Last week, I gave a talk on censorship to some New Mexico librarians. After the talk, I was approached by the librarian for the Zuni tribe -- one of the Pueblo peoples. The librarian (she was white) described a situation new to me.
The story starts a long time ago. Between the years of about 1870 and 1917, white photographers and anthropologists, fascinated by Native American religions, took many photographs of various ceremonies, artifacts, and places.
Over the past twenty years, many of these photographs have been re-released in various publications, most of them by university presses. They have sparked a fire storm of controversy.
Here's the perspective of the librarian. "Young people began coming into the library to ask for some of these books. I bought them. Almost immediately, the tribal elders complained. Some of the ceremonies described in the books were sacred, they said. Nobody was supposed to know about them unless they'd been initiated."
And yet, she went on, "the kids are desperate to find out about their history and their beliefs. None of the adults takes the time to talk to them."
On the plane back from the talk, I mentioned this to the person next to me. It turns out she knew someone who had worked with the Navajo Nation. She described a story of an anthropologist interviewing a tribal elder about some religious beliefs. Every now and then, the Native American would excuse himself, enter a small room, then return with an answer. Finally, the anthropologist asked him just whom he was consulting. Silently, the Navajo disappeared, then returned with a book -- published by the Oxford Press, and based on research from a century earlier. The point of the story was that if anthropologists hadn't documented that knowledge, it would have been lost altogether.
But there's another perspective. Clearly, the living chain of memory, an oral tradition from one generation to the next, has been broken. But it wasn't broken by Native Americans. Various white peoples -- from the Spanish to the English to the white Americans born on this soil -- completely overwhelmed, have all but decimated, many of the cultures that existed before theirs in this land.
To the people living on reservations, this latest round of publications -- even if published in the spirit of respect, and in some cases of frank admiration -- smacks of voyeurism and exploitation. There is something profoundly humiliating about having to learn about your past from the very people who destroyed it.
The question put to me by the New Mexico librarian was, "How should I respond to the elders?" I've given the question a lot of thought since then.
On the one hand, ignorance can't be the right choice. The white librarian may be right: these books may be the only way the young Zuni can learn about their heritage. It would be too ironic if any interested party EXCEPT the young people of the Zuni tribe had access to this information.
On the other hand, she might be wrong. It could be that a way of life can only survive if the chain is mended, if it becomes a living link, spoken at just the right time. It's hard for an outsider to judge that.
Here's the answer I gave her: I don't know.
Wednesday, March 13, 1996
Wednesday, March 6, 1996
March 6, 1996 - Computers in Libraries Conference
I've spent the past week at a conference called Computers in Libraries. I was at the very first one of these 11 years ago. Back then, almost 400 people showed up, from all over the country.
This year, there were over 2000.
Unlike most of the conferences I go to, I didn't know a lot of the people. It's not the sort of gathering that pulls in directors and journalists. Most of the people are the foot soldiers of the information age -- the reference librarians and media center supervisors and computer technicians. So instead of a lot of high-falutin' philosophy, they talk nuts and bolts. They come to the conference because there are things they need to find out about.
And in general, what DO they need to know? Based on the presentations, they need to know about the World Wide Web.
Here's the good news: librarians, it turns out, are really very good at organizing information. Some of them seemed to be surprised at this: some dazzlingly well-thought-out web pages were trotted out by state library staff and librarians. You could see the eyes popping, followed by a hasty scribbling of the Internet address, followed by a thoughtful look that meant, "Hmm. I could do that."
They will, too.
The bad news: it wasn't until the last day of the conference that some of the speakers tried to put this in perspective -- just where does automation fit in the larger scheme of library services? I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that my job was to talk about what is "too fast" for the patron.
Here's what I said. I think most of our patrons fall into one of four main categories.
1. "The library will never be too fast for me." (I actually got this as an e-mail message from a patron. And he's probably right.)
2. "It's not too fast if I don't HAVE to use it." Another echoed: "The first time, it was sort of interesting when a staff member showed me how to look something up. But the second time, it WASN'T interesting. When I call a plumber, he doesn't make me look at his wrenches." A third person drove the point home: "If these computers make your job easier, great! As long as the reference librarian will still find it for me! And smile!"
3. Here's a different take. "I went to one of your computer classes, and loved it," said one woman. "But the next week, the whole screen was different. Once I get it figured out, don't change it."
4. Finally, here's a similar response from someone playing at our Internet station. "There's too much. Can't you just highlight the things that are useful?" This comment highlights the need for what librarians traditionally do best: identify credible resources, then make it easy to find them.
My staff, incidentally, was terrified when they heard I was going to this conference. They were afraid I'd get hyped up and launch us into yet another wild endeavor.
