In December I read Fahrenheit 451 with my ninth graders. If you haven’t read it, Bradbury’s novel tells the story of what happens to a society when people, for one reason or another, stop thinking critically. It happens in stages.
If the antihero, Captain Beatty, is to be trusted, people bring their problems on themselves. They get intimidated by complex ideas, and they stop doing the necessary work to understand what's going on. As a result, they stop reading, and stop thinking, and become consumed with nonsense.
If we consider Faber’s point of view, another character from the novel, we realize also that when ideas get reduced and oversimplified, when we are no longer surrounded by quality ideas, and the pace of life increases at the same time that our leisure time is reduced, these things also contribute to a society's deterioration. And, if we lose the right or ability to act on the things we learn, think, and believe, then we lose the impetus and ability to think at all— even if we want to. Our brain, like an underused muscle, loses its strength.
Fahrenheit 451, first published in 1953, offers a clear warning. We are meant to be put on guard so our own world doesn’t turn into a world like this, where people become disconnected from each other, and disconnected from nature and, as a result, less and less concerned about taking care of what’s around us—our friends, our loved ones, and the natural world that sustains us. We are supposed to see the consequences of a society in which no one thinks critically, and no one acts; we are supposed to see that such a society will cease to exist...
Right now, the wind is howling outside my windows, blowing leaves past horizontally, over newly exposed grass and mud. The next cold front is blowing in over the mountains, pushing out the weather system that caused rain here for the past 24 hours. The snow is nearly gone; yesterday the temperature was in the fifties. Today, the temperature is plummeting again, with wind chills below zero expected for tomorrow. The world is seizing up.
With my eleventh graders, I’ve just reread The Grapes of Wrath. If you haven’t read it, you should. A man made ecological catastrophe, people displaced from their homes, millions of people devastated by economic and environmental ruin. And among them, Steinbeck’s Joad Family.
“Literature has no practical function, but every day people die for lack of what is found there.”
-William Carlos William, paraphrased by Richard Bausch.
Here is why you should read The Grapes of Wrath: Tom Joad and Ma Joad. Rose of Sharon. Pa and Uncle John. Al and Ruthie and Winfield. You have to spend time with them to understand whom you’re dealing with; you have to make the drive from Oklahoma to the green California valleys to know their depth--so simple, on the surface, and yet so rich in character it’s easy to imagine they are real.
Last week, proctoring a study hall, I heard two girls talking over the noise of the printer in the next room. They were discussing the novel. “I’m in love with Tom Joad,” one told the other. “I’m in love with Ma!” came the quick reply. And I agree with both of you, I thought, smiling.
It’s hard to know what happens to the Joads after you fall in love with them. I’ve spent days talking with kids about whether Steinbeck meant for his novel to be hopeless or hopeful. At some level, I think the answer is both, and I tend to lean toward happy endings generally, but that’s beside the point. What you do know, undeniably, when you make it to the end, is that nature is not forgiving and that humans have an unnerving capacity both for selfishness and for selflessness. And if Steinbeck is to be trusted, it is profoundly clear that no one is going to make it in this life alone.
Another night last week, here on campus, I watched Beasts of the Southern Wild. I set it up for students to see, but only two kids showed up, and only one lasted to the end. When it was over, she and I were the only ones there, and we struggled to talk about what we had just experienced--neither of us yet sure what to say, both of us sort of stunned by the images and speechless about some of the themes.
The next morning, serving breakfast, I saw her again. We both agreed we liked it more, as the swirling images had begun to coalesce. One image, in particular, made the whole film worth it for me: tiny Hushpuppy in the arms of someone we assume to be her mother, all limp limbs and heavy head on the shoulder, surrendered to the safety of the embrace.
I’ve been at work, in some form or another--teaching, running dish crews, supervising dorms, holding parent-teacher conferences, announcing results at ski races--for some part of every single day this month. “Mom’s working” is Quinn’s latest phrase. Saturday will be my first day off in 32. I'm going to wake up and not run out the door. Quinn and I are going to "do baking" and make "pancake balls." 
Then we're packing up our peanut butter crackers and we’re going on a “benchure.” We’re driving south so she can see her Nonna and Poppa, and I can see my sister and my nephews. We’re probably going to spend some time making tea.
And every time she says, “Mama, want a kiss?” I’m going to say yes (but that's probably stating the obvious). And hopefully, sometime soon after we get back home to Vermont, the world will feel right again.
