The Figure of Writing and the Future of English Studies

In this post, I wish to protest the measuring out of life with little coffee spoons. On the eve of my birthday, I went to bed wrapped in warm thoughts of the world in which I live, then awoke at 25 with a magnificent snort of disgust. Multiple revelations ensued, the first of which was: ”I really dislike Twitter.” Most of my objections to Twitter are not exclusive to Twitter, per se. Rather I dislike Twitter for its unchecked exploitation of mutual cultural harms, especially those that plague social networks.

3. It confirms our vulgar susceptibility to the technological arms-race.

 *

Even as I write this I choke beneath the weight of these crumudgeonly sentiments (Help?!?!?!). I feel hopelessly old and threadbare. Perhaps one of you can help me find redeeming qualities I have yet to discover.

*

* Ironically, these aims, self-promotion and celebrity, conflict in the Twittersphere since Twitter is anything but meritocratic (as character-limitations decrease, humanity’s profundity seems to increase).

‘Sign the screen and push enter.’ The DMV employee barked the order without even looking up. I complied only to catch a scowl as the signature flashed onto the woman’s monitor screen. With a snort, she pointed to the stylus. ‘I said sign it. Give me your signature.’

My confusion increased. ‘But that is my signature.’

‘You kids don’t even know cursive, do you? Do they even teach you how to write?’

First of all, it’s never worth your time to argue with the DMV. So I didn’t, even though Ms. DMV’s inference about my self-worth was quite clear (and misguided, I’d like to think). I don’t recall much about the genesis or evolution of my handwriting. Legend has it that I learned three systems of handwriting by the age of ten before adopting italic handwriting. (My recantation of traditional North American cursive is largely blamed on a grade-school teacher who, despite the fact that I was a left-handed student, forced me to angle my paper to the left just as the right-handed students did.)

Be that as it may, Ms. DMV wasn’t far off: it seems that kids, “these days,” don’t universally learn cursive. And the arguments surrounding this growing trend reveal that handwriting is still alive and well as a form of social signalling.* Of course, its social role is nothing new under the sun. In “Writing Material: Readings from Plato to the Digital Age,” Tribble and Trubek assert:

By the nineteenth century many people firmly believed not only that every person’s handwriting was unique, but that handwriting was an unfailing index of character, moral and mental health, and a criterion by which to judge of peculiarities of taste and sentiment.

Popular history categorizes such beliefs as middle class phenomena (the middle classes generally esteem fine handwriting skills as well as handwriting practice while the upper classes remain principally and intentionally flippant on the matter). Nevertheless, Naomi Baron, in The Art and Science of Handwriting, argues that handwriting no longer fashions a “mirror to the soul” in this postmodern society.

After my DMV experience, I can’t help but want to qualify her assertion (more precisely, its implications). Handwriting is probably less significant as a social signal, but not less significant because the middle-class has abandoned self-presentation for other postmodern ideals. Handwriting is less significant because it is presenting fewer satisfying opportunities for self-presentation in daily life. And in almost every plea for the continuation of cursive, I find this nostalgia for self-presentation (nothing horrible in itself, just fascinating, I suppose). Throughout the last few years, I’ve stumbled onto several reminders of how very much society longs to attach significance (social or otherwise) to handwriting:

1. Prophecies regarding “The Death of Handwriting,” wherein many mourn the growing irrelevance of handwriting to daily life, once again appeared on the BBC (as is their annual habit). A few years ago, the BBC Weekender also broadcast some humorous, little pieces highlighting the significant role cursive plays in both social and personal development. Personality, the first expert suggests, correlates one’s handwriting closely. (You guessed it: if you write with cursive, he will identify you a self-confident person.) The second piece discusses women and handwriting, then submits Elizabeth Gaskell’s manuscripts to a graphologist’s critique.
2. Even more amusing was a fabulous yard sale find P. gave me: Know Yourself Through Your Handwriting (Jane Paterson). Of course, once we sat down and glanced through the pamphlet, it became clear that P.’s (a) tall, (b) broad, (c) equally-zoned, (d) irregularly designed, (e) upright, (f) disconnected, (g) sharply formed, and (h) heavily-pressed graphology fit the MO of a superhero (self-confident, precise, poised, intellectual, and a calm individual with a good sense of self-proportion), while my (a) medium, (b) slant-varying, (c) broad, (d) bottom-heavy, (d) irregular, (e) connected, (f) pasty, and (g) narrowly-spaced graphology indicated that I was a strumpet (adventurous, sensual, poised but dissatisfied with myself, and an original thinker). Dozens of similar books can grant you the same joy of self-diagnosis.
3. A few years ago, a Newsweek article even suggested that teachers (a solid, middle-class lot) still form conclusions from students’ handwriting. I used to work as a paper grader for a public school instructor. I graded AP English compositions and drafts. The drafts always came to me on lined paper and were written by hand. And I have to admit: I do recall fighting distinct impressions about certain students based on their handwriting. (I’m fairly sure I can say it didn’t affect their grades, but even so, my susceptibility makes me uncomfortable.)
4. And speaking of education, a few schools still insist on cursive instruction despite the growing encumbrance of No Child Left Behind. In fact, California’s state educational standards still mandate cursive instruction. If the SAT remodel has anything to say about it, other states will be sure to maintain similar standards if they want their SAT takers to perform well on the essay portion of the exam.

