Articles by: Marc edward Dipaolo

I recently took an on-line personality test that revealed that I have the rarest personality type in the world:  Intuitive-Thinking-Feeling person.  According to the website, this is a character type I share with Eleanor Roosevelt, Ghandi (or is it Gandhi?), and Susan Sarandon.  I'm very excited about this revelation.  I also learned, in a test called, "Which Jane Austen character are you?" that I am Marianne Dashwood.  Well, she's emotional and romantic and so am I.  Makes sense.  After taking several more of these silly tests, I have determined that one of my favorites is the "Which superhero are you?" test.  According to this test, I have the same personality as Spider-Man.  This test also revealed that, should I ever turn to crime, or to evil, I would be very much like the Joker.  This is a somewhat frightening revelation given how scary the Joker was in the film The Dark Knight, but I am not overly concerned that I will turn to evil any time soon.

The first thing I have going for me is the fact that I have the same persoanlity type as one of the world's most respected pacifists.  Go me! Not much of a chance of a pacifist turning evil!

The second thing I have going for me is that I feel too guilty when I do something wrong to ever regularly do the wrong thing.  Call it an over-sensitive disposition.  Call it Catholic guilt.  Call it being wimpy.  Whatever you like.  I like to call it being wicked cool.  But I rarely lie, cheat, or steal.  Here's why.

When I was in fifth grade, I was in an advanced curriculum in which my class, and others in PS 54, switched teachers by subject, at least one year in advance of students in other Staten Island schools, who had to wait until middle-school to get subject-oriented teachers.  So my class would have the science teacher, Mr. Lord, as a homeroom teacher, and, when it was time for other subjects, we would visit other teachers in their homerooms.  We went to Mr. Dugan's room for social studies, visited Mr. Motouchin in his room for science, and sauntered over to Mrs. Schuler's room for math. One fateful day, when Mr. Lord's charges were taken over to Mrs. Schuler's math classroom, I sat in a desk that was reserved for a student named Boris during homeroom periods.  I was borrowing his desk because Mrs. Schuler was his homeroom teacher, and I was to be a student of hers for only an hour as I studied math, along with my other, fellow "gifted" students. 

I was never very good at math, and Mrs. Schuler quizzed us regularly on the multiplication tables.  Even though she repeated questions each week, just to make sure the kids who got the questions wrong at first would eventually remember the right answer, I had to take her quiz about six times before I finally remembered that 12 times 12 is 144.  To this day, thanks to those regular quizzes, this is one of the few math problems I recall the answer to.  (Well, I can be reasonably sure that both 2 plus 2 and 2 times 2 are 4, and that anything times 0 is zero.  Otherwise, don't press me on math stuff.

Anyway, I was sitting at Boris' desk and noticed his bagged lunch.  I was curious to compare the contents of his bag lunch to the one that mom packed for me, so I peeked inside when nobody wa slooking.  Lo and behold, Boris had something in his bag that mom had yet to ever pack for me.  One of my favorite chocolates.  Rolos!  I was so jealous.  I saw his Rolos and I wanted them for myself. 

As near as I can recall, up until that point, I had never stolen anything. 

Um ... I might have wandered out of Toys R Us with a ball once because I had so much fun playing with it, I forgot to put it back.

So I stole that ball, but kind of by accident.  This time would be the first time I'd have stolen anything on purpose.  And I did it partly because I loved Rolos and partly to see if I'd get caught.

Ta da!

Got 'em.

Ate 'em after class.

DE-LICIOUS!

And then the guilt set in.

For three months, I was sorry I ate the Rolos.  And, whenever I saw Boris in the hallway, I worried that he had suffered from the lack of his Rolos.  I wondered if he suspected me.  I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt.  I needed to confess.  But how would  he react?

I thought about it.

I needed to come clean.  I couldn't live with the guilt any more.  But would he hit me?  Boris was, after all, an early grower, and was nine feet taller than most fifth graders, myself included.  So I was scared of him.  But I consoled myself with the knowledge that most people probably accept heartfelt apologies because refusing a heartfelt apology is kind of mean, isn't it?

So I approach Boris one day and said, "I'm sorry, Boris.  I did something bd to you and owe you an apology."

Here's the funny thing.  Boris didn't know me from a hole in the wall, so he was understandably confused.  The different 5th grade classes in PS 54 had little dealings with one another and I only knew who he was because he was the school giant.

"What?" he asked, looking down on me from above.

"Did you have some Rolos in your lunch that went missing a few months ago?"

His face reddened visibly. "YEAH?"

"Well, I snuck them out of your bag and ate them.  Because I really love Rolos.  But I feel bad about it, and I'm sorry."

"THAT WAS YOU?!"

Oh ... he remembered the theft of the Rolos.  And was mad.  I was hoping he forgot, or remembered but had time to get over it and it wasn't a big deal three months later.  But his anger suggested a deep resentment that he had been nursing for months as I had been nursing guilt.  I imagined him playing detective, trying to uncover who ate his Rolos.  I imagined him accusing all the other members of his homeroom class, not realizing that it was an interloper who had stolen his prize Rolos.  How could he live with the uncertainty?  What kind of blow had I dealt to the trust he had for his classmates?  How violated had he felt by the theft?

