Chicago, and if a still life photographer could make a better living there than here.  In the downturns of the economy, we had sold our house the year before, in order to put our sons through college.  I am happy to say that I had the presence of mind to take a leave of absence from my current teaching position. 

            I will not bore you with the sorted details of our sojourn in Chicago.  Besides, I am not sure that this blog was designed with this in mind.  (I promise, Dr. Cauthen, that I will bring this around to Carter’s essay.)  I will only say this about Chicago:  It is a good city.  But it is not my city.  I did not like the relative state of segregation we found there.  No one smiled at the local Whole Foods Market.  The movers stole their tip out of my wallet.  We couldn’t afford most of the restaurants.  And we don’t like deep dish pizza. 

            We had been advised to rent a house in a suburb, that will also remain nameless, but that brings to mind The Stepford Wives.  No one returned our smiles or “good morning” on walks.  And when inquiring about a book club at the local bookstore, I found myself being interviewed and carefully warned that their club read real books; they weren’t sure that I would like it.  The photography department at this college told my husband that he must teach all of his classes with portraiture, and as a still-life photographer, he found all this very, very strange.  We lived near a train station, and the lonely sound of the trains and the serious-suited men and women that got on and off each day reminding me of a couple of movies from the 1950s:  The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit and Executive Suite.  (Almost everything reminds me of a movie.)  We were lonely and depressed. 

            And then the blizzards began.  One after another.  Someone told us that it was the worst winter they’d had since 1969.  It must have been.  I resisted buying warmer clothes as long as I could, because I knew we were going back. 

            On December 23^rd we were fired.  It was a sad Christmas with a $5.00 tree from Lowe’s.

            Our journey back to Los Angeles began soon after.  We rented a 14 foot Penske truck.  It wasn’t large enough, so we ended up renting an additional one – a 12 footer, which my son would drive.  Filling our trucks and our minivan with everything we could, we still had to leave many of our belongings behind. 

            Okay, now begins the part of this experience that correlates with Carter’s essay:  As we drove across country, stuck for a while, due to a blackout blizzard in a Motel 6 in Vega, Texas, we listened to hours upon hours of the radio – all of us caravanning in our separate vehicles.  (In full disclosure, I was not alone.  I traveled with two cats who wandered the van freely.)  The radio from Missouri to Arizona is predominantly Christian.  There is Christian rock, Christian country, Christian pop, Christian hip hop, Christian metal (but not death metal), Christian news, Christian advice, and of course Christian sermons.

            My parents were New York actors.  We learned skepticism and irony.  Neither of them imparted any belief systems on my sister and me beyond Shakespeare.   Their rigidity now reminds me of the extreme professors that Carter writes about, who intolerantly dismiss the Christian students’ belief systems. 

            Anyway, after the coldness, literally and figuratively, with which we were met in Chicago, I am sure that I was vulnerable.  I listened to all the Christian radio with tears streaming down my face.  Too much snow, perhaps, and too much bad news.  When we drove through the Texas panhandle, however, I was shocked at the anti-Obama billboards.  The negativity of some of this religious content was frightening.

            Finally, our Grapes of Wrath journey was over.  We drove into Los Angeles and almost kissed the ground.  Moving into our apartment, however, we realized that we had little time in which to find work or cash.  I had a teaching position for the fall, but that was six months away.  Extremely motivated, to say the least, I immediately found a Craig’s List posting for a private school in Torrance in need of a long-term sub.  I called and had an appointment that same day.  As I parked, I found myself staring at a cross in front of a small residential Christian school.  This was no problem; I was open, willing, and quite desperate for work. 

            It was a little odd, though, considering the many hours I had just heard of Christian radio.  I wondered, briefly, if it was a sign.

