VOLUNTEER RECRUITERS ARE LIKE PREACHERS, blind beggars and wise children: they know how to manipulate your guilt to get what they need. When our elementary school Volunteer in Public Schools representative called and suggested I lead a Junior Great Books program, I had my excuses ready, and then she started her spiel. After all, she said, it’s our school and if we don’t contribute, how can we criticize, and (after all) you’ll be enriching the cultural experience of these children and (after all) you are interested .in books and (after all) it’s only one short hour out of your whole week. They always say that about the one short hour. They know how hard you’ll find it to refuse a meager sixty minute outlay.
Unable to cope with another “after all,” I conceded, and (after all) I thought, it did sound more interesting than cake baking, books gluing or lavatory supervision.
What, I asked, was involved?
What I had to do first was attend a training program conducted by the Great Books Foundation itself. Right off, I found that the outfit is called not THE Great Books Foundation, as I had thought, but simply Great Books Foundation, which, when you think of it, has a lot more humility, professing to have catalogued some of the great ones but not all of them. The training program consisted of five one-hour sessions with a GB instructor who travels all over the country giving these workshops. There were about 30 of us, from all over the Houston area, and, as in most volunteer work, we were but for one, women.
The GB technique is, fairly rigid, whether at junior or adult level: the group is made up of 15-20 voluntary participants and two co-leaders who, during the twelve one-hour discussion periods, never make a statement. Never. Like, Socrates, they lead by asking. It was the first rule we learned and the one most stringently insisted upon. And to make it even more difficult, the questions were to be ones we did not know the answer to. If a question was answered in the course of a discussion, we were to strike it down and never ask it again.
According to the leadership manual: “Your purpose as a co-leader is to conduct an exercise in reflective thinking by asking questions which will increase your knowledge, as well as the participants’, of the Great Book under discussion.” The key is, we as leaders were to make sure we were trying to learn about the GB, instead of trying to teach it to the children.
For example, after a sample discussion led by our instructor, someone asked, “But how can you conduct a discussion on a story more than once? Won’t all your questions be answered?”
He was ready for that one.
“I have conducted 78 discussions of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’,” he replied, “and I still don’t know why the ogre’s wife saved Jack, and so it is still a valid question. Why did the ogre’s wife save Jack instead of serving him for breakfast?”
Someone else countered with, “It’s the only thing that could have happened because it’s the only thing that did happen, there’s no story otherwise, and I don’t see how it can be questioned. “
“But why,” Turnbull persisted, “did the author choose to have Jack saved by the ogre’s wife?” Because she liked his looks?
GB considers the author’s life, the period in which the piece was written, other translations or versions of the same selection-all to be extraneous; anything outside the words in front of us, the work itself, was irrelevant and if brought up must be exorcised. “Show me in the book” was another of our leader’s recurring exhortations. Any reply beginning “We all know that ” was quickly cut short. “How? Where does it say that? Show me in the book.” Questions were to come in sequence and accumulate, in the process of exchange, consequence; the purpose was rational inquiry. Children were to be encouraged to reason and question without expecting to find an absolute answer. Two sample questions from the manual are, “What do the writers of the Declaration of Independence mean by the word ‘right’?” and “Is Gogol primarily criticizing individuals or a system in ‘The Overcoat’?” neither of which could be answered easily or absolutely. In other words, we were to conduct a metaphysical discussion with 20 12-year-olds.
Having received official assurances that we were ready to begin, my partner and I led a sample discussion wiith 60-something children from the top reading tracks of our sixth grade and sent home glowing “Dear Parents!” letters, warning that only the first 20 to sign up and bring the $6.50 book fee would be admitted to the group, wondering all the time if any children other than our own two would show. Surprisingly, we had enough for two groups, which then and there doubled the one little hour I was supposed to spend on the program.
Our first selection was some Aesop’s fables and four Hans Christian Andersen stories. Having prepared in advance a list of possible questions (and quadrupling in the process that original one hour), we eagerly began: Was Aesop writing about animals? Which, in retrospect, was ill-chosen; we clearly knew the answer. No, someone, answered, he was writing about people. All right, we continued in pursuit of natural sequences and rational inquiry, why then did he make them into animals? Answer: he was probably afraid of getting sued.
And that, we found, was the temper of our little groups, both of them.
Now let me say, our school is relatively large for an elementary school (some 1500 enrolled) in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, white, medium-affluent, a quiet small-town type area with zoning and a low crime index. Since it borders Rice University and the Medical Center, there is an above-average number of professional people who might become excited at the idea of their children becoming involved in great books and Chaucer. Some of our kids were honestly eager to participate; others had been pushed into enrolling; others only