His awful expression hinted at a great pain.

THIS WAS MY DOING.

"I'm really sorry, Boris."

"YOU ARE NOT FORGIVEN!" Boris declared, and walked away shaking his head, clenching his fists at his side.

At least he didn't hit me, I thought.  Looked like it for a minute.

And so, ever since then, I have avoided sinning against my fellow man, in memory of the pain that I had caused Boris.

And Boris, if you are reading this now...

I'm still sorry, Boris!

Master Park stood at the head of the Dojo with her hands clasped behind her back, facing a class of thirty. Her long, raven-colored hair was tied up as it always was when she exercised, and her young, beautiful face was set in a serious but sympathetic expression. Satisfied that the students were standing at respectful attention, she bowed low, never taking her eyes off her charges. Since I was the only black belt in the class, it was my responsibility to return the bow first. I did so, and all the students standing behind me matched my action.

Then Master Park straightened and assumed a more casual pose. “Good afternoon, everyone.”

“Good afternoon, sir!” we chorused in booming voices. Some of the new white belts murmured the word “sir” under their breath, still unconvinced that they were really expected to refer to a woman by a masculine title. I had never had much difficulty adapting to the custom; Master Park was so casual about everything that her nonchalance was contagious. Naturally, she pushed the class hard to keep in good physical condition and know all the moves, but she was excellent at relating to the students on a friendship level. This was easily accomplished since she was around our age – barely older than twenty and only six years older than me.

“How was everyone’s weekend?” she asked.

A smattering of humble “Good, sir’s” came forth from the class. She beamed radiantly at us, and I once again found myself wondering how big an age difference six years was in the great scheme of things.

Well, I thought, in this case, it means a car, a job, a college diploma, and a black belt two degrees higher than mine.

 “I’m going to go tinker in my office for a bit while you guys warm up.” Master Park announced offhandedly. “When I come back, we’ll prepare for the tournament and do some sparring.” Her eyes went directly to mine. “Marc will lead you all in the exercises.”

“Thank you, sir,” I nodded. Master Park and I bowed respectfully to one another, and she stepped aside to allow me to take the front of the class. As I passed by her, I heard her congratulate me on my new rank. Then she walked confidently across the wooden floor, out of the Dojo.

Her gesture of faith gave me the confidence I needed to dive into the lesson. It was the first session I had the opportunity to lead since I became a black belt, and before then it was something I had only done a handful of times. Following the same formula of exercises used in every lesson, I began by doing fifty jumping jacks in time with the class, all of us shouting off Korean numbers through the strain. I felt adrenaline surging through me as I shot through exercise after exercise, keeping the class going with sit-ups, push-ups, and stretching. When I noticed that the students were beginning to feel the strain, I ordered them to stop and take a break. Many of them turned around to adjust their uniforms, while the others practiced breathing and shaking their arms out. I needed a moment’s break as well, and turned, red and sweaty, to look at my reflection in the Dojo mirror.

I stood firm and rigid, in my charcoal-black martial arts clothes. My black belt, still new and stiff, was tied taut, its ends sticking out to the sides. Very few times had I ever imagined power in my own form, but this was one moment when I saw a young man where a high school student once stood. It was amazing what a uniform could do for a lanky brown-haired kid.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Get ready for squat thrusts.” It was a minor deviation from the normal warm-up procedures, but little changes were often implemented by Master Park for some variety and I felt perfectly justified in ordering the exercise. I had no idea it would provoke the reaction it did. Only the three white belts in the back obeyed the command. From all the veterans of the class I got blank, confused stares instead of compliance.

“Squat thrusts,” I repeated, with more of an edge.

A voice to my left said with far more nerve than it should have, “You mean stretching, don’t you?” The voice came from the Green Belt, Tony Mancini, who had proven to be the most ambitious, irritating member of the class from the beginning. It was no accident that he did not add the word “sir” to the end of his question.

“No,” I repeated, “I mean squat thrusts. We will stretch again in a minute.” But nobody was listening. Having assumed I misspoke myself, they were all too busy dropping to the floor and stretching to realize that I was speaking. I was about to open my mouth and command them back on their feet, but stopped myself. Rather than order the whole class up again, I sighed and began stretching with them. Mancini showed no visible signs of it on his face, but I knew he was enjoying his minor victory. His attempt to undermine the authority of a black belt who didn’t deserve to be a black belt was successful and he was intent on searching out any future signs of weakness on my part. I had never expected his grudge against me to manifest itself in this way and I knew it would become a big problem if not addressed soon.

Six months ago, when I was still a brown belt, Mancini and I had both participated in a class sparring tournament. At the time I was not only the highest belt in the class but the guy who was winning the tournament. He had practically begged Master Park to fight me. Though she was uncertain about his attitude, she had agreed hesitantly, and sent us both to the center of the red sparring mat.

