The Flea and The Acrobat

I couldn't help but think of a reference from one of my favorite shows while reading Palmeri's arguments in Chapter 1; in Stranger Things, this theory is known as The Flea and The Acrobat. The kids' science teacher explains to them that when facing a tightrope, the acrobat can only move forward and backward. The flea is smaller than the rope in all directions, allowing it to explore the tightrope as a 3-dimensional object.

Palmeri explains that the process of composing a multimodal project is complex and almost unusual for English teachers.. Thus, when it comes time to teach our essay-writing process to our kids, we teach them to plan, write, and tweak. Fairly simple, no major changes of pace. The process of composing a multimodal project is more like the flea. We give a lot of credit to the acrobat, and an acrobat can be impressive, but there's no denying the flea can access the rope on more complex levels than the acrobat could even dream of.

Our process of confronting a problem, no matter what we interpret the problem to be (Flower & Hayes), should be more like the flea. We're taught that students need to be recognized as individuals with different needs in terms of both processing information (learning styles) and conveying knowledge (multiple intelligences), yet so frequently we hand them the graphic organizer and lined paper and wait for the stacks of essays to come filing in, never truly knowing the depth to which our students internalize these problems and solutions.

I always found this to be true in dance. "Improv Nights" held similar rules to Flower & Hayes's problem invention theory: our instructors would play a song, and it was our job as dancers to interpret the song and improvise to it.

There were two very different types of improvisers: those who quickly heard a song and would choreograph a snippet in their heads, and those who truly improvised. Those who choreographed got out there, did their count of 8, and then swayed rather cluelessly until they were tapped out. Those who improvised internalized the rhythms and pulls of the music, so much so that they became part of it. It meant something that their movements were both internal and external, both physical and mental, both seen and felt.

Our compositions should take on the same depth, same challenge, same intensity. If the English classroom is the class where we prepare for the world beyond, we should represent our thoughts and ideas in every way available to us, in every way we experience daily. We should give our audiences what we see, hear, see, as well as say. It is our job as compositionists--nay, artists--to internalize the problem and respond without a forceful linear choreography.

I wholeheartedly agree with Palmeri's preposition: composition requires a process that should be explored on many dimensions. We are fleas in the world, and we should become fleas in our writing.

#Palmeri

The Flea and The Acrobat

I couldn't help but think of a reference from one of my favorite shows while reading Palmeri's arguments in Chapter 1; in Stranger Things, this theory is known as The Flea and The Acrobat. The kids' science teacher explains to them that when facing a tightrope, the acrobat can only move forward and backward. The flea is smaller than the rope in all directions, allowing it to explore the tightrope as a 3-dimensional object.

Palmeri explains that the process of composing a multimodal project is complex and almost unusual for English teachers.. Thus, when it comes time to teach our essay-writing process to our kids, we teach them to plan, write, and tweak. Fairly simple, no major changes of pace. The process of composing a multimodal project is more like the flea. We give a lot of credit to the acrobat, and an acrobat can be impressive, but there's no denying the flea can access the rope on more complex levels than the acrobat could even dream of.

Our process of confronting a problem, no matter what we interpret the problem to be (Flower & Hayes), should be more like the flea. We're taught that students need to be recognized as individuals with different needs in terms of both processing information (learning styles) and conveying knowledge (multiple intelligences), yet so frequently we hand them the graphic organizer and lined paper and wait for the stacks of essays to come filing in, never truly knowing the depth to which our students internalize these problems and solutions.

I always found this to be true in dance. "Improv Nights" held similar rules to Flower & Hayes's problem invention theory: our instructors would play a song, and it was our job as dancers to interpret the song and improvise to it.

There were two very different types of improvisers: those who quickly heard a song and would choreograph a snippet in their heads, and those who truly improvised. Those who choreographed got out there, did their count of 8, and then swayed rather cluelessly until they were tapped out. Those who improvised internalized the rhythms and pulls of the music, so much so that they became part of it. It meant something that their movements were both internal and external, both physical and mental, both seen and felt.

Our compositions should take on the same depth, same challenge, same intensity. If the English classroom is the class where we prepare for the world beyond, we should represent our thoughts and ideas in every way available to us, in every way we experience daily. We should give our audiences what we see, hear, see, as well as say. It is our job as compositionists--nay, artists--to internalize the problem and respond without a forceful linear choreography.

I wholeheartedly agree with Palmeri's preposition: composition requires a process that should be explored on many dimensions. We are fleas in the world, and we should become fleas in our writing.

#Palmeri