            Ushered into the principal’s office, I was greeted with a smile, sustained eye contact, and a few questions about my teaching style.  Everything that I said seemed to thrill and delight her.  When she summoned her assistant, I knew I had a chance.  “Let’s see what the Lord says about this,” was the principal’s next utterance.  I followed what was quickly unfolding, and found myself on my knees with them, holding hands.  The prayer that would seal my current economic fate lasted several minutes.  There was part of me that wanted to giggle; I am not as mature as I look.  Another part of me thought that maybe this whole experience was a sign.  This was where I was supposed to be.

            Naturally, I got the job, replacing a good Christian moving to Las Vegas to work in a casino.  I would be teaching all of the middle school’s language arts classes.  No problem.  I felt fairly confident in what I could offer there. 

            The first day of work, everyone stopped to tell me how blessed they were to have me.  I liked this.  It was quite different from the coolness of our Chicago reception – the college and the homogeneous suburb. 

            The day began here with prayers on the blacktop.  No problem.  Remember that I had heard quite a few prayers on Route 66.  I had made a few nondenominational ones of my own as I left Chicago behind.  I had this.  It would be fine.  What surprised me, however, was that the prayers were for things like the students winning the next soccer game or that the school’s fundraiser would go well.  This was about the time of the tsunamis in Japan, and our prayers never seemed to cover this part of the world. 

            On my second day of work, word was out that I was a great teacher.  I think this was due to the following signs of brilliant teaching pedagogy:  I showing up on time and didn’t put on a DVD from the large stack of Christian-themed films.  With earnest eyes and excitement, the principal invited me to teach the Bible Studies classes.  Keep in mind my background here; no church ever – until I met my husband and we shopped a bit and dabbled.  My protestations that I was not qualified were perceived as reverence and humility.  I was stuck.  I rushed to Barnes and Nobles and bought the contemporary Bible and a Bible for Dummies. 

            The first day of my Bible Studies class, I sat on the table, leaned forward carefully, and said that this would be a Bible Study class like none they ever had.  “Students,” I proclaimed, “it will be you teaching me. You will lead discussions.  You will frame our lessons.  I am your student."  Again, I was the talk of the teacher’s lounge.  “Students are so excited by your way of teaching!” No one ever questioned my Biblical knowledge.  When discussing the Fruits of the Spirit, for example, my rhetorical questioning invited discussions and ultimately, what I know best, theatre.  “Find a way to bring these virtues to everyone!”  I demanded. Short plays were written and performed.

            Now, those of you who have stuck with my post (saga) this long are waiting to find how the hell I am going to tie this in to Carter’s essay.  I have only one response:

            RHETORICAL DEXTERITY! (Carter 574). 

            The strangest thing happened.  First I was overwhelmed, baffled, questioning how I found myself in this strange position.  Then, I wondered if it was a sign.  I had been through so much.  Perhaps, this was meant to be.  When, however, I realized the lack of Christian charity toward the suffering of others in our prayers each morning, I was disenchanted. 

            Yet, with time, I began to see that these people were doing the best that they could.  I was holding them up to higher standards, more difficult litmus tests than I should have.  I grew to love these students quite fully – for themselves – imperfect in all the same ways that all students are, and that I was. 

            I like to think that I expanded these students’ thinking.  I know that they expanded mine.  I had to cultivate an approach and learn to “effectively read, understand, manipulate, and negotiate the cultural and linguistic codes of a new community of practice" (Lave and Wenger, quoted by Carter 574), and through this, I have a far better understanding of what this is like.

            In the fall, I returned to my school district, but a new school with predominantly Asian students. A large number of these students are from Korea.  These students are often Christian, and I like to think that the five months that I spent in the Christian school has helped me to guide these students toward openness to others and toward rhetorical dexterity.  As these students write and discuss literature, I gently guide them toward thinking about how their belief system informs their choices – even writing choices.  As I work in the public school system, I tread lightly and carefully, but I know that I cannot ignore my students’ faith(s).  All I can ask them to do is to deliberately, consciously, and thoughtfully consider how their beliefs inform their work.  How do they navigate a classroom, school, and community that may or may not mirror those beliefs? 

            After reading this article, I am more aware than ever that rhetorical dexterity for all of us is critical.  Now let us pray.