Question: What does the phrase "big picture" mean to you?
Do all the details together make it?
Or is it larger than the sum of its parts?
I never liked history as a subject in school. I'm still not particularly fond of it, however I have recently come to the realization that it is not so much the topic I dislike, but rather the method in which it is frequently presented.
What is history? To the student, history is a burly assortment of scattered facts picked by a blindfolded professor right out of the timeline of human existence (as if he or she had a God-given right to do so), condensed and compressed into an ominous black thunder cloud until it is practically bursting at the seams, then coalesced into something known as a textbook (imagine that), on the cover of which is written either a wholly insufficient and indescriptive title (a la "American History") or one so remarkably conceited that, by the end of it, you feel like you've already read the textbook in its entirety and feel no more illuminated for it ("The Whole Entirety of American History: Revolution, Morality, Ethics, Religion, and Food, as Written by, Co-Authored by, Translated by, Spell-Checked by, Butchered by, and Ultimately Determined by Some French Guy Who Happened to Observe an American Tourist Strolling Casually Past his Flat One Thursday Afternoon on the Fifth of March"), which is how it is finally presented to the student in some kind of divine order (typically chronological) so as to, hopefully, teach a human lesson. After all, to get where we are going, we have to remember where we've been, right? (Do you remember where you stepped into this paragraph anymore?)
But what does all that really
mean in the grand scheme of things? The facts and dates are scrupulously taught to the sponge-like student who is expected to later duplicate them on paper in exacting detail, but how does that help anyone?
"You," the stern-looked professor said, singling out a student, "on what day and by whom was the first shot of the American Revolution fired?"
"April nineteenth, seventeen seventy five at the Battle of Lexington and Concord," the student dutifully regurgitates, "but it is unknown who actually fired it."
Well that's just fine and dandy but--and I really mean this--I don't care.
(gasp)
I know, I know, I'm sorry. No, wait, not really and, at the risk of offending every teacher who has ever presumed to teach me anything, I'll say it again: I don't care.
Try asking me about its effect on the lives of the people surrounding that event. Maybe ask me how it changed civilization, society, and our culture, for better or worse, and how causality has created an endless wave of consequences throughout the timeline, like the ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. If you're daring, you may ask me how I feel about what took place, how I can either justify it or condemn the actions and morality of the individuals involved. But most importantly, don't forget to ask me about the ideas, those bottled up with ever-increasing pressure in the minds of the people, which ultimately could not be contained and burst forth as the ignition source of radical action.
Show me the big picture, or show me the door.
Like it or not, Pixels for Thought.
As a literary device, I really dislike cosmic irony. It is an outdated form of expression and should have been relegated to sitcoms and poorly drawn comic strips eons ago. Yet, here we are in the twenty-first century and you can flip open the pages of anyone's life and spot innumerable instances of poorly executed cosmic irony in every chapter.
