Thanksgiving, as an institution, is a little like Columbus Day in that it's hard to maintain a pure, naive respect for the holiday once you're enlightened to the fact that most of the American history you ingested as a child is a Eurocentric fiction. Once you learn that encounters between settlers and natives were pretty much always less "smiling cooperation between people with buckled and feathered headgear" and more "misunderstanding and massacre," you no longer feel like singing chipper songs about cornucopias and sailing the ocean blue.
But at least with Thanksgiving, there's still a reason to maintain and enjoy the traditions of the holiday, even if its origins are in a propagandist revision of historical truth. Setting aside a day for mostly uninterrupted time with family/loved ones in a spirit of charitableness is a worthwhile thing to do. Thanksgiving is an uncharacteristically egalitarian holiday. (Are you Jewish? Are you Hindu? Did you just immigrate here from Iceland? Whatever, come over this Thursday and eat turkey at 2 p.m.) It typically doesn't involve the same kind of commercialism or religious tensions that crop up at Christmas, or the sometimes uncomfortable jingoism of the Fourth of July. Thanksgiving is nice, is what I'm saying.
It's nice because "giving thanks" itself is an incorruptibly nice concept. Thanksgiving encourages you to comb through your life and consider all the nice things in it and all the ways in which it could be worse (and, in fact, is worse for lots and lots of other people). You feel grateful for what you have and, in the process, you also hopefully think a little harder about the fact that the world is overall an unjust place, and you go out the next day a little more aware of your own privileges as well as the injustices and tragedies potentially plaguing the lives of the people around you. You treat everyone with a little more kindness as a result.
(That's the idea, anyway, I'm guessing. Black Friday seems designed specifically to complicate the whole "going out the next day in a spirit of charity" thing.)
Central to this whole enterprise is the effort of bringing into consciousness the things you normally take for granted. You may normally not think about the fact that you get to eat every day, have access to clean water, and aren't in danger of being ethnically cleansed—now's the time to feel grateful! If you're a woman or part of a racial minority, you might usually take for granted that you have suffrage or the right to equal opportunity employment—today, you're thinking about your ancestors who worked to make that happen. Are you not dying of a now-treatable disease? Hooray for science and vaccines!
We set aside special times to do this (on Thanksgiving, but also in church, prayer, or meditative moments). Lots of religious teaching, for that matter, Christian and otherwise, is dedicated to helping you think of the big picture and feel grateful on a more consistent basis. Because our minds and bodies naturally resist the effort. We'd rather take things for granted. Day-to-day, we spend our lives trying to make the world the kind of place where we can take more and more stuff for granted, and really, it's a practice infused with its own kind of ethical nobility. Why should I have to be grateful for water? Everyone should have water. I have to say "thank you" for suffrage? Women never should have been denied suffrage in the first place! Isn't the whole point of human innovation and progress to make it so that I don't have to think about dying from tetanus?
It's a tricky line to walk. On the one hand, in order to be a properly empathetic and spiritually complete human, you must be aware of your own specific set of privileges and do what you can to help make things less unfair for those who don't yet have access to the same advantages. On the other hand, there's something beautiful in taking things for granted. My ability to feel unselfconscious and blasé about voting is kind of what my ancestors wanted.
So I guess what I'm most thankful for this Thanksgiving is the ability to take things for granted. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Monday, September 22, 2014
The ebb and flow in our veins
If my stomach were a person instead of a squishy organ, it would take the form of a cantankerous old man. It's irascible and fickle. It's full of prejudices. It reacts poorly when forced to encounter anything too flashy or spicy or unfamiliar. It will grumble loudly and without warning at the slightest provocation. I find myself frequently having to soothe and placate it with Tums.
Also, my stomach—like a paternalistic grandpa—thinks that it knows what's best for me, and it has a tendency to argue with me about how I should be feeling about things. Paranoid and inclined to excessive worry, my stomach makes for a poor ally in stressful situations.
This past Monday, for example, I took the most intense exam of my graduate career: a two-hour ordeal that involved a committee of professors questioning me on a list of a hundred-ish texts. As far as intellectual hurdles go, the major field exam is certainly not more difficult than writing a dissertation, but it's an intensely compact stress-delivery system. It's the only time that I'll be asked to recall so much, out loud and on command, in such a short period of time.
I'd been slowly and methodically preparing for this exam for over a year, but beginning about two weeks ago, I buckled down into severe study-hibernation mode. At that point, so close to the exam, my brain was satisfied that I was prepared, or at least that I was capable of getting prepared in the time remaining. I'd read all the books; I had a firm grasp of the things I wanted to talk about; I'd picked out my exam-day outfit. My brain, in other words, gave me every reason to feel calm and confident.
