Sociology

"It was the first day of the fall semester several years ago. I had just finished making the final adjustments to an earlier edition of this book, which was due to be published the following January. I felt pretty good about myself, as if I'd just accomplished something monumental. Let's face it: being able to call yourself an author is pretty cool. Even my two sons, who were school-age at the time, were impressed with me (although not as impressed as the time we went to a professional hockey game and I leaped out of my seat to catch an errant, speeding puck barehanded). I walked confidently into the first meeting of my Introduction to Sociology class eager to start teaching wide-eyed, first-year students a thing or two about sociology. In my opening comments to the class that day, I self-importantly mentioned that I had just written this book. The panicked look in students' eyes-a curious combination of awe and fear-calmed when I told them I wouldn't be requiring them to read it that semester. I mentioned that the process of writing an introductory text helped me immensely in preparing for the course and that I looked forward to passing on to them the knowledge I had accumulated. The next day after class, one of the students-a bright-eyed, freshly scrubbed first-year student-approached me. The ensuing conversation left a humbling impression that lasts to this day: Student: Hi. Umm. Professor Newman . . . I texted my parents last night to, like, tell them how my first day in college went. I think they were, like, more nervous than I was. You know how parents can be. Me: Yes, I sure do. I'm a parent myself, you know. Student: Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I was telling them about my classes and my professors and stuff. I told them about this class and how I thought it would be pretty cool. I told them you had written a book. I thought that would impress them, you know, make it seem like they were getting their money's worth and everything. Me: Well, thanks. Student: So, they go, "What's the book about?" [He laughs sheepishly.] I told them I really didn't know, but I'd find out. So, like, that's what I'm doing . . . finding out. Me: Well, I'm glad you asked. You see, it's an introductory sociology textbook that uses everyday experiences and phenomena as a way of understanding important sociological theories and ideas. In it I've attempted to . . . Student: [His eyes, which were already glazed over with boredom, suddenly jumped back to life.] Wait, did you say it was a textbook? Me: Why, yes. You see, the purpose of the book is to provide the reader with a thorough and useful introduction to the sociological perspective. I want to convey . . . Student: [Quite embarrassed now] Oh . . . Professor Newman, I'm really sorry. I misunderstood you. I thought you had written a real book. Real book. Real book. Real book. Those words rang in my head like some relentless church bell. At first, I tried to dismiss this comment as the remark of a naive kid who didn't know any better. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized what his comment reflected. The perception that textbooks aren't real books is widespread. A couple of years ago, I heard a radio ad for a local Red Cross book drive. The narrator asked listeners to donate any unused or unwanted books as long as they weren't textbooks. Yep, that's what he said. A torn copy of The Cat in the Hat? Fine, they'll take it. A grease-stained owner's manual for a Ford Fusion? Sure, glad to have it. A guidebook on how to use Windows 98? What a lovely addition to the collection. Textbooks? No way! Sadly, these sorts of perceptions of textbooks are not altogether undeserved. They hover on the margins of the literary world, somewhere between respectable, intellectual monographs on trailblazing research and trashy romance novels. Traditionally, they've been less than titillating: thick, heavy, expensive, and easily discarded for a measly five bucks at the end-of-semester "book buyback.".