The fight had lasted all but thirty seconds. Just as he charged at me, I whipped my leg straight up and down in an “axe kick” and accidentally brushed the side of his face. Mancini stepped back, howled in pain, and a little baby tooth popped out of his mouth. His lips were covered with blood and he had to scamper off to the bathroom to wash out his mouth.

The consequences of those thirty seconds were more lasting than I could have ever expected. Not only would Mancini never be able to forget his humiliation, but after that, I would never again be able to spar with any skill or confidence. My fear of hurting my opponent became so strong that I rarely ever won another match. I also wound up appearing remarkably inept when I fought in front of an auditorium of spectators (which included my parents and uncle from New Jersey) as part of the black belt ceremony. I can’t believe Master Park thought I was worthy of the rank after that stunning performance.

After twenty minutes of exercising, during which I had secretly been doing all this thinking, I noticed that Master Park had returned from her office. I finished counting to ten in Korean and stopped doing the stomach crunches.

“Yes, sir!” they cried as they jumped to their feet.

Bowing to Master Park, I returned control of the class to her. She gestured towards the red sparring mat which rested against the left wall. “Miss Gibson and Mr. Mancini, spread that out in the middle of the floor. Everyone else, sit on the left.”

There was a flurry of activity as the sparring arena was prepared and the class settled in its new position on the floor. I sat with my legs crossed in the middle of the crowd and said hello to one of my friends who happened to be a red belt, Garth Kelly.

“Sorry about before,” Garth said to me. “That was irritating. I was in the mood for squat thrusts, too.”

“I suppose.” Garth looked from the unfolding red sparring mat back to me. “Let’s just hope Master Park doesn’t make you fight a girl again.”

I grunted in disgusted agreement. My match against Nan Gibson had not been one of my better experiences. “That whole tournament was goo.”

It had been the final match of that same tournament six months ago. Nan Gibson and I were sparring for possession of a quaint trophy with a little brass kicking karate dude mounted on it. During the competition she had proven to be a tremendous fighter, and even though she was a full year behind me, the consensus was that we were evenly matched.

Her strength and reputation made no difference to me. I had been put up against her not more than five minutes after I knocked Mancini’s tooth into the stratosphere, and I was still shaken by the sight of his bleeding mouth. Between her lower rank, my newfound fear of hurting people, and my innate dislike of striking women, there was simply no way I could fight properly. She sensed I was holding back and a look of blind fury crossed her face. When she saw an opening for the winning move, she hammered me across the face with her foot.

The blow was so quick and sharp that it dropped me straight to the ground. As I lay sprawled out on the floor holding my face, I decided it it’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a girl who takes chivalry as an insult.

I found out later than Master Park had privately criticized Nan for using excessive force in the kick and forced her to do twenty-five push-ups before claiming the trophy. It was yet another karate-related piece of emotional baggage I had been carrying around the past few months. Oddly enough, Master Park’s opinion of me appeared to remain high. 

I broke out of my reflections on the woes of a passive black belt when Mancini chose to sit down next to me. He had finished spreading out the mat while Garth and I had been talking and sat down in time to catch the tail-end of our exchange.

“You guys talking about the tournament?”

“Interesting time,” Mancini remarked casually.

“Yes,” I agreed, and the Chinese curse “May you live in interesting times,” leaped, unbidden, to mind. It was one of many, similar mental associations I made every day, for no good reason.

We fell silent as two combatants stepped out onto the sparring mat. Master Park dropped her hand down between them and shouted, “Light contact sparring…begin!”

Mancini looked wistfully out into space, clearly not focusing on the battle. “That was a lousy time for my tooth to come out, wasn’t it?”

“It’s too bad, really.” He sighed at the same time one of the fighters scored a point.

“I guess it all boils down to luck. You had it and I didn’t.”

“Oh?” Mancini turned around and searched my face with his gaze. “I don’t think you do. I should have won the tournament.”

“Good God, man. It was just a little brass trophy.” It was getting awkward because more of the students around us were hearing what we were saying.

“That’s not the point,” he growled. “It’s the principle of the thing.” A look of mock sympathy came into his expression and his voice quieted to a whisper. “Although, I must say I was surprised when an almost-black belt let a girl smack him around. I mean, I’ll admit some of them are built like tanks, but she didn’t even look that strong.”

“Mancini, what’s your problem, anyway? Were you born an asshole, or did hard luck in life turn you into one?”

Once again, the lesson proved a distraction to conversation as the second sparring match ended. Master Park glanced over in my direction and beckoned me to the center of the ring. “Your turn, Marc.”

Still irritated by Mancini’s words, I stood up and approached the mat. When I got there, Master Park walked up to me and began talking to me with her head down and voice low. I was the only one who could hear what she was saying. “I’ve been noticing a bit of a problem between you and Mr. Mancini. What’s the story?”

I wasn’t prepared for the question, so it took me several seconds to reply. “I guess it’s hard to look at a fellow classmate as a black belt,” I offered.