My stomach wasn't so sure. WHY AREN'T YOU MORE WORRIED?? it silently screamed. THIS IS A BIG DEAL. YOU SHOULD BE MORE ANXIOUS. IT'S IMPORTANT TO ME THAT YOU FEEL WORSE ABOUT THIS. Patronizingly sure that my brain was lying to me and my rational placidity was a sure sign of disaster and despair, my stomach inflicted me with surges of acid reflux and nausea. THERE, YOU SEE? I could feel it smugly concluding, THIS IS HOW YOU SHOULD REALLY BE FEELING.
My stomach has pulled this kind of trick before; it threw similar tantrums back when I was deciding between grad schools, when I moved out to Boston, during numerous final exam seasons. My brain reassured me, as it had in the past, that my stomach was overreacting. It implored me to ignore the acid and trust the logical evidence it was giving me, all of which suggested that I was ready.
Brain and gut continued to wrestle for dominance (Brain: You're fine! Stomach: NO YOU'RE NOT!) until the exam actually occurred. Luckily, in the exam room itself, all this internal meta-commentary went out the window and I simply flew forward as an integrated human prattling on about psychology and Modern British literature.
Now that I've passed my exam and received the Congratulations!s and I knew you could do it!s, it might feel natural to scoff at my stomach and assume that my brain was the one that really knew what was up all along. My curmudgeonly stomach makes much ado, it appears, about nothing.
Wouldn't it be better, I sometimes muse, if I could simply chuck out my stomach, my nerves? If my brain and I could hold hands and skip happily into the sunset, unencumbered by the strutting and fretting of my body?
It's a dangerous idea, and a bad one.
Forty-eight hours before my exam, I was informed of the unexpected death of a friend of mine from my grad program, an acquaintance I'd taken classes with, socialized with, chatted with on the bus. He was sweet, thoughtful, habitually self-deprecating, prone to saying extremely intelligent things and then kind of wincing from having spoken. Three days after my exam, I sat in a seminar room with six of my other grad-school companions, processing the loss with a school psychologist.
In that room, I became aware of that familiar struggle between brain and body. My mind was intellectualizing on full throttle, attempting to discern what my friends expected or needed from me, attempting to respond appropriately. The mental effort of it was so strong I wasn't conscious of having any particular emotion. Emotion was my body's problem. I felt my eyes and throat swelling and a dull ache in my stomach. My hands and legs would shake with startling and unpredictable severity. It's prompted me to reflect on how much knowledge is housed outside of my brain, to confront the limits of what it's capable of doing. I offload the worst of my stress, grief, and anxiety to other, more capable parts of my body; my mind admits only what it can handle.
My memories of Ben are housed not only in my brain, but in me. Recalling information can be a purely intellectual enterprise. But remembering a person is always a visceral experience, a feeling as well as a thought. You hear their voice, you see their face, you feel your body remembering how you smiled or rolled your eyes. I'm grateful to have had a part of his life as a part of mine.
"In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows. And why, if this—and much more than this is true—why are we yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most solid, the best known to us—why indeed? For the moment after we know nothing about him. Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love."
- Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
Also, my stomach—like a paternalistic grandpa—thinks that it knows what's best for me, and it has a tendency to argue with me about how I should be feeling about things. Paranoid and inclined to excessive worry, my stomach makes for a poor ally in stressful situations.
This past Monday, for example, I took the most intense exam of my graduate career: a two-hour ordeal that involved a committee of professors questioning me on a list of a hundred-ish texts. As far as intellectual hurdles go, the major field exam is certainly not more difficult than writing a dissertation, but it's an intensely compact stress-delivery system. It's the only time that I'll be asked to recall so much, out loud and on command, in such a short period of time.
I'd been slowly and methodically preparing for this exam for over a year, but beginning about two weeks ago, I buckled down into severe study-hibernation mode. At that point, so close to the exam, my brain was satisfied that I was prepared, or at least that I was capable of getting prepared in the time remaining. I'd read all the books; I had a firm grasp of the things I wanted to talk about; I'd picked out my exam-day outfit. My brain, in other words, gave me every reason to feel calm and confident.
My stomach wasn't so sure. WHY AREN'T YOU MORE WORRIED?? it silently screamed. THIS IS A BIG DEAL. YOU SHOULD BE MORE ANXIOUS. IT'S IMPORTANT TO ME THAT YOU FEEL WORSE ABOUT THIS. Patronizingly sure that my brain was lying to me and my rational placidity was a sure sign of disaster and despair, my stomach inflicted me with surges of acid reflux and nausea. THERE, YOU SEE? I could feel it smugly concluding, THIS IS HOW YOU SHOULD REALLY BE FEELING.
