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Quality in Mediated Instruction
The following was published (1999) under the title "If a forest falls, is it because no one was listening?" in the American Association of Higher Education Bulletin, 53 (3), pp. 9-11.
A Post-Modern Fairy Tale
Michael R. Chial, Ph.D.
Professor, Department of Communicative Disorders
University of Wisconsin-Madison
The most precious commodity of higher education is turf. Academic justifications (a.k.a. "rationales") of territory are exceedingly tedious. So this one is different. It is a fairy tale.
Once upon a time, a special grove of trees stood in a forest near a small coastal village. The grove contained aspen, oak, and spruce. Three species of beetle also lived in the grove. Three woodcutters lived on the edge of the village nearest the forest. The woodcutters lived apart from the village, and from one another.The woodcutters each spoke a different language. Because they were separated by linguistic distance, and because each was somewhat non-communicative anyway (they were, after all, men), they had little to do with each other. They also used very different methods in their trades. One (a short, thick-chested fellow) used a double-headed ax. Because he took pride in his strength, he favored oak trees, whose hardness challenged him. Carvers and cabinetmakers greatly prized the product of his labors. Another woodcutter (spare and wiry) used a buck saw originally designed for two-man operation. Because he had never found anyone whose rhythm matched his own, he used a counterweight-and-pendulum system secured by a pinion driven into the tree to do the work of an absent partner. This technique made him particularly adept at cutting spruce, which he enjoyed because they make a great noise when they fall. House-builders prized his straight timber for beams and corner posts. A third woodcutter--portly, but as strong as an ox--used a one-handed bow saw to fell and trim the aspen trees preferred by the villagers for fuel (oak yields more heat, but these were very traditional villagers). He enjoyed his work because he knew it benefited everyone. This is the interesting part: each woodcutter was certain that he was the leader of his craft and that the trees were his alone to harvest. None noticed the limits of his own specialization, so none felt put upon by the others. The woodcutters didn't notice the beetles at all.
The forest was a third-growth wood, having suffered numerous fires and one earthquake that leveled all the standing timber. By random re-growth, the special grove was a favorite site for each of the woodcutters. Now because this was an old grove in an old forest (and because this is a fairy tale), the trees were somewhat self-aware. In fact, this is what made the grove so special. The spruce were particularly proud of their tall, straight lines and the fact that their needles did not fall during the winter. The oak reveled in their great strength and impressive stature. The aspen, though fewer in number than the others, and though deployed about the edge of the grove, considered themselves the best of trees because of the way their branches rode the wind. After the fashion of trees, these three groups communicated by way of colors, light, and shadow. This is the interesting part: each type of tree considered itself the climactic growth for both the grove and the forest. The trees noticed the woodcutters only as fleeting shadows in the sunlight and the beetles as no more than freckles on their trunks, leaves, or on the forest floor. If the truth be known, the trees didn't trust each other very much.
The beetles of the grove had evolved a sort of collective (but separate) intelligence more common among ants and bees. One breed of beetle was a borer, taking nourishment from the sap beneath the bark of the spruce. The sap beetle knew the satisfaction of the sweet fluid that could be made to flow with just a small puncture in the tree. Another (a leaf-eater) favored the aspen, but also could live on the leaves of the oak. Especially on the aspen trees, the leaf beetle loved the rhythm of bite-and-sway. The leaf-eaters and bark-borers did the trees no good, but none of those who frequented the grove recognized that, certainly not the beetles. The third beastie was a dung beetle that made a life with the leavings of squirrels, deer, and (on occasion), the woodsmen. Industrious to a fault, the dung beetles competed with each other to see which could collect the most wonderful (to a dung beetle) mass of excrement. They considered themselves to be the agents of order in a entropic universe. Perhaps not precisely in those terms, but the dung beetles did have an acute sense of thermodynamics. After the nature of beetles, each of these three types communicated by the stamping of legs. The mass of the trees kept such drumming from passing between trunk and leaf, or for that matter, to the ground. And the ground-dwelling beetles were mired in--well, dung. This is the interesting part: each specie delighted in its own truly marvelous specialization, and in the way the grove had conformed itself to the needs of that particular type of beetle. The beetles took no notice of the woodcutters, but (like them) saw the trees as a source of plenty.
Now this is the really interesting part: when the woodcutters worked in the grove (but nowhere else) they sang to themselves the songs of their youths, each listening only to his own tunes. And each specie of tree told the story of its strength, but only to fellow members of the same breed. And each specie of beetle thrum-thummed the music of its specialty, which (because those specialties differed) could not be understood by any other beetles.
One fine day, the oak trees were being strong, the spruce were being tall, and the aspen were playing tag with the wind. On this fine day, the man with the ax was finishing his work on a tough old oak, the sawman had already felled two great spruce, and the brush-cutter had bundled five large piles of aspen branches to carry back to the village. The beetles sang their own special song. And special it was, too, for this was early summer and the beetles had just finished breeding.