“That’s too bad for him,” she said. “You’re a higher rank thank him and he has to respect that.”

“But he doesn’t. I want you to explain it to him.” Master Park threw an annoyed glance at the class, which was becoming increasingly talkative during her exchange with me. Then she gesture towards Mancini. “Okay, Mancini. It’s your show.”

Mancini demonstrated surprising restraint considering this was his dream rematch come true. He strode confidently to the edge of the mat and stood at attention, facing me.

Before leaving my side, Master Park gave me a dark look. “And no holding back this time or you’ll have to answer to me.”

She stepped off the mat and watched the two of us face-off. “Fighting stance!” she shouted.

At the sound of the command, I snapped into my stance and bellowed a deep “Ki-Hap!” I balled my hands into fists and stared dead into Mancini’s eyes. This was one fight I intended to win and to hell with worrying about him getting hurt. Mancini was a full second slower getting into position, sliding his right leg back and lifting his fists in a casual, careless manner. There was a profound arrogance in his refusal to remain on guard, as if I couldn’t possibly pose any threat to him whatsoever. He wouldn’t have been so confident if he had any recollection of my ability before my fight with Gibson.

The two of us circled each other like two animals assessing each other’s worth. My jaw was set hard. I was showing no weakness.

True to form, Mancini broke out of his circling and charged at me with a stepping side kick. Moving quickly, I sidestepped the kick and whipped my arm out to block it. He sent another kick flying at me, this time with his right leg. My right arm shot upwards and blocked it. I followed up the block with a short jab to his chest. As I hit him, I roared, “Ki-Hap!”

He stepped back, surprised by the contact, as Master Park awarded me a point.

She said to the class, “One more point and Marc wins,” and then to us, “Continue.”

The moment the word was given, I jumped into action, attacking Mancini with a combination of kicks and punches, keeping him reeling under the pressure. He sensed he was being forced out of the ring and ducked under my last kick, running around me towards the center of the mat. As he passed by me, he aimed a sharp shot at my ribs, but I twisted just in time and he only grazed my side with his fist. There was a brief pause as we were both uncertain if the shot counted as a point.

“Almost, Mancini, almost,” Master Park praised.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Gibson in the crowd, and I could see in her face that her anger towards me had inflamed anew. I was fighting Mancini with much more passion and energy than I had given her, and her trophy seemed emptier than ever before. I felt a pang of guilt that grew a lot stronger when Mancini’s leg smacked hard against my stomach.

“Point!” Master Park shouted. “Tie. Next point wins the match.”

I walked in a small circle outside the ring, cursing myself for being so easily distracted. Piecing my confidence back together as I returned to the ring took some effort. My job wasn’t made any easier when Master Park advised me to “Wake up, Marc. You should have caught that one.”

Mancini and I bowed to each other for the third and final time, and slid back into fighting stance. Seeing Master Park drop her arm, we walked with sidewards steps around the edge of the ring, looking for weaknesses. Testing him, I threw a roundhouse kick, which he blocked easily. Then he tried to get in a left-hand jab, but I stepped out of its path. When this didn’t work, he pulled back and resumed circling me.

I knew he was going to attack again, but I didn’t know when. He was trying to unnerve me by keeping me in suspense. I had a sense that the other students were almost as tense as me, but I couldn’t chance taking my eyes off Mancini again.

Then, just as I suspected, he lunged at me. Screaming a Korean battle cry, Mancini closed in, raised his leg to his chest, and started to lash out with another roundhouse kick. I was faster.

My right leg whipped straight up, slicing the air right in front of his face. He was so caught off-guard by the axe-kick that he was unable to complete his kick and stumbled backward. As he stepped back, his hands dropped to his sides to help him regain his balance, leaving his chest unprotected. Seeing my chance, I fired off a front snap kick. My foot slammed against Mancini’s chest, pushing him over backwards and toppling him to the ground. He hit the padded mat with a loud slap and lay there several moments without getting up. He was so shocked by his defeat that he couldn’t move a muscle.

“Point two for Marc,” Master Park said.

My classmates started applauding loudly for my victory, and I managed to smile and bow in thanks to them.

“Now, Marc,” Master Park continued, checking to make sure that Mancini had climbed to his feet, “you and Mr. Mancini shake hands. It was a good match.”

I was satisfied with my win, so I had no trouble stretching out my hand to Mancini. He stared dumbly at it for a moment, but then offered his hand in return. His handshake was loose and he looked away as he did it. I took no pleasure in his discomfort because I had been in his place so many times before. I only hoped that, if he didn’t like me personally, at least he would learn to give me respect in front of the class. On the other hand, I decided, if he did keep giving me trouble, I would take great pleasure in reminding him of this moment.

Looking down at my uniform, I noticed that my belt had loosened during the fight and was hanging limp to the floor. I turned around to face the back of the Dojo as a sign of respect and adjusted my uniform, smoothing out its creases, and pulling the belt taught. I then left the sparring mat and took my place on the floor with the other students.