But ultimately, here's what I learned:
Based on circulation statistics and public surveys, it's clear to me that our patrons still prefer a physical, rather than a virtual, place, and they still want an object -- a children's picture book, a non-fiction title, an adult fiction title, a video, or an audio, in that order. I would predict that this general pattern of use will endure for some time -- as long as we continue to give our patrons a choice.
That doesn't mean that we won't continue to offer a good mix of new resources. Right now, all of our automation expenditures accounts for about 3% of our annual expenditures. And that strikes me as just about right.
This year, there were over 2000.
Unlike most of the conferences I go to, I didn't know a lot of the people. It's not the sort of gathering that pulls in directors and journalists. Most of the people are the foot soldiers of the information age -- the reference librarians and media center supervisors and computer technicians. So instead of a lot of high-falutin' philosophy, they talk nuts and bolts. They come to the conference because there are things they need to find out about.
And in general, what DO they need to know? Based on the presentations, they need to know about the World Wide Web.
Here's the good news: librarians, it turns out, are really very good at organizing information. Some of them seemed to be surprised at this: some dazzlingly well-thought-out web pages were trotted out by state library staff and librarians. You could see the eyes popping, followed by a hasty scribbling of the Internet address, followed by a thoughtful look that meant, "Hmm. I could do that."
They will, too.
The bad news: it wasn't until the last day of the conference that some of the speakers tried to put this in perspective -- just where does automation fit in the larger scheme of library services? I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that my job was to talk about what is "too fast" for the patron.
Here's what I said. I think most of our patrons fall into one of four main categories.
1. "The library will never be too fast for me." (I actually got this as an e-mail message from a patron. And he's probably right.)
2. "It's not too fast if I don't HAVE to use it." Another echoed: "The first time, it was sort of interesting when a staff member showed me how to look something up. But the second time, it WASN'T interesting. When I call a plumber, he doesn't make me look at his wrenches." A third person drove the point home: "If these computers make your job easier, great! As long as the reference librarian will still find it for me! And smile!"
3. Here's a different take. "I went to one of your computer classes, and loved it," said one woman. "But the next week, the whole screen was different. Once I get it figured out, don't change it."
4. Finally, here's a similar response from someone playing at our Internet station. "There's too much. Can't you just highlight the things that are useful?" This comment highlights the need for what librarians traditionally do best: identify credible resources, then make it easy to find them.
My staff, incidentally, was terrified when they heard I was going to this conference. They were afraid I'd get hyped up and launch us into yet another wild endeavor.
But ultimately, here's what I learned:
Based on circulation statistics and public surveys, it's clear to me that our patrons still prefer a physical, rather than a virtual, place, and they still want an object -- a children's picture book, a non-fiction title, an adult fiction title, a video, or an audio, in that order. I would predict that this general pattern of use will endure for some time -- as long as we continue to give our patrons a choice.
That doesn't mean that we won't continue to offer a good mix of new resources. Right now, all of our automation expenditures accounts for about 3% of our annual expenditures. And that strikes me as just about right.
Wednesday, February 28, 1996
February 28, 1996 - computers in libraries too much?
As I write this, I'm off for a week-long conference called "Computers in Libraries." As always before a long trip, I'm grappling with an essential question: which books should I pack?
There are many dimensions to the question. This trip, I have two main concerns. First, how much will they weigh? (I've got to lug them in and out of airports.) Second, can I find something that will go the distance, something that will both last 5 days AND engage me enough to partially address the absence of wife and children?
The more I've thought about this, the more I've learned about myself. I've decided that I read for just four reasons.
Here's one of them: I gotta. This is perfectly captured by the protagonist in science fiction writer Robert A. Heinlein's "Glory Road," first published in 1963: "The truth is, I've got a monkey on my back, a habit worse than marijuana though not as expensive as heroin. I can stiff it out and get to sleep anyway, but .... The fact is I am a compulsive reader. Thirty-five cents' worth of Gold Medal Original will put me right to sleep. Or Perry Mason. But I'll read the ads in an old Paris-Match that has been used to wrap herring before I'll do without."
Here's the second reason: to share. For the past 8 years I've read children's literature aloud to my children, nearly every day. Maddy is our first child (8 years old now). These days, we're reading the American Girls series and Beverly Cleary's Ramona Quimby books.
Then came Perry (just 2 years old). We're starting all over again with some of the favorites -- "Good Night Moon" by Margaret Wise Brown, to name one of the very best. But Perry has a different take on some of these things. In "Good Night Moon" he looks for the mouse. Maddy looked at the colors.
There may be better moments in life than having the flesh of your flesh snuggle up against you and say, "book!" But there aren't many.
Here's the third reason: to dream. Some folks call it "escapism." But this suggests that reading is running from life. That's wrong.
I think that when people dive into a work of fiction -- whether it be science fiction, or mystery, or historical romance, or best seller -- they're not running away from anything. Instead, they're looking to live in a world where things happen because they are meant to happen, a world where the logic is clear. They are looking for something more than the random incidents that make up so much of our waking lives.