On this same fine day there came into the grove a huge, fire-breathing dragon. And an evil, ill-tempered beast it was, too. Because this is a fairy tale, (and because in fairy tales, dragons can communicate like crazy), the dragon turned to the woodsmen and said, "I've not eaten for a week and I'm damned hungry. Give me one good reason not to eat you."
This particular dragon was no stranger to the woodsmen. It had terrorized the village for years. The oak-cutter said, "If you eat me, there'll be no wood to build beds for the villagers. No beds means no babies. No babies means no virgins for the spring offering. That would really irritate you, wouldn't it?" The spruce-cutter said, "If you eat me, there'll be no masts for the ships that bring gold to the village for barter. No gold means no fall offering to brighten your nest. That would really irritate you, wouldn't it?" And the aspen-cutter said, "If you eat me, the villagers will have no fuel. They'll leave before midwinter because it will be too cold. No villagers means no midwinter festival. And that means no fatted calves. That would really irritate you, wouldn't it?"
Remember, the woodcutters did not speak a common language. And none of them spoke English. So these are just translations. Obviously, no translation is adequate without full understanding of social context. But you must agree that each gave a well-reasoned argument.
The dragon responded, "YOU irritate me," and gobbled up all three.
Then the dragon turned to the trees of the grove and said, "I haven't eaten for a week, and I'm damned hungry. Give me one good reason not to eat you." (It is not well-known, but fire-breathing dragons take sustenance from any living matter they incinerate. It is better known that dragons are insatiable. And terrible liars. You would be too, if you had scales for skin.)
The aspen, which excelled at choral speaking (no doubt because of their practice of following the breeze), whispered in unison, "If you eat us, there will be no trees left to ply their arms in the wind, sheltering the creatures that grow and live on the forest floor. That would be a terrible ecological disaster." (The aspen didn't actually use the word "ecological," but you get the idea.) The tallest spruce spoke up, saying, "You would not dare harm the only really tall beings in the forest. Even you, as nasty as you are, must recognize the true quality of our tallness." The senior oak quivered with rage and said, "If I have learned anything in my tenure as master of this grove, it is that a dragon is no match for the strength of a righteous oak. We will outlast you, too."
More imprecise translation, because the language of trees makes it as hard for us to understand them as vice-versa. The trees did not hear the woodcutters' fine arguments because--as everyone knows--trees don't notice sounds. They didn't notice what the other trees said, either. So their ideas really were very thoughtful and quite original.
The dragon stoked smoke and replied, "Eat fire, trees," Then it blasted the entire grove with one great swoop of flame. Not one tree survived.
By this time the dragon was full. The leaf-eating beetles had gone the way of the leaves of the oak and aspen--up in smoke. The bark-borers boiled in the sap bubbling from the trunks of the charred spruce. And with only one exception the bottom-dwelling beetles were buried in ash.
The single surviving beetle continued to roll the one remaining dung-ball. Now beetles aren't very bright, but they're smart enough to know when argument does no good. Alone and afraid (or as frightened as a beetle can be), the dung beetle churned its many legs to escape the looming mass of the dragon. The huge beast shifted, then eased to the ground, falling at once into a deep sleep. The beetle was squashed, its treasure broken beyond recognition.
After a time, the dragon snorted amidst dreams of gold and fatted calves. It inhaled deeply, aspirated the remains of the dung ball, choked, then died.
More time passed. Eventually, the mushrooms took over. The village turned out okay, though for a little while it suffered a surplus of virgins.
The End.
The characters in this tale may correspond to faculty, to students, other clients, distant colleagues, graduates, taxpayers, or to administrators and managers whose lot it is to steward resources bent on extinction. Or maybe not. Maybe the beetles are our primal selves, the trees our spiritual selves, and the woodcutters our professional selves. Or maybe not. Maybe governing boards are represented by dung beetles instead of dragons. Maybe faculty are the dragons. Or maybe not. You'll have to figure these things on your own. This is, after all, a post-modern fairy tale. As such, the reader is presumed to be the ultimate source of meaning. Or maybe experimental evidence about the connections among language and perception renders such "theoretical" views of literature ignorant and self-indulgent. You'll still have to figure it out.
Perhaps there is a moral to the story. Maybe the moral is "shoot, aim, ready, for tomorrow we are mushrooms." Or maybe it is a retelling of the mushroom theory of academic leadership: "keep 'em in the dark, feed 'em dung, and let 'em seek consensus." Or maybe simply, "dung happens." Or perhaps the moral is this: during times of stress, the simple act of conversation, with all its uncertainty, may be more important than the logical or emotional content of anything we have to say.