*

*

*I will mention the strong Montessori tradition of defending cursive is much less entangled in social signalling and more concerned about the pragmatic: speed, nature, and efficiency (as if it’s a race). I’m not sure whether one can prove that cursive would be more accommodating in the developmental sphere, but the argument is as follows: if you look at a child’s pre-writing scribbles, you will find rounded, indistinct forms which indicate a fine motor predisposition to cursive handwriting. Of course, others oppose teaching cursive to children because of its growing irrelevance to society. Print is much more appropriate for almost every form of business correspondence. And after all, the opposition argues, isn’t business where this whole writing thing started?

When art poses a threat to viewers, it is often because they recognize that some part of their worldview is being challenged or undermined. Ironically, in most cases, discomfort is essential for further maturation. Nowhere is this discomfort more acute than within a text, when one character’s presuppositions clash with another’s. The writers of NBC’s The Office thrive on characterization and conflict, but in season five, episode 18, they really outdid themselves.

If you aren’t already familiar with the show, let me warn you: this episode loses all impact if you haven’t been immersed in the narrative all along (don’t watch it!). NBC’s The Office is a Thursday night television comedy formatted as a mock-umentary of Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company’s Scranton office, and the show is now in the throes of its fifth season. (The BBC TV original, also entitled The Office, premiered in 2002 and starred the talented writer/comedian Ricky Gervais.)

I am, at best, an on-again/off-again follower. To be honest, I can’t bear to watch The Office’s unmitigated portrayal of humanity in all its shame more than about once a month. (My gut’s just too weak and my pride’s too strong.) But if you are an avid follower, I will also warn you: you won’t like this episode. It will be the most discomforting one yet, but for all the right reasons.

A few months ago P. and I discussed the normative characterization in The Office. Last week’s episode blew the top off our hypnotically-sustained conclusions. And I want to tip my hat to the writers’ brilliant–if likely soon-to-be-eradicated–insertion of literary savoir faire. Up until episode 18, our sympathies primarily fell where Jim Halpert’s did. For better or for worse, Jim (John Krasinski) proved our normative character, the standard and guide for how we would morally perceive and emotionally respond to others’ actions and the circumstances they face. Occasionally, we hated Jim for doing those things we ourselves might have done, for saying those things similar to those things we hate ourselves for saying. Yet for months we continued, with few exceptions, to measure the entire office experience through the eyes of this character, imagining ourselves in his place, working in an unbelievably afflicted office environment and fighting to survive without succumbing to the insanity of it all.

This week, Michael Scott (Steve Carell) got a new boss, Charles Minor, played by the infamous Wire actor Idris Elba. And in the span of two minutes, the normative character dramatically shifted from Jim to Minor. And our entire world shifted upside down. (And we hated ourselves for ever wishing Michael would receive his dues, Jim would have a joke turned on himself, and Dwight would be the one to play his cards right for once.) Suddenly, as Charles Minor walks into the office, the stunning weight of indisputable reality falls down on our heads. We, as viewers, end up squirming in our seats as we recognize our own complicity in this childlike game. These characters that we’ve come to tolerate should have never been tolerated. This infantile drama with which we’ve amused ourselves for months is headed straight for a painful, inevitable horizon we’ve been all too content to ignore. But it’s a horizon that is overdue (and boy, do we seem juvenile for regretting that fact). We find ourselves, like Jim, feeling quite foolish for not seeing the need to truly rise above it all much sooner.

And that is the reason, if the producers want to continue to a sixth season (duh!), this literary savoir faire will be scrubbed away next week. Such reality points in only one direction: the end. If it were a novel, we’d have only three chapters left and a bittersweet smile on our faces.