Bill Clouse

Imperfection is Good for Utopias

     How utopian narratives typically address characterization is often done from a flat, undeveloped character that lacks agency. Usually utopian narratives employ a traveler who merely observes and reports. There is no subjectivity in the language, hence the language loses its humanistic quality; or the narrative may utilize an investigative method by which through a series of Socratic-style dialogue, readers can derive the narrative’s story; however, this again divorces the reader from the story, as the dialogue-dominant technique tends to render an undeveloped character as well. Dramatic monologue or emotional exchange—features typical of another dialogue-dependent genre, the Drama—do not exist in the utopian narrative; for what exists in Drama and not in utopian narrative is the complexity found within the character. In utopian narratives, the complexity is found in the utopian world, and readers, if they desire any cathartic experience at all, must relent to analyzing and understanding that world.

This gives me pause. To experience catharsis, readers must look into the world? Why, that should give all utopian narratives the vindication they deserve, after having spent the last four or five decades in dystopia’s shadow. Yet readers prefer the cold rain to the warm sun, because they are not reading about a world described by a character, they would rather read about a world experienced by a character. For this reason, it is extremely difficult for the reader to find a nice balance between entertainment and education. Though humans are animals, we do not behave like animals; arguably, we behave like humans. The moment humans experienced the euphoric sensation of instant gratification marked the moment we stopped surviving and started living. We no longer relied on collective effort to maintain our own species; we learned that we could live on our own, by our own standards. It seemed more fun that way. We became individuals, and we liked it.

The dystopian texts studied during the latter half of the course qualifies as works of literary fiction, chiefly because of character development. All three novels, written in their own way have in common, characters that show a level of complexity by which audiences can identify. The Dispossessed uses its structure as a way of framing the parallel that occurs between Shevek’s understanding of both worlds with the novel’s thematic message about utopias. The complexity of Shevek begins in a stock manner, but like great complex characters, he shows the flaws that readers may detest, but can certainly comprehend because of the sheltered life in which he once lived. Most appealing is the framing of Le Guin’s novel, in that the alternating between flashbacks and present setting—both of which show Shevek’s internal struggle—parallel the opposing dichotomy of both worlds and how that parallels a universal subject: humanity is flawed (naturally) which proves why utopia—the no place—cannot exist.

The propensity to include conflict set Atwood’s novels apart from the other texts we read during the second half of the semester, and the reason for such exclusivity, according to Dr. Craig White, is simple:

 “We like conflict, which is why we like dystopias” (lecture 4 April 2019).

What a fascinating response, the collection of those words—nine of them in total—anchored securely together with a single comma, the comma giving the sentence its balance, its cadence, establishing its complex definition with a simple separation of two clauses. The comma splitting and defining the chiasmus, gives the sentence its lyric. The poetic sentence ironically blends its use of simple diction with its use of complex structure. How fitting for Dr. White to utter such statement during a discussion about Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, a dystopian text written in poetic prose, which distinguishes her novel far above the stock characters of the science fiction tale, elevating her to a level of prestige comparable to literary trailblazers of the past like Steinbeck and Faulkner, and with present-day contemporary greats like Tim O’Brien and Cormac McCarthy. Unlike The Dispossessed, Atwood’s description of The Republic of Gilead, of her characterization of Offred, involves using a unique blending of various sentences styles aesthetically appealing to the reader. Like the complexity of Atwood’s form, Offred herself is a complex character and through the novel’s first-person point of view, readers find themselves just as resigned and defiant as Offred. This conflict not only drives Atwood’s tale, it also draws readers into experiencing Offred’s world, where primitive misogyny defines a culture.

Oryx and Crake also embodies complex characteristics that places it as a work of fiction well-deserved of having it placed within the literary fiction category, while also maintaining the conventions of the dystopian narrative; and like The Handmaid’s Tale, the most rewarding aspect of Oryx and Crake involves Atwood’s ability to craft such a complex character—an antihero, to be more specific—found in Jimmy. Readers making their way through the apocalyptic world that Jimmy inhabits alone, take delight in knowing that Jimmy suffers the same misery as any one of us would suffer if placed in the same scenario alone. His flaws are realistic: he describes the annoyance of battling an incessant barrage of mosquitos, while also suffering the pangs of sexual deprivation. The Children of Crake revere him as some kind of a mystic or prophet, yet we feel his annoyance and understand his avoidance of them. The Children of Crake barrage him with endless questions, pecking at his emotional psyche like those same mosquitos that pester him in the night. Again, we see that it is the complex character that makes the dystopian narrative more appealing to readers than would the utopian concept. However, should the utopian mode take some advice from its counterpart, one would see that the utopian narrative could work, that it could educate and entertain much like the dystopian narrative. What is encouraging for the utopian genre is that there are several utopian narratives that show some promise.

Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia initially delivers in a mode similar to Thomas More’s Utopia, a mode structured around the objective, journalistic reporting style reports of Will Weston; yet, what differentiates Callenbach’s style from More is his inclusion of Weston’s personal diary, adding an element of subjectivity that in turn, gives life to Will. When readers read Weston’s reports on Ecotopia’s infrastructure, they see Ecotopia through the neutral eyes of an investigative reporter looking for information to relay back home. One understands the neccessity in this, for that is the role of a journalist: to report, to inform, to educate. Thomas More accomplishes this in Utopia but stops short. He does not give life to his narrator, or even Raphael Hythloday for that matter, and leaves his readers to journey through a fictional world alone, all the while addressing a theoretical possibility of establishing a better world. If the utopian narrative presents a vision of what our society could be, a vision of an ideal world painted in the abstract, how can any of us truly embrace that very vision, without a reliable, trustworthy guide present to make that vision concrete? Without a reliable character present to share with us his feelings of ambivalence, we wander aimlessly alone through a speculative world, quietly addressing our own skepticism.

Then comes along a character like Will Weston, a flawed character who proves that the utopian narrative can both educate and entertain at the same level as a dystopian text. Callenbach follows the typical “observe, question, and report” model like More, but includes the diary entries that divert from the informative tone of Weston’s reports and into the reflective, self-examination by which readers can identify. In Weston’s reports, we see a utopian world and we critically think about it; in Winston’s diaries, we see a human being and we emotionally empathize with him. We sense his objectivity shift away from the impartial observer there to challenge claims made by and against Ecotopians, but then we experience that same impartial observer wrestling with his own feelings of self-doubt, questioning his own journalistic integrity, realizing that “[his] own attitudes towards [Ecotopia] have changed,” concerned that he no longer “has an attitude to write from any more,” and fearful of “losing [his] objectivity” (Callenbach 94-5).

Thoughts like these transcend mere skepticism that comes with reporting about a utopian world, and readers, no longer engaged in that world, now focus their attention on a man trying to understand himself while in a utopian world. We watch how he wanders aimlessly alone through a speculative world, quietly addressing his own skepticism, and realizing his own “existence seems pathetically insecure” (127). Weston’s dynamic change makes him complex, which makes him identifiable. His inner conflict awards him the agency he needs to carry the story forward and to keep us entertained.

Utopia and Pedagogy

I never fully bought into the whole concept of a utopia, and as a theory or maybe even as a social philosophy, the truth about man as I understand and believe, makes it impossible for the utopian concept to ever come to fruition. I side with the argument that the prefix for “utopia” derived from the Greek root ou because More’s Utopia and its conclusion strongly supports that the term “utopia” translates into the English language of “no place,” and so long as man exists in this world, the term “utopia” will always be non-existent. But that does not mean that we should abstain from reading and teaching some really great stories?

I enjoyed reading the posts submitted by my colleagues; I enjoyed exploring their thoughts, their arguments, and their findings, especially the ones that addressed the utopian narrative’s practical use. Because I teach a grade level that has in its curriculum reading-list the titles of 3 dystopian classics, two of which we read each year (alternating the third title every two years), I am humbled and will admit to the same wonder echoed by many of my peers: Why aren’t we reading utopian narratives in our schools? When I first encountered that question, I must admit I dismissed it almost right away because I already knew the answer. Aside from Utopia, I could not think of any other titles. My knowledge of the utopian narrative was limited to film and Star Trek. Now, as I end this semester with an understanding of the genre, and with a few titles now known, I have no excuse for not at least considering the idea of teaching the utopian narrative in my classroom.

     As discussed in my first essay, character development is important in establishing a story that will hold the attention of the reluctant reader, and one of the best ways of introducing any type of “text” is through film. After rereading Jesus Garcia’s midterm, where he discusses in his first essay, “Dystopian Society: A Film Director’s Treasure,” the marketable value of the dystopian narrative as presented in cinema. But what Garcia also does, whether intentional or not, is provide current and future educators a brilliant idea as to how a teacher can effectively discuss the conventions of both the utopian and dystopian narrative. And by “effective,” I mean engaging the minds and holding the attention of today’s tech-driven, LCD-oriented young audience. Garcia discusses the “qualities required to entertain” audiences viewing or reading utopian genre, and he concludes that a “person can relate to the characters in dystopian literature” because those characters have “humanistic qualities [relatable] to readers.” What occurs to me is how easy it would be to have a lesson in which we compare and contrast the conventions of both forms of narrative presented through film. To see a visual presentation of how the motif of “walls” align with the conventions of the dystopian narrative, help students recognize that motif when presented in future texts.