The X-Files: I Want to Believe is about two former FBI Agents, Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson), who see their respective religious beliefs challenged, if not dashed, while being drawn back into action as consultants in the investigation of a series of kindappings.  During the movie, Mulder is repeatedly entreated to give up his quest to prove the existence of aliens and find a long-lost sister who is most certainly dead by now.  Scully, however, finds her faith in God, and her affiliation with the Catholic Church, challenged repeatedly. 

Now, this needs to be said: it isn't a perfect movie.  On an enjoyment scale, I'd give it about 2 and 1/2 stars.  However, I understand why Roger Ebert rated it 3 and 1/2 stars.  He argues that it is smart, it is "about something" and it is deeply concerned with issues of ethics and religion.  He is also glad that there's no flashy explosions or high-octane gunfights in it.  He's right on all counts. 

As lovely as Gillian Anderson is (and I have long had a crush on the actress), Scully tends to be an annoying character, because she is a skeptic in a world in which EVERYTHING has a supernatural explanation.  Also, the role is not as feminist and progressive as it should be because Scully is often left largely out of the action in the final few minutes of each X-Files adventure because she can only see so many incredible sights before ceasing to be a skeptic.   Therefore, Mulder, as inept as he is, usually gets to do all the jumping onto moving trains and fistfights with the main villain.  However, in this new film, Scully gets the most interesting storyline.

At the start of the film, viewers learn that Scully has left the FBI and is a doctor in a Catholic hospital.  She is treating a boy with a disease that likely has no cure.  However, groundbreaking and radical treatment involving stem cells might save the boy's life.  The priests and nuns oppose the procedure, making the excuse that it will probably fail and cause the boy pain.  The priest in charge of the hospital, Father Ybarra, wants the boy transferred to hospice care so he can die "in peace" and not undergo unnecessary, painful, and probably unsuccessful treatments.  What is not stated overtly, however, is the fact that the priests and the nuns have qualms with the use of stem cells to treat the boy.  After all, the pro-life position of the Catholic Church backs many priests and nuns into opposing stem cell research and invitro fertilization.  While the film does not make any of the clergy characters speak this objection, it is a strong subtext of the film.

For her part, Scully has many sleepless nights, crying over the boy's pain and angrily cursing God for bringing an innocent boy into the world just to allow him to contract a horrendous, fatal disease.  She is only able to overcome this anger by defying the priests and convincing the boy's parents to approve the risky procedure.  While we do not know whether the surgery works in the end, the film asks us, and Scully, to have faith that the boy will be saved, and that she has made the right decision defying the head priest.

Another, more prominent, Catholic priest features in the film.  Father Joe (Billy Connolly), is a pedophile who hates himself for molesting 37 altar boys.  He tries to fight the urges, castrates himself, and lives in a self-policed community of sex-offenders.  He approaches the FBI at the start of the film because he has visions of women being kinapped that correspond to real missing persons cases.  His visions are reliable, and provide numerous breakthroughs, but many of the agents are too empirical and hard-headed to accept Father Joe's visions as being bona fide. Scully, for her part, cannot believe that God would give visions to a pedophile priest when he gives no such visions to a good person ... like her.  She feels lost and is hungry for God's voice, and will not accept that God is capable of forgiving someone who doesn't deserve forgiveness.  Interstingly, the film argues that God can, and does, forgive Father Joe, and the visions are, indeed, presented as bona fide.  Ironically, the perpetrator of the kidnappings winds up being one of Father Joe's former victims, making his visions as much justice and punishment as they are a gift.  By the end of the film, Scully appears to have made some peace with Father Joe, and given him a measure  of forgiveness and acceptance herself.      

As it happens, the villians of the film are also engaged in radical medical treatment.  They are kidnapping healthy young women and harvesting their organs and body parts to keep a rich patient alive while an incurable disease ravages his body.  The Frankenstein-like procedure (which results in a patient who gets to keep his own head, but lives in a fresh body created by parts sewn together from a variety of kidnap victims) turns out to be a Russian experimental procedure that was the precursor to contemporary stem cell surgery.  In effect, the villains are ruthless doctors with no moral center. 

The film does not state the message directly, but it hints at the following: Dana Scully's use of stem cell research is not immoral.  It is not the harvesting of innocent body parts to keep a young boy alive.  It is caricatured by overzealous religious folks as evil, but the process the clergy opposes is not evil.  The Russian doctors who serve as the villains of the film are performing surgeries that cross the line and are, indeed, the kind of evil harvesting the priest's oppose.  But common sense sees a distinction between Scully and the Russians.  That is the moral of the film, even if it dances around that message as much as it spells it out with its frequent graphic shots of severed arms. 

Interestingly, while the film is not great, I felt a strong kinship to the character of Scully and the religious suffering she endures.  She believes in God, and she is a "good" Catholic (from a non-doctrinaire point of view), but she is horrified by pedophile priests and cannot, in good conscience, support the Church's opposition to stem cell research.  Quite frankly, it was those very issues, and the possible zealous motivations of the September 11 terrorists that drove me away from religion by the end of 2002.  There is a part of me that admires Scully for still being religious in light of all that happened to push me away from religion in general and Catholicism in particular.  There is another part of me that wishes that Scully would just work in a public hospital, where she can perform whatever surgery she sees fit without being hamstrung by religious concerns.  