In just the same way, we close our eyes each night, and our marvelous minds generate stories -- little plays in which everything stands for something. We wake up refreshed, a little wiser, a little more hopeful than we went to sleep, whether we realize it or not.
The fourth reason is to learn. There are times when I am overwhelmed by my own ignorance. I work in a library, and just to walk from my office to the circulation desk -- a distance of a few hundred feet -- is a profoundly humbling experience.
Most of us, even if willing and able to dedicate a lifetime to concentrated effort, won't read as much as a single range of shelves.
One shelf is 3 feet long. A range -- both sides of a set of shelving, or an "aisle" -- equals approximately 84 shelves.
Yet one range contains such a small portion of what the human race has so painfully discovered in its recorded history.
I've settled on two books for my trip. One is "Future Shock" by Alvin Toffler. I bought it for two bucks from Hooked on Books in Castle Rock. The second is "Future Libraries" by Walt Crawford and Michael Gorman. I've decided this trip should be educational.
Here's hoping to learn something.
There are many dimensions to the question. This trip, I have two main concerns. First, how much will they weigh? (I've got to lug them in and out of airports.) Second, can I find something that will go the distance, something that will both last 5 days AND engage me enough to partially address the absence of wife and children?
The more I've thought about this, the more I've learned about myself. I've decided that I read for just four reasons.
Here's one of them: I gotta. This is perfectly captured by the protagonist in science fiction writer Robert A. Heinlein's "Glory Road," first published in 1963: "The truth is, I've got a monkey on my back, a habit worse than marijuana though not as expensive as heroin. I can stiff it out and get to sleep anyway, but .... The fact is I am a compulsive reader. Thirty-five cents' worth of Gold Medal Original will put me right to sleep. Or Perry Mason. But I'll read the ads in an old Paris-Match that has been used to wrap herring before I'll do without."
Here's the second reason: to share. For the past 8 years I've read children's literature aloud to my children, nearly every day. Maddy is our first child (8 years old now). These days, we're reading the American Girls series and Beverly Cleary's Ramona Quimby books.
Then came Perry (just 2 years old). We're starting all over again with some of the favorites -- "Good Night Moon" by Margaret Wise Brown, to name one of the very best. But Perry has a different take on some of these things. In "Good Night Moon" he looks for the mouse. Maddy looked at the colors.
There may be better moments in life than having the flesh of your flesh snuggle up against you and say, "book!" But there aren't many.
Here's the third reason: to dream. Some folks call it "escapism." But this suggests that reading is running from life. That's wrong.
I think that when people dive into a work of fiction -- whether it be science fiction, or mystery, or historical romance, or best seller -- they're not running away from anything. Instead, they're looking to live in a world where things happen because they are meant to happen, a world where the logic is clear. They are looking for something more than the random incidents that make up so much of our waking lives.
In just the same way, we close our eyes each night, and our marvelous minds generate stories -- little plays in which everything stands for something. We wake up refreshed, a little wiser, a little more hopeful than we went to sleep, whether we realize it or not.
The fourth reason is to learn. There are times when I am overwhelmed by my own ignorance. I work in a library, and just to walk from my office to the circulation desk -- a distance of a few hundred feet -- is a profoundly humbling experience.
Most of us, even if willing and able to dedicate a lifetime to concentrated effort, won't read as much as a single range of shelves.
One shelf is 3 feet long. A range -- both sides of a set of shelving, or an "aisle" -- equals approximately 84 shelves.
Yet one range contains such a small portion of what the human race has so painfully discovered in its recorded history.
I've settled on two books for my trip. One is "Future Shock" by Alvin Toffler. I bought it for two bucks from Hooked on Books in Castle Rock. The second is "Future Libraries" by Walt Crawford and Michael Gorman. I've decided this trip should be educational.
Here's hoping to learn something.
Wednesday, February 21, 1996
February 21, 1996 - Community Networks
It happens that I'm near-sighted -- possibly the result of too much reading under haphazard lighting. (Listen to your mothers, children!)
Far away, I see just fine -- with glasses. But for the past few months, especially in the evening, my eyes play tricks on me. I have to take off my glasses to read something right in front of me. I have to put on my glasses to see somebody across the table. It's a matter, I'm told, of the changing focal length of older eyeballs.
The World Wide Web is another example. I have e-mail correspondents scattered across the globe. On the other hand, local information, local news, what's going on in my own back yard -- is of great interest to me, too.
The rollicking growth of the Internet pulls my professional, librarian eye toward the horizon. But the surprising depth of local information tugs my gaze closer.
So what's a librarian to do? Work on a comprehensive collection of planet-wide resources? Or try to build an organized overview of the local data neighborhood?