My stomach has pulled this kind of trick before; it threw similar tantrums back when I was deciding between grad schools, when I moved out to Boston, during numerous final exam seasons. My brain reassured me, as it had in the past, that my stomach was overreacting. It implored me to ignore the acid and trust the logical evidence it was giving me, all of which suggested that I was ready.
Brain and gut continued to wrestle for dominance (Brain: You're fine! Stomach: NO YOU'RE NOT!) until the exam actually occurred. Luckily, in the exam room itself, all this internal meta-commentary went out the window and I simply flew forward as an integrated human prattling on about psychology and Modern British literature.
Now that I've passed my exam and received the Congratulations!s and I knew you could do it!s, it might feel natural to scoff at my stomach and assume that my brain was the one that really knew what was up all along. My curmudgeonly stomach makes much ado, it appears, about nothing.
Wouldn't it be better, I sometimes muse, if I could simply chuck out my stomach, my nerves? If my brain and I could hold hands and skip happily into the sunset, unencumbered by the strutting and fretting of my body?
It's a dangerous idea, and a bad one.
Forty-eight hours before my exam, I was informed of the unexpected death of a friend of mine from my grad program, an acquaintance I'd taken classes with, socialized with, chatted with on the bus. He was sweet, thoughtful, habitually self-deprecating, prone to saying extremely intelligent things and then kind of wincing from having spoken. Three days after my exam, I sat in a seminar room with six of my other grad-school companions, processing the loss with a school psychologist.
In that room, I became aware of that familiar struggle between brain and body. My mind was intellectualizing on full throttle, attempting to discern what my friends expected or needed from me, attempting to respond appropriately. The mental effort of it was so strong I wasn't conscious of having any particular emotion. Emotion was my body's problem. I felt my eyes and throat swelling and a dull ache in my stomach. My hands and legs would shake with startling and unpredictable severity. It's prompted me to reflect on how much knowledge is housed outside of my brain, to confront the limits of what it's capable of doing. I offload the worst of my stress, grief, and anxiety to other, more capable parts of my body; my mind admits only what it can handle.
My memories of Ben are housed not only in my brain, but in me. Recalling information can be a purely intellectual enterprise. But remembering a person is always a visceral experience, a feeling as well as a thought. You hear their voice, you see their face, you feel your body remembering how you smiled or rolled your eyes. I'm grateful to have had a part of his life as a part of mine.
"In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows. And why, if this—and much more than this is true—why are we yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most solid, the best known to us—why indeed? For the moment after we know nothing about him. Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love."
- Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room
Friday, August 15, 2014
Only they're gone faster than the smell after it rains
Every single website that I visited this week (save, I think, for the Weather Channel website, but I can't even be certain of that) at one point or another posted a story or tribute to Robin Williams in the wake of his death. Everyone seems to have a "Robin Williams story" or memory that they've felt compelled to share, alluding mostly to fond memories of his work or brief personal encounters with him on the street or on sets.
Robin Williams served for me, as he seemed to serve for all Millennials, not just as a fixture of my childhood, but a vivid fixture, someone who seemed consistently and vibrantly alive and present in my life. With most film celebrities, you sort of forget about them right after you see their latest movie. They disappear into Invisible Actor Limbo until their next press junket. But with Williams (partially because the stretches between his films were never long and the core of his personality seemed to shine through from movie to movie), it was as if I was more persistently aware that he was a real human out there in the world, walking around, flustering people with too-rapid jokes. And I'm guessing this Quality of Vividness is responsible for the fact that, as people have been sharing their memories and stories about Williams, I've been able to clearly hear these encounters in my imagination. When a journalist recalled meeting Williams and hearing him respond to a compliment with something so mundane as, "Oh, thanks man, I really appreciate it," I could distinctly hear Robin Williams' voice saying those words.
I don't find this strange, considering how much exposure I've had to Williams' voice over the years through repeated watchings of Aladdin, Good Will Hunting, Hook, Jumanji, Mrs. Doubtfire (even Death to Smoochy, but not Dead Poets Society, believe it or not). However, it does make me think about the overall strangeness and frustrating vagaries of aural memory. Voices are, in my experience, more difficult to recall, more prone to erasure, than faces or thoughts or other chunks of memory. As I'm sitting here, I'm struggling to remember the voices of high school teachers, college acquaintances, old coworkers, even as I clearly remember their faces, personalities, and mannerisms. I'm confident that, if I encountered any of these people on the street, I wouldn't be surprised by what their voices sound like, and the lost memory would pop back to life like an unusually welcome zombie, but at this moment their voices aren't available for recall.