     Lori Wheeler’s 2015 final essay, “Oh the Places I’ll Go,” uses a more conventional approach to the use of the utopian narrative in a public classroom. She self-identifies as a “middle-level teacher,” which I can only interpret that to mean middle school. Her idea of using YA dystopian literature as a scaffold text to “move students from young adult-themed texts to canonical texts” is a classic, widely accepted method of reaching reluctant readers, but also effective in creating the early stages of “lifelong readers.” Her reading ladder can serve as a classroom visual which could “show the connection between popular YA literature and the canon,” thus enabling students to experiment with different titles and extend their own knowledge of the utopian genre and the canon

     And finally, Umaymah Shahid’s essay, “Teaching About an Almost Perfect Society,” discusses the value of understanding “the background of the narrative to make it more relatable.” Having taken a more historical context approach, Shahid seeks to teach the utopian genre in a way it was meant to be taught—by exploring the ideas both explicit and implicit in the texts, an approach suitable for older, more mature students. The value of understanding the historical context of a literary work does not just help to make understanding more attainable, but it also helps promote critical thinking, and in his case, synthesizing the meaning of a given text. By exploring a utopian narrative, then discussing its significance in terms of its ideas, Shahid can then show how the conventions of the utopian genre present themselves today outside the classroom. He shows how a text’s abstract meaning can ultimately blossom into a concrete reality, when he suggests “showing examples of real utopian societies,” then discusses the reasons for why a historical community did or did not work, and eventually understanding the “cause of their success or failure.”

     Admittedly, I am still a little skeptical of applying utopian narratives in the classroom, simply because of the limitations imposed on the public-school teacher. But I am also strangely optimistic because I can foresee where certain changes in education, and in my case the slow change in defining the required 4^th year English, how those changes would actually improve high school students’ overall attitude towards English. Because, if there is one thing I know for certain, having taught high school students for almost fifteen years now, is that students in an academic setting are more likely to respond to a text, to engage with that text, if they take ownership of that text. In other words, teachers who force a text onto their students are likely to lose them. Students like choices. Give them one every now and then.

Utopia for Homework

A recurring question lingers. Students of the Utopian Genre seminar, both graduates and undergraduates, both past and present, know of and, judging by the essays submitted on the course webpage, have addressed this question. Where does the utopian genre fit in education?

Going back to the web postings, it appears that many students who took this seminar have in some manner addressed this very question. For the most part, they discuss the utopian narrative’s applicability in today’s American schools, ranging from its use as a scaffold text that bridges the gap between young adult literature and the canons (Wheeler), to exposing students to the “treasures found in utopian literature…before taking it in college” (Shahid). As a person who appreciates the fundamental value of literature, a value I strive to instill in my own students, I agree that the utopian novel—especially since secondary school curricula emphasize the dystopian narrative (a point I intend to address later)—should have its rightful place atop the veneered desks checkered all around the classroom. It should exist as a counter to the dismal dystopian world of Oceania or District 12. It should have one of its titles—a representative perhaps—listed among the other titles found in school districts approved-content reading lists. The utopian novel should exist, but it does not exist; and it has nothing to do with the dryness of the read (Shahib)—Swift’s A Modest Proposal frequents unit studies often, and his proposal is by no means modest, nor is it plain-spoken. The utopian novel’s lack of existence has nothing to do with any fear of indoctrinating socialist ideology—John Steinbeck himself was a socialist and there does not appear to be any schools looking to purge their libraries or textbook rooms of all copies of The Grapes of Wrath. Frankly, the utopian novel’s absence from American curricula has more to do with an overall appeal for the novel’s dystopian brother, and less to do with its zeal for the ideal world.