As usual, it's not an either-or proposition. The right answer is, "Both." Physiologically, psychologically, and professionally, it's a good idea to vary your focus every now and then.
In other columns, I've talked about how to connect through your local library to larger resources. This week, I'd like to talk about attempts to organize more regional information.
Here's a good question: Just what DO you need to know, locally? Well, the News Press does a good job of this in its annual publication, "Guide to Douglas County."
You can look up the names, addresses, and principals of local schools. You can get the name and phone numbers of elected officials. You can find out where to register your car.
But the problem with printed directories is that much of the information in them is out of date almost immediately. And as good as "The guide to Douglas County" is, it doesn't have everything.
So over the past several weeks, library staff has been doing two things.
First, we've taken some of our old approaches to local information and put a new spin on them. One of these is something we call the "Community Information Referral" files -- a collection of records describing the various civic, social service, and non-profit organizations serving the citizens of Douglas County. This information has for 5 years now been an integral part of the library's catalog. It's proved very useful for library staff (who may need to quickly determine the name of the local Rotary Club president, or get the phone number of Colorado Representative Jeanne Adkins). It's a flexible and powerful tool for tracking down local data.
But as near as I can figure, nobody ELSE used it. We designed the system to be especially useful to social service agencies. But a tool that requires you to dial into a library catalog (meaning you have the computer, modem, phone line, and time to do all this) isn't especially convenient for people who are striving mightily to solve what is usually a crisis. What they need (I think) is two things: powerful searching tools, yes, but also the ability to generate their own comprehensive, up-to-date print-outs, without a lot of extra steps.
So our latest automation experiment -- library "home pages" -- will still let you search for data on-line. But it will also let you print it all out, or grab the whole file to your own computer, where you can edit it, THEN print it. Not only that, we're going to make it available as a text file: you bring us a disk, we'll get you the data. You say you don't have a computer at all? Statistically, you're in the minority in Douglas County. But even then -- we're thinking about doing an annual printed directory.
It turns out that this process of taking a text file and turning it into a World Wide Web page is really pretty easy. Over the next couple of months, the library will be trying to work with others to build an electronic community network. Some of the people we're talking to include the county, the school district (which is about to bring up its own WWW site, in conjunction with the Castle Rock Chamber of Commerce), the towns of Castle Rock and Parker, the League of Women Voters, and even your local newspaper.
The idea is to make it possible to make a "virtual visit" to any one of these places, and find a set of logical, well-thought-out links to all of the other sources of information. Of course, we'll also have links to the rest of the web. I think of it like this: Your community network -- the network with bifocals.
Far away, I see just fine -- with glasses. But for the past few months, especially in the evening, my eyes play tricks on me. I have to take off my glasses to read something right in front of me. I have to put on my glasses to see somebody across the table. It's a matter, I'm told, of the changing focal length of older eyeballs.
The World Wide Web is another example. I have e-mail correspondents scattered across the globe. On the other hand, local information, local news, what's going on in my own back yard -- is of great interest to me, too.
The rollicking growth of the Internet pulls my professional, librarian eye toward the horizon. But the surprising depth of local information tugs my gaze closer.
So what's a librarian to do? Work on a comprehensive collection of planet-wide resources? Or try to build an organized overview of the local data neighborhood?
As usual, it's not an either-or proposition. The right answer is, "Both." Physiologically, psychologically, and professionally, it's a good idea to vary your focus every now and then.
In other columns, I've talked about how to connect through your local library to larger resources. This week, I'd like to talk about attempts to organize more regional information.
Here's a good question: Just what DO you need to know, locally? Well, the News Press does a good job of this in its annual publication, "Guide to Douglas County."
You can look up the names, addresses, and principals of local schools. You can get the name and phone numbers of elected officials. You can find out where to register your car.
But the problem with printed directories is that much of the information in them is out of date almost immediately. And as good as "The guide to Douglas County" is, it doesn't have everything.
So over the past several weeks, library staff has been doing two things.
First, we've taken some of our old approaches to local information and put a new spin on them. One of these is something we call the "Community Information Referral" files -- a collection of records describing the various civic, social service, and non-profit organizations serving the citizens of Douglas County. This information has for 5 years now been an integral part of the library's catalog. It's proved very useful for library staff (who may need to quickly determine the name of the local Rotary Club president, or get the phone number of Colorado Representative Jeanne Adkins). It's a flexible and powerful tool for tracking down local data.
But as near as I can figure, nobody ELSE used it. We designed the system to be especially useful to social service agencies. But a tool that requires you to dial into a library catalog (meaning you have the computer, modem, phone line, and time to do all this) isn't especially convenient for people who are striving mightily to solve what is usually a crisis. What they need (I think) is two things: powerful searching tools, yes, but also the ability to generate their own comprehensive, up-to-date print-outs, without a lot of extra steps.