Of course it's not as though there isn't a pattern to the voices you remember vs. those that get forgotten. The voices of the people you've talked to most frequently and/or recently tend to stick with you, so, pleasantly, you probably recall best the voices of those closest to your heart (plus a random assortment of people you're indifferent to or despise but interact with on a regular basis).
But all of us have that weird, gray area filled with people that we care about deeply but simply don't talk to very often. These tend to be the people that, in a past generation, we would have continued to chat with by phone in order to maintain the relationship. But these days Facebook and texting conspire to make such time-consuming chit-chat unnecessary. Provided that you see these people once or twice per year, you don't need to talk on the phone to stay up-to-date on each others' lives when, in the gaps between visits, you can instead check Facebook to glean the headlines. This 21st-century method works well in a number of ways: posted photos keep you reminded of the person's face, status updates of their personality, and intimacy can be maintained with the occasional text conversation. While there may be many aspects of the relationship that strengthen or suffer when social media replaces phone calls, the only one that definitely disappears entirely is the sound of your friend's voice. (Our indifference to this disappearance feels almost a little rude when you consider that 19th century Americans, encountering the invention of the telephone, were stunned by the privilege of getting to hear a loved one's voice rather than having to send a letter or telegram.) When you rely on social media to maintain these relationships, your love for and investment in these gray-area friends may never erode, but their voices are liable to sneakily slip from your memory or diminish in vividness.
More people have joined this gray area for me since I moved to Boston, which is what's making my fickle memory for voices (which is, after all, a pretty unremarkable fact of brain functioning) more noticeable to me. At moments like this, it strikes me as odd that I'm capable of recalling the voices of Robin Williams and other randomly memorable celebrities who are technically complete strangers (Susan Sarandon bizarrely falls into this category for me), better than those of some of my closest friends.
Robin Williams served for me, as he seemed to serve for all Millennials, not just as a fixture of my childhood, but a vivid fixture, someone who seemed consistently and vibrantly alive and present in my life. With most film celebrities, you sort of forget about them right after you see their latest movie. They disappear into Invisible Actor Limbo until their next press junket. But with Williams (partially because the stretches between his films were never long and the core of his personality seemed to shine through from movie to movie), it was as if I was more persistently aware that he was a real human out there in the world, walking around, flustering people with too-rapid jokes. And I'm guessing this Quality of Vividness is responsible for the fact that, as people have been sharing their memories and stories about Williams, I've been able to clearly hear these encounters in my imagination. When a journalist recalled meeting Williams and hearing him respond to a compliment with something so mundane as, "Oh, thanks man, I really appreciate it," I could distinctly hear Robin Williams' voice saying those words.
I don't find this strange, considering how much exposure I've had to Williams' voice over the years through repeated watchings of Aladdin, Good Will Hunting, Hook, Jumanji, Mrs. Doubtfire (even Death to Smoochy, but not Dead Poets Society, believe it or not). However, it does make me think about the overall strangeness and frustrating vagaries of aural memory. Voices are, in my experience, more difficult to recall, more prone to erasure, than faces or thoughts or other chunks of memory. As I'm sitting here, I'm struggling to remember the voices of high school teachers, college acquaintances, old coworkers, even as I clearly remember their faces, personalities, and mannerisms. I'm confident that, if I encountered any of these people on the street, I wouldn't be surprised by what their voices sound like, and the lost memory would pop back to life like an unusually welcome zombie, but at this moment their voices aren't available for recall.
Of course it's not as though there isn't a pattern to the voices you remember vs. those that get forgotten. The voices of the people you've talked to most frequently and/or recently tend to stick with you, so, pleasantly, you probably recall best the voices of those closest to your heart (plus a random assortment of people you're indifferent to or despise but interact with on a regular basis).
But all of us have that weird, gray area filled with people that we care about deeply but simply don't talk to very often. These tend to be the people that, in a past generation, we would have continued to chat with by phone in order to maintain the relationship. But these days Facebook and texting conspire to make such time-consuming chit-chat unnecessary. Provided that you see these people once or twice per year, you don't need to talk on the phone to stay up-to-date on each others' lives when, in the gaps between visits, you can instead check Facebook to glean the headlines. This 21st-century method works well in a number of ways: posted photos keep you reminded of the person's face, status updates of their personality, and intimacy can be maintained with the occasional text conversation. While there may be many aspects of the relationship that strengthen or suffer when social media replaces phone calls, the only one that definitely disappears entirely is the sound of your friend's voice. (Our indifference to this disappearance feels almost a little rude when you consider that 19th century Americans, encountering the invention of the telephone, were stunned by the privilege of getting to hear a loved one's voice rather than having to send a letter or telegram.) When you rely on social media to maintain these relationships, your love for and investment in these gray-area friends may never erode, but their voices are liable to sneakily slip from your memory or diminish in vividness.
