Titillation: to excite or arouse agreeably

I’m losing them, I’m losing them! This was my head-speak daily–actually hourly–as a teacher and professional development provider. Ever aware of my audience’s attentiveness–or most frequently, inattentiveness–I became a master of pacing, taking my audience on a veritable roller coaster ride of highs and lows, sustaining the highs until common sense and some degree of professionalism dictated that I’d ridden this course as long as I possibly could. And then, I would transition quickly into the real stuff of the day: what was to be learned.

Once in a college Introduction to Literature course, I had my students performing like trained dogs. I’d launch into a personal anecdote–humorous or dramatic–and their eager heads came up, their eyes salivating as they focused on me, their young adult bodies learning forward in their seats as an expectant hush came over the room. And then, when I’d milked the anecdote for all its metaphorical worth, I transitioned to imagery or conflict or whatever the literary content of the day was, and their heads went down. There was a palpable energy loss as students shuffled papers, unzipped backpacks, and tapped away on their not-too-conspicuous phones. And just like that, I’d lost them. Until the next anecdote, which brought their heads up and gifted me with a few more precious moments to make a point, albeit through a story.

Adult audiences were no different. In fact, their inattentiveness was more blatant, an in-your-face message that I was wasting their time. Some shopped or checked football scores online, their computers or phones covering the handouts I’d just given them. Some talked to their table mates, wholly oblivious to the fact that they were not using their “inside voices.” And some slept, their drool making rivulets down their chins and onto their necks.

One of my father’s former colleagues once remarked (pardon the irreverence) that his students “would not pay a dime to watch Jesus Christ tap dance naked.” Strong but sadly truthful words, indeed. And given the fact that I was neither savior nor tap dancer, I didn’t stand a chance.

Boring, they said (or BORING they texted). This is a boring subject, a boring book, a boring video clip, a boring article, a boring lesson. .  . We just aren’t interested; this doesn’t excite us. If I had a dollar for every time I heard these words, I’d be a wealthy woman today.

But of course, I wasn’t awarded a dollar for each time my audiences weren’t titillated. Instead, I suffered silently, mentally searching my teacher/presenter bag of tricks to find something, anything that might arouse a few minutes of honest-to-goodness eye contact. In truth, nothing I could do or say could ever compare with social media, texting, online gaming or shopping or–when technology failed–sidebar conversations. NOTHING. (If my students can voice their disdain in bolded caps, well so can I!)

I remember the concern when Sesame Street hit the airwaves with flashing numbers and letters, bright colors and music–all choreographed to keep pace with the most active preschooler. People feared that so much stimuli at such a pace might destroy, or at least damage, children’s attention spans. They were skeptical as to whether kids could actually learn or would actually attend to such a television program. Well, history is in the books: kids did learn, and they did attend. But best of all, they were royally entertained by the likes of Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch.

For years, I became painfully aware that I was trying to replicate the Sesame Street strategy with bigger kids. An engaging anecdote here, a little school stuff there, a dramatic video clip here, a little more school stuff there, a quick analysis of last night’s volleyball game here, a little more school stuff there. You get the picture. Somehow, what worked with preschoolers didn’t quite translate to the secondary and post-secondary crowd. Nine times out of ten, I lost them in the school stuff. Sometimes, I lost them for good (at least for the class period), and other times, I lost them for precious minutes of instructional time that we could never get back. In either case, the Sesame Street strategy was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. I often found myself flailing my arms as if my frenetic actions could break my students’ inertia. I took to adopting different voices for different characters, and–in a particularly low moment–I actually retrieved the action figures from the back seat where my seven-year-old son had left them and used them in a reenactment of Macbeth, Act II. Titillating? More like mildly amusing, so they said.

In truth, I was not only losing battles, but I was losing the whole darn war. The audacity of someone like me who thought she could compete with memes, sound bites, Facebook posts, and texts that came in–and kept coming in–faster than I could say “Mark Twain.” The sheer gall of a teacher who clung passionately to the belief that one day the content itself–not my vain attempts to sell it–would hold students rapt for a blessed 45 minutes. But hope springs eternal. Doesn’t it?

Although I believe there is value in student and adult collaboration and understand that it elicits problem solving and critical thinking, at best, and prevents sleeping, at least, I am also painfully aware that teachers and presenters have to use it or risk utter loss. People expect it and loathe a teacher or presenter who is the “sage on the stage” who forces them to “sit and get”. They will tell you that there is nothing less exciting than listening. And listening for more than 20 minutes? That’s simply unacceptable and clearly inadvisable.

The insatiable demand for titillation has brought us to this regrettable state where wit trumps wisdom, and brevity topples complexity. And yet we send thinking people into classrooms and boardrooms and set them up to flounder as audiences turn up their noses, pull out their phones, and mentally check out. The best ones will turn inward, scourging themselves with doubt as penance for their inability to excite the masses.

I can offer no magic bullet here. Heaven knows, I’ve pulled out all the stops, tried everything I thought might possibly have a chance of garnering and holding attention. Still, at the end of my career, I was struggling more than I had as a beginning teacher. I had more tricks, more stamina, and more years of learning under my belt, but none of this offered any lasting solution. If I got a few good minutes, I came to realize–sadly–that this may be as good as it gets.

But I can’t help worrying about those who have come to expect titillation as standard fare. And I can’t help worrying even more about the rest of us who will be under these folks’ watch and care someday. I’d like to think that my future doctors will actually read, listen, and learn from colleagues whose wisdom and experience are invaluable –and not get their expertise from a YouTube video or two. And although I cringe every time President Trump tweets, I am painfully aware of the fact that he does so because many people will actually read up to 140 characters. But I hope that my future lawmakers will expand their horizons, turning from tweets to white papers, from sound bites to genuine debate. Above all, I hope that audiences who will listen and read attentively will reach critical mass, outnumbering those who have no time or stomach for this.

But who am I kidding? This would probably take a revolution of sorts. A whole lot of people would have to come together, throw down their proverbial gauntlets, link arms and proclaim, “We are here to educate, to inform, to challenge you to think. That’s it. So if you expect a dog and pony show, there’s the door. Use it.”

If I see this revolution in my lifetime, I will die a happier woman.