So our latest automation experiment -- library "home pages" -- will still let you search for data on-line. But it will also let you print it all out, or grab the whole file to your own computer, where you can edit it, THEN print it. Not only that, we're going to make it available as a text file: you bring us a disk, we'll get you the data. You say you don't have a computer at all? Statistically, you're in the minority in Douglas County. But even then -- we're thinking about doing an annual printed directory.
It turns out that this process of taking a text file and turning it into a World Wide Web page is really pretty easy. Over the next couple of months, the library will be trying to work with others to build an electronic community network. Some of the people we're talking to include the county, the school district (which is about to bring up its own WWW site, in conjunction with the Castle Rock Chamber of Commerce), the towns of Castle Rock and Parker, the League of Women Voters, and even your local newspaper.
The idea is to make it possible to make a "virtual visit" to any one of these places, and find a set of logical, well-thought-out links to all of the other sources of information. Of course, we'll also have links to the rest of the web. I think of it like this: Your community network -- the network with bifocals.
Wednesday, February 14, 1996
February 14, 1996 - Too Fast?
I've been asked to speak at a national conference called "Computers in Libraries." They gave me this topic: "Are we going too fast for our patrons?"
At first, I thought this was a pretty simple question. I had an unequivocal answer: No. We are not.
On the whole, library users are quick adopters of technology. Oh sure, we've fielded our complaints about the computer catalog as opposed to the good old card catalog. (I believe the main reason folks wax nostalgic about the card catalog was that it was made out of wood. Even if you didn't use it, it LOOKED good. Solid.) Too, there is that segment of the population that looks askance at the CD-ROM workstation -- and always will.
But in general, and especially in Douglas County, our patrons not only keep up with changes in our library automation, they usually urge us to move a little quicker.
For instance, this week, we're bringing up a text-based World Wide Web browser called Lynx. But we've already got people asking us when we'll have fully graphical workstations to display WWW home pages in all their Technicolor splendor. (Next year, probably.)
When we offer full text periodical access, people don't say, "What happened to the Reader's Guide?" They say, "You need more printers -- one at every terminal."
On the other hand, you the patron don't have to use any of this stuff. You can just ask library staff to look it up for you. We don't force it on you, and I know some of you appreciate that.
In other words, "too fast" is a subjective, not an objective judgment. My basic premise is that if the product (some electronic service) is genuinely more convenient than the alternative, then it doesn't seem "too fast." It seems "overdue."
From my perspective, the real problem with library automation isn't that it's too fast -- it's that sometimes it stops altogether. Case in point: Our five year old central computer had two disk drive failures in two months. Each time, we were "down" for two whole days. On the theory that a planned inconvenience is better than an accidental one, we took the system down a third time, on purpose, to swap out all of the rest of the drives. In a week or so, we'll be down again to install more memory -- which peps up the response time.
But then I realized that the real question of "too fast" gets at our whole understanding of time, our culture's relentless and often pointless haste. It may be more than simple nostalgia that makes some of us yearn for the quiet, red leather luster of the Reading Room.
To the extent that libraries feed the frenzy of data-on-demand, and undermine the notion of contemplation -- time to sift, to sort, to comprehend, to make meaningful use of the information -- then yes, maybe we are moving too fast. And maybe that's worth thinking about some more.
If YOU have any thoughts on this, give me a call (688-8752), write me in care of the paper, or e-mail me at jaslarue@earthlink.net. But don't waste time: You've only got about a week to get anything really brilliant to me if I'm going to use it in my talk.
Closing thought: it happens that my altogether beguiling little boy, Perry, will be two years old tomorrow. Now THAT'S too fast.
At first, I thought this was a pretty simple question. I had an unequivocal answer: No. We are not.
On the whole, library users are quick adopters of technology. Oh sure, we've fielded our complaints about the computer catalog as opposed to the good old card catalog. (I believe the main reason folks wax nostalgic about the card catalog was that it was made out of wood. Even if you didn't use it, it LOOKED good. Solid.) Too, there is that segment of the population that looks askance at the CD-ROM workstation -- and always will.
But in general, and especially in Douglas County, our patrons not only keep up with changes in our library automation, they usually urge us to move a little quicker.
For instance, this week, we're bringing up a text-based World Wide Web browser called Lynx. But we've already got people asking us when we'll have fully graphical workstations to display WWW home pages in all their Technicolor splendor. (Next year, probably.)
When we offer full text periodical access, people don't say, "What happened to the Reader's Guide?" They say, "You need more printers -- one at every terminal."
On the other hand, you the patron don't have to use any of this stuff. You can just ask library staff to look it up for you. We don't force it on you, and I know some of you appreciate that.
In other words, "too fast" is a subjective, not an objective judgment. My basic premise is that if the product (some electronic service) is genuinely more convenient than the alternative, then it doesn't seem "too fast." It seems "overdue."
