Most people are not good observers. Yet many fields of study require that people in those fields develop skill in observation. One reason behind this lack of skill in the classroom is that many students assume that teachers will provide them with the answers and that the students' only responsibility is in writing those answers down and repeating them on exams. Behind this is the belief that teachers have all of the answers. But the purpose of education is to teach students how to figure out answers for themselves. That means that often students may feel "stupid" or inadequate to the task. In his article "The Importance of Stupidity in Scientific Research," Martin A. Schwartz explains that oftentimes no one has the answer to a question. That is why it is the subject of research. For him,
The crucial lesson was that the scope of things I didn't know wasn't merely vast; it was, for all practical purposes, infinite. That realization, instead of being discouraging, was liberating. If our ignorance is infinite, the only possible course of action is to muddle through as best we can. (Schwartz)Of course, he is not referring to those students who do not read the materials or study. Instead, he suggests people should be " ignorant by choice," which "allows us to bumble along, getting it wrong time after time, and feel perfectly fine as long as we learn something each time." He argues that "The more comfortable we become with being stupid, the deeper we will wade into the unknown and the more likely we are to make big discoveries" (Schwartz).
A student once apologized, saying "I am really struggling with this class. I'm trying to read the book and really understand it, but it's . . . so much harder for me." This course covers complex ideas. Students should be struggling with them. That is the reason for the discussions--not that students answer every question correctly, but that students struggle with the ideas, making missteps, but sometimes reaching insights, and, in the process, interact with everyone else struggling with these ideas. This is what learning really is.
We will begin the semester examining the various ways in which Western Civilization has viewed myth over time. Some of these approaches to myth will become the tools for our examination of myth, the "telescopes" and "microscopes" which we will use to examine myths more closely. As we begin to look at myths from around the world, students will have to look closely and carefully at what they are reading, and think about the implications and patterns emerging from the myths. This will require focused attention. Below is the story of Samuel Scudder, who learned the skill of observation from the famous scientist Louis Agassiz.
"In the Laboratory With Agassiz," by Samuel H. Scudder
It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassiz, and told him I had enrolled my name in the Scientific School as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which I afterwards proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and, finally, whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied that, while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoology, I purposed to devote myself specially to insects.
"When do you wish to begin?" he asked.
"Now," I replied.
This seemed to please him, and with an energetic "Very well!" he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. "Take this fish," he said, "and look at it; we call it a haemulon; by and by I will ask what you have seen."
With that he left me, but in a moment returned with explicit instructions as to the care of the object entrusted to me.
"No man is fit to be a naturalist," said he, "who does not know how to take care of specimens."
I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground-glass stoppers and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; all the old students will recall the huge neckless glass bottles with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks, half eaten by insects, and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the Professor, who had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish, was infectious; and though this alcohol had a "very ancient and fishlike smell," I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred precincts, and treated the alcohol as though it were pure water. Still I was conscious of a passing feeling of disappointment, for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent entomologist. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered that no amount of eau-de-Cologne would drown the perfume which haunted me like a shadow.
In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, and started in search of the Professor--who had, however, left the Museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd animals stored in the upper apartment, my specimen was dry all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate the beast from a fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of the normal sloppy appearance. This little excitement over, nothing was to be done but to return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passes--an hour--another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around; looked it in the face--ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at a three-quarters' view--just as ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour I concluded that lunch was necessary; so, with infinite relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free.
On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the Museum, but had gone, and would not return for several hours. My fellow-students were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might not use a magnifying-glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish: it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows, until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me--I would draw the fish; and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then the Professor returned.
"That is right," said he; "a pencil is one of the best of eyes. I am glad to notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet, and your bottle corked."
With these encouraging words, he added, "Well, what is it like?"
He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts whose names were still unknowns to me: the fringed gill-arches and movable operculum; the pores of the head, fleshy lips and lidless eyes; the lateral line, the spinous fins and forked tail; the compressed and arched body. When I finished, he waited as if expecting more, and then, with an air of disappointment, "You have not looked very carefully; why," he continued more earnestly, "you haven't even seen one of the most conspicuous features of the animal, which is a plainly before your eyes as the fish itself; look again, look again!" and he left me to my misery.
I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish! But now I set myself to my tasks with a will, and discovered on new thing after another, until I saw how just the Professor's criticism had been. The afternoon passed quickly; and when, towards its close, the Professor inquired, "Do you see it yet?"
"No," I replied, "I am certain I do not, but I see how little I was before."
"That is next best," said he, earnestly, "but I won't hear you now; put away your fish and go home; perhaps you will be ready with a better answer in the morning. I will examine you before you look at the fish."
