My first concert ever was Something Corporate and Straylight Run at Sokol Underground in Omaha. It was an amazing show; Straylight has been one of my favorite bands ever since I first saw their video for "Existentialism on Prom Night" and I hope to see them again in seven short days.
Concerts are interesting. There is such a sense of community in the crowd at a show, especially at Sokol. People crowd-surf and dance together, and belt out the words along with their favorite musicians, and help you up if you happen to fall in the mosh. But that connection is ephemeral. As soon as you walk out the door, you see your fellow-concert goers in a different context; soon the community you had shifts, distorts, or dies. Everyone I was with at that concert has gone their separate ways. The nameless yellow-shirt boy who ended up dancing with me in the crowd drove back to his hometown. I recently got into a spat with the best friend who had invited me. The two other friends who came along are still back in our hometown, we’ve taken different paths. Who knows where the hundreds of other nameless faces that were at the show that night are now.
There is so much going on and so many different characters in this video. Some have close ups, some are main focuses, some just cameos. There is the couple arguing in sign language while a young ballerina dances in the aisle, punks painting their nails and braiding their hair, men text messaging, and girls gazing out windows. They are all so caught up in their own situations, their own stories. While being immersed in their personal problems, they may be missing the fleeting sense of community that their shared journey has created. We never see where the crowd has come from or where they are going just that they were in the same journey together, doing the same dance of life.
On the first day of our English 001 class, we were informed that all of our writing assignments would be posted in a digital format. We would become bloggers. Over the next few weeks we learned about incorporating pictures, hyperlinks, and videos into our posts, but why? Why do we choose to incorporate those said devices, other than the fact that the Internet allows us to and we simply can? These multimedia devices enhance our writing, providing readers with a deeper experience of the subject matter. The task of taking our writing digital was an intimidating but not totally foreign concept. The responsibility of appropriately using these multimedia elements as enhancements to our ideas, however, is a bit more difficult to manage.
In her audio essay, Stephanie Thibault explains what the “vanishing sound of chalk clicking on a chalkboard” means to her. While discussing a particular, almost antiquated noise that is rarely heard in our own classroom, Thibault does acknowledge an idea that is critical to our class: the successful use of different media in the presentation of ideas. Thibault uses the rhetorical strategies of narration and example to generate strong pathos within her audience, solidifying her argument: the sound of chalk on a chalkboard enhances education. This same argument can be applied to our class and our newfound writing techniques: information is more potent when it is presented across media or in multifaceted ways.
Thibault’s brief essay is part of an NPR series, SoundClips: Audio Experiences, in which listeners submit sounds that “fascinate” them. The essays are narrative in structure: the listener explains what the sound is, perhaps how they first encountered the sound and the impact it has had on their life. But, not only is the listener submitting a sound and explanation of that sound, they are reading that explanation themselves. Thibault introduces herself, introduces the sound of chalk on a chalkboard, and then provides anecdotes that show the role of chalkboards (or lack thereof) in her life. Would Thibault’s stories and thoughts have the same sense of credibility if read from a sheet by a normal NPR coorespondent? The process of Thibault telling her own story creates ethos for her audience, making them more perceptive to her argument and the pathos she later tries to establish.
Thibault also readily employs the rhetorical strategy of example to build her argument of education’s need for chalkboards. Within her narrative, Thibault provides anecdotal examples of hearing the squeaks on a dry-erase board, and wincing at the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. These examples acknowledge the opposition to Thibault’s argument; dry-erase boards are modern, cutting-edge, as are the keyboards and mice that have followed. Who wants to hear the horrible screech of chalk held at the wrong angle or fingernails dragged across slate when the somber taps and clicks are an alternative? However, Thibault also mentions the removal of chalkboards from her school and the experience of visiting newer schools without chalkboards. The recognition of the absence of chalkboards becomes a more convincing argument for them than does an approach such as a laundry-listing of the chalkboard’s attributes.
But, it’s the inclusion of the actual audio example of chalk on a chalkboard that makes Thibault’s verbal essay stand out, becoming much more convincing and literally appealing to the listener. As stated earlier, Thibault introduces herself and her topic—but then the sound of the chalk interjects. Every few seconds, Thibault resumes with her anecdotes and opinions, and then the chalk continues, almost as Thibault is lecturing to the listener and writing down a summary of her ideas on the chalkboard between points.
Thibault argues that the sound of chalk on the chalkboard creates a closer relationship between student and instructor because of the “audio part of the learning” process. The inclusion of both the spoken-word and chalk audio in her essay creates the same closeness between Thibault and her listeners. While creating a prime example of Thibault’s argument, the chalk also allows the listener to make their own connections between the sound and their memories. Because the audience has established this emotional connection with Thibault’s examples, they are now more prepared to receive the message she is vocalizing, thus strengthening the already vivid example-driven argument Thibault has built with her words.
It is interesting to note that in her essay, Thibault seems to call against the modern advances of dry-erase boards and—it can be implied—computers in the classroom, but that the essay is now posted in a digital format. Although some could say that this conflicts with Thibault’s main points, it only does so at a surface level. While it is true Thibault is arguing for chalkboards, she truly is calling for information to be presented across media or in multifaceted ways. The nostalgic spin on her argument—that she prefers the chalkboards over more modern advances—is not in itself an argument for antiquated teaching methods. This nostalgia can be reiterated in the fact that the NPR piece is now a part of mass archives. Technology is not the opposition; it can be a tool in the examination of the past. Listeners are now able to call up this article from months prior to listen to it any time they wish.
Thibault’s argument for the multimedia presentation of information can be directly related to the purpose of our class. The additions of multimedia elements add soul to an argument. A carefully chosen image, video, or sound can evoke emotions and thoughts out of an audience that the most eloquent words could never accomplish. The methods of posting online and adding hyperlinks make things like time and place irrelevant to the writing at hand. Blogs can be accessed anytime, anywhere; hyperlinks to external sites can make the most foreign, complicated, or ancient ideas sparkle. Posting online allows us as writers to incorporate arguments into our work that pen and paper do not; videos, images, sounds provide moving points that create an entirely different kind of argument and impression than do words. These different forces at work create within in a piece make for a stronger message overall, just as a lesson incorporating work on the chalkboard may leave more of an impression than a simple lecture—where the chalkboard started with its click-clack-click, we bloggers continue.
Concerts are interesting. There is such a sense of community in the crowd at a show, especially at Sokol. People crowd-surf and dance together, and belt out the words along with their favorite musicians, and help you up if you happen to fall in the mosh. But that connection is ephemeral. As soon as you walk out the door, you see your fellow-concert goers in a different context; soon the community you had shifts, distorts, or dies. Everyone I was with at that concert has gone their separate ways. The nameless yellow-shirt boy who ended up dancing with me in the crowd drove back to his hometown. I recently got into a spat with the best friend who had invited me. The two other friends who came along are still back in our hometown, we’ve taken different paths. Who knows where the hundreds of other nameless faces that were at the show that night are now.