From my perspective, the real problem with library automation isn't that it's too fast -- it's that sometimes it stops altogether. Case in point: Our five year old central computer had two disk drive failures in two months. Each time, we were "down" for two whole days. On the theory that a planned inconvenience is better than an accidental one, we took the system down a third time, on purpose, to swap out all of the rest of the drives. In a week or so, we'll be down again to install more memory -- which peps up the response time.
But then I realized that the real question of "too fast" gets at our whole understanding of time, our culture's relentless and often pointless haste. It may be more than simple nostalgia that makes some of us yearn for the quiet, red leather luster of the Reading Room.
To the extent that libraries feed the frenzy of data-on-demand, and undermine the notion of contemplation -- time to sift, to sort, to comprehend, to make meaningful use of the information -- then yes, maybe we are moving too fast. And maybe that's worth thinking about some more.
If YOU have any thoughts on this, give me a call (688-8752), write me in care of the paper, or e-mail me at jaslarue@earthlink.net. But don't waste time: You've only got about a week to get anything really brilliant to me if I'm going to use it in my talk.
Closing thought: it happens that my altogether beguiling little boy, Perry, will be two years old tomorrow. Now THAT'S too fast.
Wednesday, February 7, 1996
February 7, 1996 - Superman
On Sunday, January 28, Jerry Siegel died. He was 81. Siegel was a good friend of Joe Shuster.
So who were Siegel and Shuster? They were buddies who together, while still in high school, dreamed up the Man of Steel, the Son of Krypton -- Superman. Siegel was the writer; Shuster (who died in 1992) was the artist.
In some respects, their story is a sad one. They sold their rights to the concept for just $130. In various forms -- comic books, movies, TV, and action figures, for instance -- Superman has been a money machine. According to one news story, he has racked up profits of literally billions of dollars.
But in 1978, largely as a result of the mounting protests of thousands of loyal and very vocal Superman fans, DC Comics gave Siegel and Shuster $20,000 annual stipends, for life. DC also restored "creator credit." Ever since, the names of Siegel and Shuster get the nod before every Superman story, in any format. Look for them.
In a world where there is so much reality to contemplate, of what possible moment is the death of a comic book writer?
The "legend" of Superman has been recreated for each generation of fans. In some respects, I think he captures the very self-image of Americans.
In the beginning, he was merely a much stronger, tougher than normal person. At first, he didn't have the power of flight, just enough oomph to "leap tall buildings in a single bound." A bullet bounced off him, but a cannonball might knock him over.
After World War II was over (and I bet you didn't even know the part he played in the fight against the Nazis -- possibly, we might not have won without him), America settled into the prosperous and even complacent 50s. At the same time, Superman's whole physique changed. He became ridiculously muscular. He could fly through the sun unharmed. He could, even as Superboy, stand on his head and shift the world from its orbit. And wasn't that American?
His only vulnerability was kryptonite -- but kryptonite in bewildering varieties. Green kryptonite could kill him, slowly; red kryptonite had unpredictable effects that lasted for just 24 hours; gold kryptonite could remove his powers permanently, and so on. Could it be that kryptonite -- at some level of our American collective consciousness -- stood for the uncertainties and literal "new elements" of the nuclear age?
In the 60s and 70s, Superman worked to get in touch with his more sensitive side, usually without much success. In the movies, we even see him working toward nuclear disarmament. The most interesting development of this period was Lois Lane (at least in the comic books), who learned karate, started wearing pants, and generally speaking got more, well, liberated.
In the 80s, Superman went through a big adjustment, back to a very, very powerful man from another planet, but no longer the almost god-like figure of the 50s. In the 90s, he was slain while fighting an ultimate villain, then reborn (with longer hair, which as Clark Kent, he ties in a ponytail). Since then, he has settled into a deep romance with Lois, all secrets between them swept aside. At some level, perhaps this reflects the collapse of the communist threat, and an America that looked around, loosened up, and started reinvestigating family values.
As long as there have been humans, there have been heroes. In some ways, Superman is like the old gods of ancient Greece, but with science (well, a sort of science) rather than flat-out magic as his source of power.
Whatever his real purpose in our cultural lives, we can be sure that the man in the cape will keep flying, keep changing, will endure, long after the death of the two boys who gave him life.
And oh yes, at the Douglas Public Library District, you'll find a surprising variety of information about Superman: from the remarkable animated cartoons of the 40s, to full length novels, to audiotapes, to the current adventures as chronicled in the medium that still knows him best -- comics.
So who were Siegel and Shuster? They were buddies who together, while still in high school, dreamed up the Man of Steel, the Son of Krypton -- Superman. Siegel was the writer; Shuster (who died in 1992) was the artist.