This was disconcerting. Not only must I think of my fish all night, studying, without the object before me, what this unknown but most visible feature might be; but also, without reviewing my discoveries, I must give an exact account of them the next day. I had a bad memory; so I walked home by Charles River in a distracted state, with my two perplexities.
The cordial greeting from the Professor the next morning was reassuring; here was a man who seemed to be quite as anxious as I that I should see for myself what he saw.
"Do you perhaps mean," I asked, "that the fish has symmetrical sides with paired organs?"
His thoroughly pleased "Of course! of course!" repaid the wakeful hours of the previous night. After he had discoursed most happily and enthusiastically--as he always did---upon the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I should do next.
"Oh, look at your fish!" he said, and left me again to my own devices. In a little more than an hour he returned, and heard my new catalogue.
"That is good, that is good!" he repeated; "but that is not all; go on"; and so for three long days he placed that fish before my eyes, forbidding me to look at anything else, or to use any artificial aid. "Look, look, look," was his repeated injunction.
This was the best entomological lesson I ever had--a lesson whose influence has extended to the details of every subsequent study; a legacy the Professor had left to me, as he has left it to many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we cannot part.
A year afterward, some of us were amusing ourselves with chalking outlandish beasts on the Museum blackboard. We drew prancing starfishes; frogs in mortal combat; hydra-headed worms; stately crawfishes, standing on their tails, bearing aloft umbrellas; and grotesque fishes with gaping mouths and staring eyes. The Professor came in shortly after, and was as amused as any at our experiments. he looked at the fishes.
"Haemulons, every one of them," he said; "Mr. ---- drew them."
True; and to this day, if I attempt a fish, I can draw nothing but haemulons.
The fourth day, a second fish of the same group was placed beside the first, and I was bidden to point out the resemblances and differences between the two; another and another followed, until the entire family lay before me, and a whole legion of jars covered the table and surrounding shelves; the odor had become a pleasant perfume; and even now, the sight of an old, six-inch, worm-eaten cork brings fragrant memories.
The whole group of haemulons was thus brought in review; and, whether engaged upon the dissection of the internal organs, the preparation and examination of the bony framework, or the description of the various parts, Agassiz's training in the method of observing facts and their orderly arrangement was ever accompanied by the urgent exhortation not to be content with them.
"Facts are stupid things," he would say, "until brought into connection with some general law."
At the end of eight months, it was almost with reluctance that I left these friends and turned to insects; but what I had gained by this outside experience has been of greater value than years of later investigation in my favorite groups.
This skill in observation is the foundation for close reading in literature classes, the scientific method, diagnostic skills for those in fields as diverse as mechanics and nursing. This semester you will be looking at "fish," comparing one myth to another, always with the purpose of understanding as much as we can about how the myth reveals the culture of the people of the myth as well as seeing the patterns within each myth that connect it to all other myths. Here are things to keep in mind as you work through the semester.
- Do not do research. This is a class that focuses on seeing information and ideas rather than finding those that someone else has seen. This skill of seeing is crucial for so many fields of study and is often marginalized in our education system today.
- Expect at times to be frustrated. Like Sam Scudder staring at his fish, there will be times that you will feel frustrated, without a sense of what to do next. Try taking notes, drawing what you see in the myths, picturing the stories in your imagination. Read the insights other students have had. Believe that answers are there if you are willing to look for them. Look for patterns, repetitions, things that seem significant even if you do not know why they are significant, things that are odd or strange. Keep asking why these things are there, and believe that they are there for a purpose.
- Expect me to poke and prod you. Do not take it personally. As your instructor, I will, like Louis Agassiz, prompt you to look more closely, more deeply into each myth; to think about what is actually happening in each myth, and to discover the patterns that re-appear in myth after myth. Like Agassiz, I may sometimes say that you have overlooked "the most conspicuous features . . . [which are] plainly before your eyes." A statement like that can feel threatening, but it is not meant to be, and I am no more saying that you are "stupid" than Agassiz was saying that to Scudder. Learning to truly see takes time.
- Don't expect to figure everything out. As all of the members of the class work together diligently and steadily, meaning will be revealed. That is why it is important to engage with the materials early and steadily. Brilliant intuitions posted at the last minute are not as useful because no one has had the time to digest and think about them, and carry them on farther.
- Read carefully my final comments on the discussions and my feedback on the written assignments. Often, what we learn in one myth helps us as we look at the next myth.
As the semester progresses, like Samuel Scudder, you will improve your skills of observation. The discussions are like the diagnostic sessions led by Dr. House in the TV show House. The diagnostic team tosses out ideas and then looks for the evidence to prove or disprove their ideas as they work toward solutions. Like the interns, you may feel overwhelmed, but perseverance is key to success. You will become like Sherlock Holmes, able to see relevant details and from them build a coherent argument of meaning.
So, as we begin this semester, prepare to "look at your fish."