Tag Archives: Gerald Graff

An Argument: How “Being Jewish” Influenced Graff More Than He Admits

Gerald Graff says briefly and in passing in Clueless in Academe that he is Jewish and that others (presumably his classmates and teachers) therefore regarded him as intelligent. Graff says, “In my case being Jewish already carried a presumption of being smart that I did not entirely disavow” (p. 216). Graff then attributes his “hidden intellectualism” to a number of factors such as his interest in sports and movies (p. 217). However, I argue (you like that?) that Graff’s being Jewish carried much more weight and had a greater influence on Graff’s value system than he admits. I contend (ha!) that if Graff is like most Jews, being Jewish predisposes him to valuing education, argumentation, and interpretation of texts.

In our last class session, I mentioned that argumentation and interpretation of texts has been the primary pedagogical tool used in formal religious studies since ancient times. Yeshiva boys and rabbinical students read portions of text, considered them deeply, and toyed with how they might be applied in various situations, hypothetical and real. To put it in modern literary terms, they did close readings of texts, sometimes consulted secondary sources (the Talmud), interpreted them, and created arguments. They would often be paired with other students to argue their position, then switch positions and argue the opposite point. This ancient pedagogical practice is still part of rabbinical training today.

Text interpretation and argumentation is not a technique exclusive to the rabbinate; it is embedded in Jewish life for all practicing Jews. The most obvious place we see text interpretation and argumentation is in the synagogue service. Jews read the Torah during particular synagogue services each week and then look for ways to connect the text they have just read to their lives, usually with the guidance of the Rabbi’s sermon. That is why a key component of the modern Bar of Bat Mitzvah service is the reading of a portion of Torah by the child, who then shares his or her interpretation of the text before the congregation.

Interpretation and argumentation also occurs for most Jews outside of the synagogue service. Children who attend Hebrew school, for instance, do close readings of texts, interpret them, and formulate arguments about how that text can be applied to various ethical questions. Recently, for example, my daughter’s religious school class discussed how Torah can be used to argue for or against stem cell research, homosexuality, and various environmental initiatives. Furthermore, home-based Jewish rituals such as the Passover service provide further opportunities for Jews to read texts, interpret them, and formulate arguments. The Hagaddah (the text read aloud at a Passover service) describes the story of Exodus but also offers commentary on that primary text.

One must remember, too, Jews have always held education and the asking of questions in high regard. For example, the most revered person historically in Jewish communities was neither the wealthiest nor the most powerful person in the community; it was the Rabbi. This was so not because the Rabbi was considered to have special powers or to have a special connection with God; it was so because the Rabbi was generally the most educated member of the community and the one who could guide others in their own learning. The word rabbi, in fact, translates as teacher.

Graff, as a Jew, would be predisposed to valuing education, text interpretation, and argumentation. He attributes his status as “closet nerd” to other factors such as in interest in sports and movies. “Being Jewish,” as Graff puts it, no doubt carried at least as much weight as sports and movies in Graff’s pathway to intellectualism, and probably much more. — Laura Hills

Ouch! Geral Graff Opened a 30-Year-Old Wound

       I’ve probably mentioned that I’ve spent the bulk of my career as a professional writer and have a few books and miles of articles under my belt. My published work is of the practical how-to variety in a field of applied business. I’ve been very successful. But that wasn’t always what I thought I’d do with my life. Way back when, I wanted to be an English professor. As I read our pal Gerald Graff this week, Chapter 6 (“Unlearning to Write”) in particular, I recalled the precise and painful moment when I decided that I had no future in academe.           

     I was a student in the elite and very competitive two-year honors English program at Rutgers College and during the spring of 1979, my senior year, I was working on my undergraduate thesis. I was interpreting the use and importance of etiquette in a couple of Henry James’ novels, contrasting European and American etiquette of the time and how James used those conventions to create tension. I worked with a very highly-regarded English professor and James scholar as my advisor for the project. He was extremely happy throughout our time together with the quality of my interpretations, my insights, my research into etiquette guides from James’ time, my ability to do magnificent close readings, and overall, the work I was doing on this project. We had many happy discussions in his office. The writing, though, troubled him. I gave him portions of my paper as I wrote them and he agreed that I had captured precisely the gist (as Graff calls it) of our discussions. But he said that my writing was too simple and easy to understand; my ideas were sensational, but my mode of expressing them – though forceful, entertaining, and grammatical — was not academic. My writing was too transparent, he said. He showed me examples of more scholarly-sounding papers. I read them but thought that that kind of writing was bad writing. It wasn’t clear. It obscured meaning by using very long and convoluted sentences, ten-dollar words most people wouldn’t know, and a high-fallutin snooty tone. We locked horns on this issue more than once. In the end, in my youthful willfulness, I wrote my thesis my way, in the straightforward, accessible, punchy language I knew in my heart was better.

            Four things grew out of this experience:

            1. My thesis was assessed as With Honors. That was the lowest of three possible distinctions. (With High Honors and With Highest Honors were the two higher designators.) The remarks of the committee were the same as those of my advisor. My ideas were wonderful, the committee said, but my language was too-straightforward; my paper was well-written but didn’t sound academic.

            2.  I was crushed. I decided that I had no place in academe and no talent or appreciation for writing in academic style.

            3. I was at this same time chosen as the one and only Rutgers’ University Danforth Foundation nominee. Had I won the fellowship, I would have had a free ride to any graduate school. I turned down the nomination and told the committee to give it to another student who was more suited to academic life.

            4. I graduated and in short time embarked on a writing career in the popular mode and became very successful.

            I look back at all of this, stir it together with what Graff said about academic writing, and I can’t help but hurt. I let a few people convince me that there was only one way to write in academe and that I had no future in the academy stating great ideas simply enough so that everyone could easily understand them. What a bunch of hooey.

            There’s a P.S. to my story. The professor/advisor of my thesis is still at Rutgers. I read recently in the Chronicle of Higher Education that he is now a high-level dean.