Four benefits of writing by hand

    Today is National Handwriting Day! Although we don't write like we used to, here are four ways handwriting is still helpful.

    It's better for learning.

    {#blank#}1{#/blank#} That's because putting ink to paper stimulates (刺激) the brain. One study from 2010 found that the brain areas related to learning “lit up” much more when kids were asked to write words like “spaceship” by hand versus just studying the word closely.

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    Many famous authors prefer writing by hand to the use of a typewriter or computer. Writer Susan Sontag once said that she penned her first drafts (草稿) before typing them up for editing later. She said, “{#blank#}3{#/blank#}” A 2009 study seems to support Sontag's preference for writing by hand: Elementary school students who wrote essays with a pen not only wrote more than their keyboard-tapping friends, but they also wrote faster and in more complete sentences.

    It will prevent you from being distracted (分心).

    The computer in front of you is really a distraction. {#blank#}4{#/blank#} In 2012, scientists even suggested that taking five-minute breaks to browse Tumblr or BuzzFeed could make you a more productive worker. However, when it's time to work on that essay, have only a pen and paper in front of you.

    It keeps your brain sharp as you get older.

    {#blank#}5{#/blank#} According to The Wall Street Journal, some physicians say that the act of writing is good exercise for those who want to keep their minds sharp as they age.

A. It makes you a better writer.

B. Writing is good for your brain.

C. Of course, the Internet isn't all bad.

D. I like the slowness of writing by hand.

E. Try writing by hand at least 20 minutes each day.

F. Many writers have a preference for writing by hand.

G. One of the most effective ways to study is to rewrite your notes by hand.

    I think it was October, 1982. A friend had business dealings in the city of Reno, Nevada, and I was asked to accompany her on an overnight trip. While she conducted her business, I was aimlessly wandering down

    Virginia Street，heading into a most gloriously beautiful sunset. I had a strong wish to speak to someone on the street to share that beauty, but I couldn't make eye contact with anyone. Quickly I went into a department store and asked the lady behind the counter if she could come outside for just a minute. She looked at me as

though I were from some other planet and said, “Well…” Surprisingly, she followed me out.

    When she got outside I said to her, “Just look at that sunset! Nobody out here was looking at it and I just had to share it with someone.”

    For a few seconds we just looked. Then I said, “God's in his heaven and all's right with the world.”

    I thanked her for coming out to see it and sharing the beauty.

    Four years later my situation had changed a lot. I had come to the end of a twenty-year marriage. I was alone and on my own for the first time in my life. One day, while my clothes were going around, I picked up aUnity Magazine and read an article about a woman who had been in similar situation. She had come to the end of a marriage, moved to a strange community, and the only job she could find was one she disliked: cosmetic sales in a department store. We had a lot in common.

    Then something happened to her that changed everything. She said a woman came into her department store and asked her to step outside to look at a sunset. The stranger had said, “God's in his heaven and all's right with the world.”, and she had realized the truth in that sentence and that she simply had not been seeing it. From that moment on, she turned her life around.  

    About 15 years ago, I taught A Problem from Hell, a book on genocides (大屠杀), to a group of 18- and 19-year-olds in a mid-west university in the US. In my class there was a young man who had spent his boyhood in Bosnia as NATO bombed his hometown. My other students, amazed by his connection to the genocide in the textbook, asked him what it was like to grow up in a war-zone. "A pretty normal childhood as you had here," he said. "We played cards inside a lot, and when there was no bombing we kicked a ball in the street."

    In the past few years, the world has seen a rapid increase in refugees (难民), with the number hitting 60 million. Viet Thanh Nguyen's story collection The Refugees reminds us that literature is news that stays news. Set in the Vietnamese communities in California as well as in Vietnam, the stories do not aim to surprise us with new twists or shock us with wonderful details, as war and refugee stories could easily choose to do. Rather, like the young man from Bosnia, Nguyen's characters tell these stories because they are the only ones known to them.

    Included in the collection are two of the most touching pieces, both about siblings (兄弟或姊妹) separated by geography and history. In "Black-Eyed Women", the narrator (讲述人), a young Vietnamese woman, is visited by the ghost of her elder brother, who died young on the boat when the family took flight from the war. The tale of love and loss, violence and violation, may not be unfamiliar to the reader, but the determination of the brother's ghost (he has taken decades to swim across the Pacific to reach America) and the sister's abandoning herself to a half death make the story lasting.

    As an echo, the closing story, "Fatherland", explores a more complex situation between two siblings. The narrator, a young Vietnamese woman, meets her half-sister, visiting from the US for the first time. Adding to the tension is the fact that her father has named the narrator and her siblings after his first set of children. Two sisters, one American and one Vietnamese, yet named the same by the father – it may sound strange, but isn't it the fate many refugees have to face: a life left behind, that could have been theirs; and a life in an adopted country.

    The theme of doubleness –  choice and inevitability (不可避免性), home and homelessness, starting afresh and being stuck – is present not only in the stories of Vietnamese refugees, but also of those who have become refugees from their own homes and loved ones. "Smiling at your relatives never got you very far, but smiling at strangers and acquaintances sometimes did." So a pilot, who fought in the Vietnam war and is now revisiting the country for the first time, thinks while waving at the locals from a tour bus. He's distant from his daughter, just as a Mexican American in the collection is distant from his wife, or a young man from Hong Kong is distant from his father.

    The collection is full of refugees, whether from external or from a deeper, more internal conflict between even those who are closest to each other. With anger but not despair, with reconciliation (和解) but not unrealistic hope, and with genuine humour that is not used to insult anyone, Nguyen has breathed life into many unforgettable characters.

Teaching Poetry

    No poem should ever be discussed or "analyzed", until it has been read aloud by someone, teacher or student. Better still, perhaps, is the practice of reading it twice, once at the beginning of the discussion and once at the end, so the sound of the poem is the last thing one hears of it.

    All discussions of poetry are, in fact, preparations for reading it aloud, and the reading of the poem is, finally, the most telling "interpretation" of it, suggesting tone, rhythm, and meaning all at once. Hearing a poet read the work in his or her own voice, on records or on film, is obviously a special reward. But even those aids to teaching can not replace the student and teacher reading it or, best of all, reciting it.

    I have come to think, in fact, that time spent reading a poem aloud is much more important than "analyzing" it, if there isn't time for both. I think one of our goals as teachers of English is to have students love poetry. Poetry is "a criticism of life", and "a heightening of life". It is "an approach to the truth of feeling", and it "can save your life". It also deserves a place in the teaching of language and literature more central than it presently occupies.

    I am not saying that every English teacher must teach poetry. Those who don't like it should not be forced to communicate this to anyone else. But those who do teach poetry must keep in mind a few things about its essential nature, about its sound as well as its sense, and they must make room in the classroom for hearing poetry as well as thinking about it.