On the other hand, perhaps it is just as well Scully is at this Catholic hospital.  If she wasn't there, where she was needed, the boy wouldn't have gotten the treatment he needed to survive.

Therefore, while being Catholic seems to make Scully miserable, it is probably good for all of us that she is Catholic.  And it is good for the patients at the hospital she works at and stays just where she is - a troublemaker at the heart of a Roman Catholic institution.          

“Marc, I know you’re a college professor now, and everything, but you’re not actually going to vote for Obama are you?” 

“Yes.  And with great excitement and enthusiasm.”

“Have you lost your mind!?!”

Even though I live in
Pennsylvania, which is relatively close to
New York, I don’t get to visit my home town of
Staten Island often these days.   Fortunately, I was able to return for a visit with the old gang, Griffin Masina, Hank Stewart, and Kyle Ahern, which included devouring three vodka pies at Goodfellas pizzeria, two games of Texas Hold ‘Em poker, and an annoying political conversation.  The annoying political conversation occurred at the end of the evening, after folks had a few drinks and decided they were mad at me for demonstrating beginner’s luck at cards.  That was when I was asked pointedly whether I was voting reluctantly for McCain, or boycotting the election, as the others faced this choice themselves.  I said I had voted enthusiastically for McCain during the Republican primaries in 2000, but couldn’t vote for a Republican after the disastrous and ego-maniacal Bush presidency.  The conversation rapidly degenerated into an argument after I made this statement. 
Griffin remained polite and thoughtful, and made excellent points from a conservative standpoint, but the other fellows were not particularly polite, and were very dogmatic and judgmental in much of what they said.  By the end of the evening, I discovered that, according to a handful of my friends, I was an out-of-touch academic who is “part of the problem,” and who sees his job as primarily the recruiting of a new generation of Democrats, and the perpetuation of the notion that climate change is a reality when everyone knows it is not.  After all, I may have been a reporter for two years and have read “tons of sociology books,” I may currently devour The Economist each week, listen to NPR daily, sporadically watch The News Hour with Jim Lehrer, and hold a doctorate in literature, but I am, on balance, uninformed and ignorant.  Why?  Because I didn’t watch O’Reilly every day, read the New York Post, or follow the minutiae and gossip surrounding the day-to-day muck and mire of politics. 

(“Oh, you only know what Reverend Wright said last week?  You don’t know what he said this week?  You really need to get cable and stop living in a cave!  Wright said, ‘God damn
America!’  How could he say that?  And Obama won’t wear an American flag on his lapel!”)   

Good thing this is what my friends think of me.  One wonders what my enemies would think of my classroom lessons.

            Obviously, I don’t believe that their impression is accurate, although I can see where those who have a strict moral code and utilitarian view of what college “should be all about” would cite me for crimes against education.  Knowing this, I thought for the next several days about what my mission was as a college professor and what I hoped to teach my students.  I reread my “Philosophy of Teaching,” a document that I wrote for my Third-Year Review for Tenure, to see if it was lacking.

After reviewing the document, I could see where a conservative would hate what I had to say, but I decided that I stand by it. 

For those who are interested, I have decided to reprint below my Philosophy of Teaching, which outlines my goals as a college professor.  While I do not think that many news “commentators” would like it, and while they might, if they got a hold of it, cartoon my motivations, I believe it is a thoughtful document that can be respectfully disagreed with.  I do not, however, believe my philosophy is simplistic or evil.

            Here goes:

In both my teaching and writing I simultaneously hold two entirely contradictory ideological beliefs.  Contradictory as they are, I believe them both wholeheartedly.  I am equally a moral relativist and a moral absolutist.  As a moral relativist, I believe that the only way to truly understand anything is to not stand in judgment of it, but to judge it on its own merits.  This is how I try to understand other people, other cultures, and works of art and popular culture.  It is the kind of approach Walt Whitman used in Leaves of Grass, when he expressed love for the grass, saw himself in everything, and saw everything in himself.  He eschewed qualitative judgments, denied the existence of evil, and privileged similarity over difference.  This mindset is what enables me to get along well with students who often feel themselves marginalized or oppressed (either off or on campus), and which informs my writing about critically disparaged works of popular art like superhero comic books.  This approach also enables me to teach very nuanced lessons on the use of the Confederate Flag on the television show The Dukes of Hazzard in my Mass Media class when one might think that it is impossible to say anything of value about such a topic since … well … The Dukes of Hazzard was a terrible show.  