In some respects, their story is a sad one. They sold their rights to the concept for just $130. In various forms -- comic books, movies, TV, and action figures, for instance -- Superman has been a money machine. According to one news story, he has racked up profits of literally billions of dollars.
But in 1978, largely as a result of the mounting protests of thousands of loyal and very vocal Superman fans, DC Comics gave Siegel and Shuster $20,000 annual stipends, for life. DC also restored "creator credit." Ever since, the names of Siegel and Shuster get the nod before every Superman story, in any format. Look for them.
In a world where there is so much reality to contemplate, of what possible moment is the death of a comic book writer?
The "legend" of Superman has been recreated for each generation of fans. In some respects, I think he captures the very self-image of Americans.
In the beginning, he was merely a much stronger, tougher than normal person. At first, he didn't have the power of flight, just enough oomph to "leap tall buildings in a single bound." A bullet bounced off him, but a cannonball might knock him over.
After World War II was over (and I bet you didn't even know the part he played in the fight against the Nazis -- possibly, we might not have won without him), America settled into the prosperous and even complacent 50s. At the same time, Superman's whole physique changed. He became ridiculously muscular. He could fly through the sun unharmed. He could, even as Superboy, stand on his head and shift the world from its orbit. And wasn't that American?
His only vulnerability was kryptonite -- but kryptonite in bewildering varieties. Green kryptonite could kill him, slowly; red kryptonite had unpredictable effects that lasted for just 24 hours; gold kryptonite could remove his powers permanently, and so on. Could it be that kryptonite -- at some level of our American collective consciousness -- stood for the uncertainties and literal "new elements" of the nuclear age?
In the 60s and 70s, Superman worked to get in touch with his more sensitive side, usually without much success. In the movies, we even see him working toward nuclear disarmament. The most interesting development of this period was Lois Lane (at least in the comic books), who learned karate, started wearing pants, and generally speaking got more, well, liberated.
In the 80s, Superman went through a big adjustment, back to a very, very powerful man from another planet, but no longer the almost god-like figure of the 50s. In the 90s, he was slain while fighting an ultimate villain, then reborn (with longer hair, which as Clark Kent, he ties in a ponytail). Since then, he has settled into a deep romance with Lois, all secrets between them swept aside. At some level, perhaps this reflects the collapse of the communist threat, and an America that looked around, loosened up, and started reinvestigating family values.
As long as there have been humans, there have been heroes. In some ways, Superman is like the old gods of ancient Greece, but with science (well, a sort of science) rather than flat-out magic as his source of power.
Whatever his real purpose in our cultural lives, we can be sure that the man in the cape will keep flying, keep changing, will endure, long after the death of the two boys who gave him life.
And oh yes, at the Douglas Public Library District, you'll find a surprising variety of information about Superman: from the remarkable animated cartoons of the 40s, to full length novels, to audiotapes, to the current adventures as chronicled in the medium that still knows him best -- comics.
Wednesday, January 31, 1996
January 31, 1996 - R-rated Videos in Schools
I read with interest an article in the January 26, 1996 Rocky Mountain News about a teacher who wanted to show an R-rated video to his high school class.
The issue is not new. It has been raised by parents in Adams County, Jefferson County, and is under consideration right now in Douglas County.
Because movie ratings have come to be regarded as a culturally- sanctioned label -- something like the nutritional content labels on canned goods -- some parents believe anything beyond a PG rating should be absolutely forbidden in our public schools. If a national movie industry standard states that something isn't appropriate for a particular age group, why not respect it?
Of course, even an R-rated movie may be viewed by an teenager -- or an infant, for that matter. All that's required is that the parent or guardian give permission.
But the topic raises at least two interesting questions.
First, can a movie of disturbing content -- language, sexual behavior, violence -- ever be appropriate for a classroom? Second (and this is always the trick question), who decides?
First question: imagine a class covering World War II. To put a sharper edge on this, imagine a school where there is a trend toward anti-Semitism, and a recurrent claim that the Holocaust was a hoax. A viewing and discussion of "Schindler's List" might make some sense. In other words, it could have direct bearing on the curriculum of the school, not to mention its intellectual environment generally.
"Schindler's List" is R-rated.
Yet if an R-rated movie might sometimes be appropriate, then the significant issue here isn't the rating at all -- it's the "appropriateness." To put it another way, ratings of Hollywood movies have little to do with either the theme or the quality of the product. Further, they have nothing at all to do with local standards, or the appropriateness of the material for a specific classroom, subject, or student.
So let's tackle the second question: who decides what is appropriate? One idea is that local communities should simply abide by national standards -- in this case, the standards adopted by some unknown Hollywood types.
Unfortunately, there are no agreed upon national standards for either curriculum or teaching materials. In Colorado, curriculum is the broad responsibility of the local school board; in practical terms, it is the individual responsibility of the specific teacher. This is what some people see as the strength of public education in America: local control. The local Board sets content; local teachers deliver it.
