How We Learn

In my elementary school, we had a day devoted to diagnostic testing.  They had tests to determine what level of different classes we should be in.  Tests that could show whether we were left-brained or right-brained.  And they had tests that would determine what type of learner we are.  I was determined to be a visual-kinesthetic learner with a strong preference toward logic and mathematics; I needed to be shown something and to do something with my hands and could solve problems more easily than many of my classmates.

This classification has lasted my entire life.  I still learn best when I can see or touch what it is I am learning about and numbers and science still make much more sense to me than symbols and metaphors.  This does not mean that I cannot learn through sounds or that I cannot understand the deeper meanings of certain things, it just means that I must work harder at it.  

Different assignments in Play in the City allowed me to see these differences and recognize why some did not work for me.  

Somewhere between high school and college, I lost my voice.

Sitting the classroom circle, the same question is constantly circling and circling around my head: why, after all these meetings, books, essay, movies, tests, am I still silent? How can I come back to my room and excitedly recount what was discussed in class to my roommate, when I’ve left class without uttering a word? How is my eagerness to learn and to learn from the others in my classes untranslatable in my failure to externalize my thoughts?

Why is my silence such a hindrance?

Somehow in my head I’ve myself small, retreating inwards and renouncing any space my voice could take up in the conversations in class. Not just in this class, but all of them. Midway through my ESem class, I found myself in a conference with my ESem professor, assessing my participation in class. I was voicing regrets that I hadn’t contributed more to the discussion, for I was constantly hesitant to enter my perspective into the forefront of critical interpretation of one of the texts we’d read in class. My professor too wondered why my voice had waned to silence since the start of class, when I would participate regularly.

Why hadn’t I spoken more? Had I chose silence? Or had I fallen into comfortable shyness?

My amateur ideas of Feminism were rooted in a lack of exposure to the subject as a whole, especially its many implications and inclusions. Prior to this class the only exposure to Feminism was the occasional impassioned text post denouncing gender violence or slut shaming that would pop up on my Tumblr dashboard or article shared in my Facebook Newsfeed. My ideas of Feminism were not much more developed than the second-wave notion that women were fighting for equality in the home and the workplace. I’m now at a point where I’ve explained on several occasions the range of gender identities on the spectrum for my parents (they’re trying ardently to understand it, and I do appreciate their efforts), and have referred some of my friends to some of the readings that we did in class—I even influence a friend to consider taking the class. I’ve gleaned a more multi-faceted viewpoint of Feminism, and for that I am grateful that I took this class. As of right now I think I’m my way slowly but surely forming a picture of what my very own feminism looks like. I’ve got time, right?  

             What does a painting look like? That depends, here are many different way to look at the same painting and each person that views it will see it in a new way. However, the viewer is not the only factor that can be changed to alter the way a painting looks. The environment in which it is displayed is also a very important factor in what the painting looks like even though it is not an inherent trait of the painting. This applies not only to art, but to everything in the world. The way in which something is presented is a key factor in determining how that thing is perceived and understood.

            When thinking of critical and deep play, I always come back to the mosaics created by Isaiah Zagar, and the playfully creative impact they have had on the world. They redefined mosaics, and have fabricated one of the most creative outlets of street art. All along South Street his mosaics glimmer in the sunlight, illuminating the numerous fragmented mirrors, reflecting light all around. Words written forwards, sideways, backwards, with many of them relaying powerful messages. The art that Zagar has dedicated his life to is as playful to the onlooker as it is to the creator.

            Although I cannot make assumptions on Zagar’s experiences in creating the mosaics, I would hope that through the years of his creations he has had moments of deep play. Explained by Diane Ackerman, “In rare moments of deep play, we can lay aside our sense of self, shed time's continuum, ignore pain, and sit quietly in the absolute present, watching the world's ordinary miracles.” When looking at some of the mosaics that Zagar has created, his passion and playfulness is unmistakable, and allows the viewer to have the same playful and deep experience when viewing his life’s work.

In The Book of Salt, Monique Truong uses both the structure of the novel and the use of food, salt in particular, to look at the identity of both her characters and her art form. Through The Book of Salt, she facilitates approachability, highlights intersectional identities, and, inevitably, critiques the very accuracy of reproduced images, including that of her own work.