On the other hand, I am also a moral absolutist.  I believe that there is a clear pecking order in the universe, there is indeed evil (the military junta in
Burma, for example), and qualitative judgments are both inescapable and made countless times a day.  Therefore, while I love comic books, I understand that they do occupy a literary stratum beneath that of Lord of the Flies and 1984, and that those books, in turn, are not quite on the same literary level as Hamlet, The Divine Comedy, and Paradise Lost.  On the other hand, comic books are clearly better for one’s health than advertising, The O’Reilly Factor, and most movies featuring David Spade.  In a similar fashion, the Beatles are better than Jethro Tull and Mozart is better than the Beatles. 

Finally, even though I try to present both sides of every political issue fairly to my students, I think it is safe to say that, at my core, I have very specific political beliefs and, at times, it is difficult to disguise these biases. 

 Being simultaneously a moral relativist and a moral absolutist used to be challenging and confusing for me.  However, I am more comfortable in my own skin and do not feel myself vulnerable to charges of inconsistency or hypocrisy.  In fact, I am able to reconcile my incompatible beliefs by acknowledging the fact that, at different points in my life, I have believed many things, and I have loved many kinds of intellectual and artistic works.  For the bulk of my formative years, I was a very superstitious person, saw the world in staunch black-and-white terms, and adored adventure narratives presented in comic books, fairy tales, and pulp novels.  During my college years, I was religiously and politically adrift, but I decided to hold off on joining any ideological association until I’d finished reading most of the Harold-Bloom-approved “Great Works of the Western Canon.”  As a graduate student, I read sociology books and multicultural American literature, watched foreign films, and became a much more tolerant, open-minded person. 

While my archconservative friends from
Staten Island would challenge this notion, let us assume for the moment that the evolution I describe above was, on balance, a positive thing.  Now, this is the critical point: I still remember what I was like during all of these various phases in my life and I do not judge myself.  It was all part of the same emotional, intellectual, and spiritual journey. 

I was very much the same person I am now, only my focus and my way of processing information was different.  I feel a little superior to my old self, but I still like my younger self – who is at once undoubtedly me and undoubtedly an entirely different person.  Therefore, I retain my youthful affection for comic books and Puritanical righteousness even as I believe that my current preference for Jane Austen and the striving to be as reasonable as possible, whenever possible, is the way to go. 

Reading and Morality:

When I first decided to enter the doctoral program at
Drew University, I was fully aware of the fact that I loved to read while most of my friends and extended family members had not read a book in their lives.  I therefore became interested in why I first developed a love of reading and decided to make a study of children’s fiction: fairy tales, comic books, and horror novels.  After all, these were the tales that got me excited to read (as opposed to, say, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay “Experience,” which I loved when I re-read it as a graduate student, but would have hated has I stumbled upon it in the fifth grade, and which I did, indeed, hate when I first encountered it as a college freshman.)  I was also interested in what effect these rather lurid, highly supernatural tales had on my ethical and cognitive development as a young reader. 

I was also convinced that movie adaptations of classic works had encouraged me to read because I had loved the movies that I had seen on PBS as a child and was eager to read the books when I was old enough to understand them.  Graduate school helped me discover that I was interested in the academic fields of narratology and adaptation theory.  These were two critical lenses through which I could examine story cycles, serial narratives, and adaptations that I had enjoyed as a child and, significantly, continue to enjoy as an adult now that recent film adaptations of childhood favorite tales seem to be in vogue.  In fact, during my investigation into narratology and adaptation theory, I discovered – quite by accident – that these approaches help scholars gauge how various media-representations of race, class, and gender changed over time.  For example, if one considers how a “staple” narrative (like the Beauty and the Beast story cycle) or a multimedia character (like Robin Hood) changes from oral tale, to written tale, to song, to film, to video game, these changes reveals a lot about narrative technique and genre.  On the other hand, if one also considers how the character changes thematically from generation to generation, or shifts from one culture to the next (like the American sitcom “The Office” as a remake of the contemporary British sitcom “The Office”), then that approach may reveal much about history and culture.  Therefore, a comparison of several incarnations of Wonder Woman – from the 1940s comic books to the 1970s television show to the 2000s cartoon – reveals a lot about how gender is “constructed” during these various historical eras. 

This brings me to one of my principle academic interests.  As interested as I am in literacy, children’s literature, and adaptation theory, I am also very interested in the ideological components of various works of art, from the populist to the elitist.  I am interested in their overt political messages, their subtexts, and how they represent the “other” – people of a different gender, race, class, ethnicity, religion, or creed.  What messages are imbedded in works of art?  Were they intentionally placed there?  Unconsciously?  Are these messages received as intended?  Are they distorted?      

This interest in the “effects” of reading on the reader was similar to the concerns I had about the mass media, both before I was a journalist and during my own tenure as a news reporter.  How could a reporter ethically report the news?  What effect did the news have on the news reader when the story was actually somewhat “balanced” ideologically?  When it was clearly biased in its perspective?  When the news story’s only concern seemed to be with sensationalism and the profit margins of the news venue?