Clearly, it doesn't make sense for the Board to dictate teaching methodology, any more than a layman should tell a doctor which tools to use for an appendectomy. (On the other hand, both the patient and the student should be able to demonstrate that the operation was a success. That's just simple accountability -- for Board and teacher alike.)
But back to R-rated movies, or indeed, commercial movies of any kind in the classroom.
It's true that Hollywood isn't the most reliable interpreter of history.
On the other hand, neither are our textbooks. As two recent and thought-provoking books have argued (What Johnny Shouldn't Read, and Lies My Teacher Told Me, both available from the Douglas Public Library District), American textbook publishers deal with controversy by exclusion. That is, if somebody objects to something, it doesn't get corrected, or expanded in the next edition. It gets left out.
Hollywood may be justly accused of over-dramatizing or distorting history. But our textbooks must answer the charge of suppressing the facts altogether.
If history isn't Hollywood, neither is it G-rated. History is messy. War, for instance, is full of excessive violence, a large dose of nasty language, and (based on my conversations with veterans) even a surprising amount of sex. Just how cleaned up should we make these things for our children? If we do sanitize the presentation to a rating of "G," are we still teaching history?
Movies are such a popular art form precisely because they have the ability to do what many textbooks fail to do: emotionally engage the student, make real and tangible what might otherwise be a dry recitation of facts.
It could be that sometimes -- if the teacher judges that it's appropriate, and the parents sign off -- a movie could make the difference between a good educational experience, and a great one.
The issue is not new. It has been raised by parents in Adams County, Jefferson County, and is under consideration right now in Douglas County.
Because movie ratings have come to be regarded as a culturally- sanctioned label -- something like the nutritional content labels on canned goods -- some parents believe anything beyond a PG rating should be absolutely forbidden in our public schools. If a national movie industry standard states that something isn't appropriate for a particular age group, why not respect it?
Of course, even an R-rated movie may be viewed by an teenager -- or an infant, for that matter. All that's required is that the parent or guardian give permission.
But the topic raises at least two interesting questions.
First, can a movie of disturbing content -- language, sexual behavior, violence -- ever be appropriate for a classroom? Second (and this is always the trick question), who decides?
First question: imagine a class covering World War II. To put a sharper edge on this, imagine a school where there is a trend toward anti-Semitism, and a recurrent claim that the Holocaust was a hoax. A viewing and discussion of "Schindler's List" might make some sense. In other words, it could have direct bearing on the curriculum of the school, not to mention its intellectual environment generally.
"Schindler's List" is R-rated.
Yet if an R-rated movie might sometimes be appropriate, then the significant issue here isn't the rating at all -- it's the "appropriateness." To put it another way, ratings of Hollywood movies have little to do with either the theme or the quality of the product. Further, they have nothing at all to do with local standards, or the appropriateness of the material for a specific classroom, subject, or student.
So let's tackle the second question: who decides what is appropriate? One idea is that local communities should simply abide by national standards -- in this case, the standards adopted by some unknown Hollywood types.
Unfortunately, there are no agreed upon national standards for either curriculum or teaching materials. In Colorado, curriculum is the broad responsibility of the local school board; in practical terms, it is the individual responsibility of the specific teacher. This is what some people see as the strength of public education in America: local control. The local Board sets content; local teachers deliver it.
Clearly, it doesn't make sense for the Board to dictate teaching methodology, any more than a layman should tell a doctor which tools to use for an appendectomy. (On the other hand, both the patient and the student should be able to demonstrate that the operation was a success. That's just simple accountability -- for Board and teacher alike.)
But back to R-rated movies, or indeed, commercial movies of any kind in the classroom.
It's true that Hollywood isn't the most reliable interpreter of history.
On the other hand, neither are our textbooks. As two recent and thought-provoking books have argued (What Johnny Shouldn't Read, and Lies My Teacher Told Me, both available from the Douglas Public Library District), American textbook publishers deal with controversy by exclusion. That is, if somebody objects to something, it doesn't get corrected, or expanded in the next edition. It gets left out.
Hollywood may be justly accused of over-dramatizing or distorting history. But our textbooks must answer the charge of suppressing the facts altogether.
If history isn't Hollywood, neither is it G-rated. History is messy. War, for instance, is full of excessive violence, a large dose of nasty language, and (based on my conversations with veterans) even a surprising amount of sex. Just how cleaned up should we make these things for our children? If we do sanitize the presentation to a rating of "G," are we still teaching history?
Movies are such a popular art form precisely because they have the ability to do what many textbooks fail to do: emotionally engage the student, make real and tangible what might otherwise be a dry recitation of facts.
It could be that sometimes -- if the teacher judges that it's appropriate, and the parents sign off -- a movie could make the difference between a good educational experience, and a great one.
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