Out of the Classroom and into the Canyons: An American Indian Travel Course in Theory and Practice

The Problem of the Classroom

At the beginning of my American and American Indian literature courses, I ask students to look at the room we are sitting in: "Imagine that you're anthropologists from Mars. What cultural assumptions about the world in general and about education in particular can you find here?" At first they are not sure what I am talking about, since finding assumptions in architecture is usually new to them, but as they catch on, they begin to see that most of what they have experienced as education is built into the room. The shape and arrangement of the room say that knowledge is something the teacher possesses and they will receive. If they want to see another student who has something to say, they have to fight against the linear, rectangular layout. The desks say that bodies do not count—education is purely intellectual, and we have to be more or less immobilized to participate. The gray, unadorned walls and the windows (always at the back of the rooms I teach in) say that learning is serious (and probably boring) and can take place only in the absence of "distractions" such as varied colors and natural phenomena—grass, trees, sky. Learning is divorced from place—what we are doing could be done equally well if we were in a similar space a thousand miles away—and, of course, similar discussions are going on in similarly disconnected spaces even as we speak.

I point out to students that the average classroom full of Americans has a comfort range of approximately four degrees Fahrenheit: if the temperature is below seventy-two, some students will be shivering and reaching for sweaters; if it is above seventy-six, some will begin fanning themselves. The presence of the heating and cooling unit affirms that this is the way things should be, even if the unit seldom works well in practice. If we are comfortable with the temperature, we can forget about bodies and be minds—the "thinkers" that Descartes told us we are.

Above all, the room shows that we are a rectangle-making people. The room and virtually everything in it (except for the people) are rectangular. Concrete blocks, blackboards, books, paper, maps, desks, seating charts, calendars, the ubiquitous cell phones—everything proclaims that the rectangle, with its "right" angles is the "correct" shape, and if something is not right, we will rectify it. The word "right," and the root "rect" originally come from Indo-European riht, meaning "straight," and "rich" comes from the same root. Our assumptions are obvious here: straight, right, correct, erect, rich—these define what we value.

Going outside does not change things much. If we examine the Euroamerican approach to land we see that the rectangle-making propensity governs our view of what is around us. We map land using latitude and longitude, imposing rectangles on an earth whose sphericity we are proud of having discovered. We divide areas of land into square sections, and then we arrange rectangular buildings into blocks. So the classroom is a microcosm of a created world filled with cultural assumptions about what is right and what needs to be corrected. Since the rectangle is extremely rare in nature, our maps, cities, and buildings (not to mention our calendars, paintings, books, etc.) proclaim our assumption that we need to impose our own particular order on a world that in our view is disorderly on its own terms.

Bringing American Indian literature into such a space creates tensions that are obvious but often inconvenient to acknowledge. The web of creation made by Spider Woman in Pueblo cultures is far removed from the linear and closed space of the classroom, which proclaims its disconnection from the world around. Though Pueblo and Hopi dwelling spaces are rectangular because of the materials and environment, the kivas, or sacred spaces, are often round. More important, the view of the world is one of cycles, of receiving and giving in a circular relationship, a relationship not with "nature...