As an Italian-American who hates the media-bolstered stereotype of the Italian gangster, and all of its attendant baggage (macho posturing, stupidity, wife-beating, etc.), I am very concerned about how the media, be it film, television, the news, or even politico-speak, represents members of different races, social classes, nationalities, religions, and ethnic groups.  I am sympathetic to every Asian who chafes at the portrayals of the Japanese as a culture of samurais, every woman who is weary of the blonde-pop-star-Lolita standard of beauty, and every black person who has the same reservations about the gangsta stereotype that I have about the gangster stereotype.              

These were the issues which concerned me when I first entered graduate school.  These remain the questions that concern me, in both my scholarship and the courses I teach.  To some degree or another, everything I write and every lesson I teach touches upon this core group of issues.  I believe that the media caricatures people, simplifies complex topics, and makes sensationalistic that which should be considered in a sober, thoughtful mindset.  The best way to defeat the media’s desire to dumb down the quality of public debate and discourse is to encourage thoughtfulness, healthy skepticism, and tolerance at every possible turn.  

Practical Concerns and Application:

Even though I currently have a very calm way of looking back upon my intellectual, spiritual, and emotional development through a protracted, rigorous diet of reading, I must admit that, at the time I went through the multiple ideological conversions I touched upon above, I found the process to be emotionally violent, spiritually unsettling, and outright traumatic.  However, having gone through these turbulent periods of my “inner” life, I feel that I understand myself, and the world, better because of these experiences.  I am a better person for the effort and the agony, even if I still am a work-in-progress with a long way to go. 

Which raises the question: What do I do with my students?  There is an extent to which I want (and need) to respect my students’ beliefs and worldview – especially given the fact that I teach at a Roman Catholic college that promotes Franciscan values.  However, there is also an extent to which I want to shake students out of the same kind of intellectual rut I was in when I was an undergraduate.  After all, as C.S. Lewis wrote in A Grief Observed, the Judeo-Christian God is not impressed with a “house of cards” faith built upon ignorance and complacency, but wants his flock intellectually and spiritually challenged.  Certainly, reading, done properly, does not validate the worldview of the reader, but challenges the reader to consider alternative perspectives, moderate their understandable instinct to demonize their political enemies, and know themselves more objectively.  (For more on this, see Harold Brodkey’s superb essay, “
Reading: The Most Dangerous Game.”)

Of course, recent articles in The Chronicle of Higher Education have argued that students do not go to college to challenge their own beliefs, or learn about other cultures, or to improve their reading and writing skills.  They go to party, date, and get job training and certification.  In my experience, that mindset is common, in society and in the classroom, and it is my chief obstacle in being an effective teacher.  The student is in the classroom for one reason, I am there for another, and neither of us wants to change the goals of the class. 

The other challenge I face is the cultural reluctance of students to read for pleasure, and the seeming inadequacy of K-12 public education to prepare students for a meaningful college experience.  Here I am not talking about the several schools that I have taught at over the past decade, as both a tenure-track professor and as an adjunct, but about a widely reported crisis in literacy.    

These, of course, are widespread cultural problems that I cannot hope to “solve.” However, I can do the best I can on a small scale at Alvernia in my interactions with individual classes and individual students.   I will say that I am always thinking about different ways I can reach the students, challenge them, maintain a disciplined classroom, a fair set of grading standards, and make sure they are doing the homework. 

If I have one goal, it is this: get the students to read.  I care not if they begin, as I did, by reading comic books, or escapist fare such as J.K. Rowling or Dan Brown.  I just want them to have the patience to read, the ability to understand what they read, and the fortitude to tune out televisions and iPods and cell phones long enough to be immersed in another world and another perspective.  Those who know how to read also know how to write and how to think.  And this goal, while seemingly small and insulting to the students, is not intended to malign them, or to make any college that I have taught at, past or present, “look bad.”  In my experience, most freshmen come to college not knowing how to read, or not having exposed themselves to serious literature.  Jeffrey Hart has noted that even
Dartmouth freshman soon come to realize, through his tutelage, that “their first twelve years of schooling had mostly been wasted.” (See the oft-anthologized essay “How to Get a College Education.”)

After all, when I first went to college, I was functionally illiterate, raised on Star Trek and Wizard of Oz novels, and I was capable of writing nothing but Doctor Who fan fiction.  After four years of college, I was reading Thucydides, Plato,
Dante, Virginia Woolf, Sherman Alexie, Voltaire, Toni Morrison, Bernardus Silvestris, and Molly Haskell, and my writing quality increased a thousand fold.  If I can remember where I started, and have patience with my freshman for having read To Kill a Mockingbird and nothing else, then I can teach them to truly read and truly think critically.  Then, they will begin the same painful-but-wonderful process that I began, discovering themselves, their politics, their spirituality, and their core values system as they read.  Each of them will have a different journey.  Some of them will change a lot and some very little.  Some of them will be new recruits for the Democratic Party.  Some of them won’t.  But I will have the satisfaction of knowing that I nudged at least a percentage of my students in what I believe to be the right direction – intellectual autonomy in the face of a mass media that is only interested in turning people into mindless consumers who have exactly the same taste and who all think and feel the same way about every topic.       

And that’s my goal as a moral relativist/absolutist college professor.