There's nothing in the bag,

When Jeremy was in pre-school, parents were asked to come into school and address students about what their professions. Rather than asking Nancy go to and explain cancer research, I was tapped to explain what it meant to be a philosopher.

It get worse, the kid whose father was a cop went first and be brought in a supply of toy badges. The folk-singing dad brought in guitar picks. So now, I had to explain what philosophy was to a class of five year olds, give presents and follow the cop and the folk-singer, both of whom have obvious appeal to the preschool set.

I started by wearing my academic robes. Since I got my degree from Boston University, my robes are scarlet and have little shields on them. Sure, this was one step short of going dressed up in a clown suit, but it worked.

Now, to explain conceptual analysis to an audience of people who can't read. I brought in a supply of paper lunch bags, and we chatted for a minute about what sorts of things can be in a bag. Everyone agreed that, unlike imaginary things, only real things could be in a bag. "What's in the bags?" I asked. "Nothing," they said. "Only something can be inside a paper bag, so nothing must be a real thing," I responded.

The cop's son raised his hand. "So you ask questions that don't mean anything and you get paid for this?"

One might find that comment discouraging but that insight is necessary for making the transformation from disciplined truth seeker to academic philosopher.

The other kids in the class probably came away from our little chat with the notion that college is a far stranger place then their parents and older siblings had let on.

After I left, the teachers had the kids make puppets out of the bags.