You might
be familiar with the “wax on, wax off” scene from the original 1984 Karate Kid
in which Daniel LaRusso shows up for his first karate lesson with Mr. Miyagi
and is given the menial task of waxing his teacher’s classic car. He becomes
frustrated and complains, only to discover he has been learning important
defensive blocks through muscle memory all along. (Try it: Say, “wax on,” and
make a clockwise motion in the air with your right palm, then say, “wax off,”
and make a counter clockwise motion in the air with your left. Repeat six
hundred times. Are you feeling it?)
If you
haven’t seen this 80’s classic, no worries, chances are you’ve seen this same
movie trope in some other film. How about Oliver Queen “slapping the water” in
season one of Arrow? His teacher has him strike the water in a shallow bowl
with the palm of his hand until the bowl is empty, then refill the bowl and
repeat the process…and repeat…and repeat…until—What-do-you-know?—suddenly he is
strong enough to draw that really big bow of his. Or, how about when Arya’s
sword fighting instructor makes her “chase cats” in season one of Game of
Thrones? I can’t remember what that was supposed to do exactly; but hey, she’s
still alive in season seven, right? Anyway, you get what I mean.
In all of
these “wax on, wax off” type scenarios, the students continue to perform a
teacher’s seemingly nonsensical instructions…until one day, when they least
expect it, they suddenly see the results.
Hopefully,
over time (or all at once), many of you will discover that the daily reading
journals you will be dutifully completing this year work exactly the same way.
While they may seem like nonsensical busywork at times, they are not. The daily
journals are in reality a series of analytical techniques slowed down and
purposefully performed over and over again—just like the Karate Kid’s waxing
moves, or the Archer’s water slapping, or Arya’s cat chasing. As you complete
them, you are building analytical muscle memory…and soon you will begin to see
the results.
I know…I
know…I spoiled it, right? You were supposed to discover that on your own. One
evening in the near future, you were going to look up from your notes, struck
with an overwhelming sense of clarity, and say, “It’s as if I have a special
sense for the subtleties of the text…the deeper meanings of a work!” And then
declare something like, “I can now read between the lines, embrace the
ambiguities, and express my understanding of complex ideas in a sustained and
sophisticated way!” You will come crashing out of your room, aglow in your
epiphany, angering family members and terrifying the cat, shouting, “I am an
analytical god!”
Well,
before that happens, let me just review the main elements of your literary
journals:
When you
clarify:
Strong
readers use context to infer the meaning of new words they encounter, or they
identify the word’s part of speech, or they break the word into smaller parts,
identifying its root, prefix, or suffix, sometimes recognizing that the word is
actually the cognate of a word they already know in another Latin-based
language. The “wax on, wax off” here is that you have to not only consciously
practice these skills as you read, you must stop, clarify the word’s meaning,
and then record both the sentence in which it was used and the appropriate
definition in your journal.
When you
summarize:
This
“water slapping” is actually not so bad. When you summarize a chapter, do it in
one sentence. Yes, that’s right, I said, one sentence. The idea here is to
practice brevity in your summaries. The reason for this is to avoid falling
into what is known in a literary analysis essay as the “summary trap.” This is
when you spend so much of your time and effort retelling parts of a text you
are supposed to be analyzing, that you end up doing very little actual
analyzing. The trap for the writer is that it feels like strong analysis, but
it’s really just retelling…and that’s called a book report, not a literary
critique. Note: advanced water slappers can summarize entire novels in one
sentence…keep slapping, you’ll get there.
When you
question:
Okay, now
we’re “chasing cats” and building brain-muscle. Strong readers question
everything they read…heck, strong thinkers question everything they see (and
hear)...but they don’t ask simplistic questions when they do (I almost said,
they don’t ask “dumb questions,” but that wouldn’t be nice). What I mean is,
the answer can’t be obvious, like, “Who is John Grady’s best friend?” And the
question can’t be a disguised prediction in the form of a question, like, “Is
Blevins going to get killed?” Ask a question that will lead you to a deeper
understanding of what you are reading, like, “Why does Rawlins seem to dislike
Blevins so much?” The actual cat chasing here is that you now have to answer
your question and support it with relevant examples from the passage. Oh, but
when you do! Prepare to discover!
When you
analyze:
Now we’re
getting down to business…this is what you’ve signed up for, my young Padawans:
literary analysis! If you don’t “wax on, wax off” here in the safe and
forgiving confines of your journal, then you won’t be able to do it on the AP
battlefield in May. So don’t hold back. Give an example of at least one
literary device used by the author. Use a variety of devices, not the same ones
every time. And don’t just “tag it” with the name of a device; explain it. For
example: “In this paragraph, Mr. Hoy made an allusion to Star Wars when he
referred to his student audience as ‘young Padawans.’ The term refers to a Jedi
apprentice, or a Jedi Knight in training. Its use suggests that if students
want to one day become full analytical Jedi, they must trust their Jedi Master.
The reference to Padawans also supports the essay’s extended teacher/student
analogy by introducing, or at least alluding to, yet another ‘wax on, wax off’
trope.”
When you
connect:
I’ll be
honest. This is my favorite part of your journals to read, and if I didn’t
always have to be your “cruel to be kind” literary sensei, it would be all I
ask you to do. Connecting with the characters and themes of a good story is
what literature is all about. It’s the real joy of the conversation. It’s why
art exists in the first place…so humans can connect with each other. Stories
connect us to the past, the present, the future…and to every other human being
on this earth.
Now,
before I wrap this up, I’d like to give you one more thing to think about: My
claim that following my reading journal instructions will eventually lead to
wondrous results…will only happen if you actually follow those instructions. It
won’t work if you take short cuts, or in other words, cheat. When you skip the
reading and get the chapter summaries and the accompanying analysis from “help
sites” (Shmoop, Cliffsnotes, Gradesaver, Sparknotes, et al.), you got the job
done, turned it in, sure, but it didn’t benefit you much, if at all. No
brain-muscle memory. No skill improvement. Just a senseless exercise of filling
in the blanks.
Imagine
if Daniel LaRusso had gone over to the neighbors and borrowed an electric
buffer instead of using his hands. Mr. Miyagi’s car would have been shiny,
sure, but Daniel would never have become the Karate Kid. Or if Oliver Queen had
tipped the water out of the bowl when no one was looking? He would never have
survived the island and returned to save Starling City. Or if Arya had simply
made one of the servants catch the cats for her…who would be my all-time
favorite character on Game of Thrones?
--Mr. Hoy