Nevertheless, what ultimately determines a utopian novel’s debut appearance in public-school curriculum boils down to administrative red tape. Unfortunately, choosing at will what texts one wants to teach to a classroom of minors—the most vital point to consider when working in a litigious environment—is never easy (though it is not impossible either). The public-school system does not afford the English teacher the same degree of liberty afforded (presumably) to university professors.^[1] Standardize testing and AYP ratings govern the way schools create their curriculum, and though teachers have the prerogative to expand beyond the curriculum, the hyper-amount of state-mandated “essential skills” that students must meet, limit the classroom teacher’s ability to exercise that prerogative in a timely manner. One of my colleagues, after having learned that the State increased the amount of essential skills required for history courses, artfully compared her curriculum scope to “swimming a vast body of water six inches deep.” In addition, for well over a decade public-schools had adopted a particular trend in teaching, a trend that dissolved a teacher’s once-beloved total autonomy, obsolete. Known generically as cooperative teaching, all teachers commonly assigned to the same subject and level within a department teach as a community or “team,” and must plan as a team the material covered in a given unit. This could potentially stall a lone teacher’s attempt to incorporate a new text (assuming first that the text met approval)—which involves creating brand new lesson plans, conceiving and creating supplementary materials and assessments, and redesigning a carefully, even painstakingly planned calendar—into an already established curriculum. In envisioning the upcoming new school year, and the arduous long hours that accompany it, other team members may (sadly) balk at the thought of adding to an already overwhelming workload.

This rather cynical explanation of why utopian texts may prove unsuccessful as replacements to the assigned dystopian texts, deeply troubles me; however, as previously mentioned, introducing the utopian narrative to the public-school setting is not entirely impossible. As footnoted above, those who teach an Advance Placement program, either 11^th or 12^th, have much more autonomy in deciding how to structure the reading, than those who teach at the academic level; moreover, the enrollment of students in these courses make up a small percentage of the entire grade-level student body, so only one or two teachers typically cover those courses. True, teaching a course titled 12^th grade AP Literature obviously makes adding or supplementing utopian literature in a literature class much easier than other classes, yet after reading Gillman’s Herland, teachers of 11^th grade AP Language Arts can use the Socratic-dialogue featured as a way of examining rhetorical strategies, logical fallacies, and persuasive appeals. The elevated language featured in More’s Utopia offers educators an opportunity to examine rhetorical figures such as paradox and irony. Teachers assigned to the basic academic course benefit as well from including utopian narratives, and still manage to do so without needing the approval or consensus from his team. Excerpts from utopian literature, paired with a unit covering 1984, not only works to include the utopian narrative, but the pairing of both texts alone exemplifies what those in education call “good teaching practice.”

Working with a partner as opposed to working among a group of five or six teachers allows room for flexibility and compromise. Flexibility also applies to selecting texts for the course. For instance, over the past two years my partner and I completely revamped our high school’s AP Literature program so that it could, for example, now include The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which we resurrected from the cobwebs that lined along the corner edges of the old, Formica-topped shelves colored red, blue, and yellow. A controversial novel, to say the least, but the latitude granted to us made swapping political correctness for literary merit much easier. Even though Huckleberry Finn does not classify as utopian, the idea of customizing our own reading list makes incorporating a utopian narrative much more plausible. Another way utopian texts can succeed in future high school classrooms involve the future direction of secondary education. I can only speak for my district, for surely small districts may not have the logistical means to offer this alternative. Two years ago, my district started offering alternative courses that count as credit towards a student’s required 4^th year English class. No longer are all graduating seniors required to take the traditional “British Literature” survey course customary in nearly all high schools. Courses like journalism, creative writing, practical writing, and Dual Credit all count as credit for the 4^th year course. Another option featured in this list is titled “Literary Genres,” a course that does not only limit itself to the reading of different genres, it allows for showing their applicability in other areas like film, pop culture, and social and political arenas; the course practically mirrors our Utopian Seminar class. Already imagining the potential possibilities, a course like this could bring, I just recently made certain professional decisions that hopefully will maneuver me to a position where I can pilot the course for the whole district.

Addressing objective 5 awakened me to the realistic possibility of bringing the utopian narrative into part of American curricula, but that imagined reality must first contend with the present reality: the attitude towards approaching literature in education. The difficulty or even failure at replacing an assigned dystopian narrative with a utopian text has nothing to do with the idea of replacing an assigned dystopian text, but rather it has everything to do with replacing just an assigned text. The resigned disposition of exhausted teachers diminishes the enthusiasm needed to try something new, something fresh, something innovative, something risky. I am thankful that I am not one of those small handful of resigned teachers, though I am exhausted. Until the time comes when I can effectively integrate the utopian narrative, I am happy to continue with emphasizing the dystopian text, for it is rewarding to watch a group of under 18-year-olds, most of whom are non-English, non-literature majors, showing fervent interest in reading. And read they do.