BY EVAN ROTHMAN
The darndest things have been happening to me lately. One evening last week, for example, I turned on the television to watch “Jeopardy” as I ate dinner. By sheer coincidence, it was perfectly timed for me to hear Alex Trebek read the following clue, under the category “Read Between the Lines”: “This repetitious task is the bane of many an AP student’s existence” (“What is textbook outlining?”).
Then, over the weekend I was in Manhattan, on the 1 train riding uptown, and guess who was in the same subway car as me? Author of “American History: A Survey (12th Edition)”, the acclaimed Alan Brinkley – that he is beloved by high school students goes without saying.
In case you are unaware, “American History: A Survey (12th Edition)” is the textbook used by juniors who take Advanced Placement U.S. History, alternately referred to as AP American and, under extraordinary circumstances, purgatory. Brinkley’s book isn’t your standard fare, Picture Dictionary-esque Global text either. On average, illustrations and charts account for only one fifth of a page’s surface area in “American History” and the side margins are only about an inch wide. Here’s the kicker: One 25 or 30 page chapter must be outlined each week. Now, back to Mr. Brinkley…
The first indication of his identity appeared when I overheard two people in conversation about textbooks. Slowly, I connected the dots. I recalled my AP American teacher, Caroline Scudder, mentioning that Brinkley taught at Columbia University. One of the men I overheard was wearing a Columbia polo shirt. Also, we were on the 1 train, which makes stops at Columbia’s campus in Morningside Heights. This man was also old, wore glasses, and, in general, looked like the type of person you would expect to write a 939 page textbook. I wasn’t about to let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip through my fingers. I asked Brinkley if I could conduct an impromptu interview with him.
“You see, when McGraw-Hill asked me to write the textbook, I never meant to make it so long, or so dry. It just sort of happened that way,” Brinkley said. “That book was sort of like the hotel in The Shining – it’s all-consuming and all-controlling. After seeing how much pain and suffering I’ve caused amongst our young people, I wish I could have done more to prevent it from being written.”
“How has it affected your personal life?” I inquired.
“Oh, I don’t even want to get into that. It’s a touchy subject. My grandkids hate that book so much I’m barely on speaking terms with them. And because they’re angry, their parents are also angry; so I’ve managed to alienate two generations of my descendents,” Brinkley said. “And do you remember that African-American Columbia professor whose house was adorned with a noose a few years back? Well, what they failed to mention is that charred copies of “American History” appear on my doorstep weekly. What would that be? Age discrimination?”
I was planning to ask Brinkley if he thought high school students should outline the textbook, but I couldn’t bear another minute of his gloomy tale. I got off the train at 86th Street. Instead, I asked Scudder why we should outline.
“You need to outline because it teaches you how to break down complex texts so you can access them at a later time,” Scudder said. “It’s an important skill to learn in high school, because in college you’re going to be reading three 200-page texts at one time and unless you outline, you won’t be able to keep one straight from another.”
Before talking to Scudder I was blindly opposed to any rationale for outlining. My only thought was, “Wow. This is awful. What redemptive value does outlining have?” Now, I honestly believe there is some value, other than students’ misery, for outlining. It’s not something you or I want to learn on the fly in college. Besides, the fruit of our misery will be borne in May.
It’s too bad my motivation to outline is as feigned as my conversation with Mr. Brinkley.