More people have joined this gray area for me since I moved to Boston, which is what's making my fickle memory for voices (which is, after all, a pretty unremarkable fact of brain functioning) more noticeable to me. At moments like this, it strikes me as odd that I'm capable of recalling the voices of Robin Williams and other randomly memorable celebrities who are technically complete strangers (Susan Sarandon bizarrely falls into this category for me), better than those of some of my closest friends.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Just say hello and head to firmer ground
I'll throw it out there: I'm pretty sure we can all blame Dove for Social Justice Advertising. I'm referring to those advertisements that proclaim to be wholeheartedly committed to addressing a serious social problem (a lady social problem, usually) while also maybe selling something along the way (to ladies). The prototype is, I think, the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty, which was launched in 2004. According to the website, its purpose was to "provoke discussion and encourage debate"—specifically by "featuring real women whose appearances are outside the
stereotypical norms of beauty. The ads asked viewers to judge the
women’s looks (oversized or outstanding? and wrinkled or wonderful?),
and invited them to cast their votes at campaignforrealbeauty.com."
That description doesn't even try to hide the fact that there's something dodgy about these otherwise "awww"-inducing ads. Tell us how much you hate how society passes judgment on your body by rating these women online! Resist media pressure to subscribe to conventional beauty standards, but for God's sake, make sure your skin is soft and blemishless. Modern advertising depends on making consumers feel lacking or insecure. Practically every terrible body-related social pressure you experience in your everyday life is facilitated by ad agencies. If we feel doubtful that Dove really has our best interests at heart, it's with good reason.
And yet, most people would agree that Dove's strategy is preferable to, say, A&F's "Be skinny or no one will like you" advertising model. And even if Dove's pure-hearted commitment to reducing the scrutiny of women's bodies is questionable, I do think the excessive scrutiny of women's bodies is a problem, and so some good is probably being done by way of capitalism. And it must be a workable financial model, since more companies are getting on board with positive-message advertising.
The Pantene hair care company—long famous for promoting vitamin-infused, butt-length tresses—has more recently gotten into the Social Justice Ad game with their "Sorry" commercial, which tackles the (apparently?) widespread social problem of women apologizing a lot in everyday situations that don't necessarily require sincere apologies. (Don't men do this, too?) The ad advises women to stop apologizing and to "shine" instead. As Megan Garber at the Atlantic quips: "shine as in your hair, and also, presumably, as in your spirit." While it's not at all clear how "shining" functions as a replacement for "sorry," the second half of the ad more helpfully recommends that women replace their "sorrys" with "sorry not sorry," which is absolutely the worst and most annoying hashtag-based catchphrase since YOLO.
Based on my previous posts that detail my innate desire to be the politest person in the world, it's probably no surprise that I'm one of the people who says "sorry" all the time. I say "sorry" when I bump into someone on the street, and also when someone bumps into me on the street. I say "sorry" when making my way through a crowd. I say "sorry" if I need to get a stranger's attention. I say "sorry" if I want someone to move out of my way. I occasionally (if accidentally) say "sorry" to dogs and inanimate objects.
Although I admit that I'm a bit conflicted about my larger pattern of excessively polite behavior, I can't get behind the Pantene ad. It's a bridge too far in terms of how ashamed I'm willing to feel about being polite.
I find it insulting that Pantene thinks that my "sorrys" are a problem. The ad implies that the only people who ever blurt out the causal "sorry" are cowering, timid ladyfolk who feel the need to apologize for their very existence. I firmly believe that "sorry" is a utilityword that should be employed, frequently and unapologetically, by all. With two little syllables, "sorry" allows you to say:
So—sorry Pantene, but I think you're the wrong type of Social Justice Ad. Perhaps you owe me an apology.
That description doesn't even try to hide the fact that there's something dodgy about these otherwise "awww"-inducing ads. Tell us how much you hate how society passes judgment on your body by rating these women online! Resist media pressure to subscribe to conventional beauty standards, but for God's sake, make sure your skin is soft and blemishless. Modern advertising depends on making consumers feel lacking or insecure. Practically every terrible body-related social pressure you experience in your everyday life is facilitated by ad agencies. If we feel doubtful that Dove really has our best interests at heart, it's with good reason.
And yet, most people would agree that Dove's strategy is preferable to, say, A&F's "Be skinny or no one will like you" advertising model. And even if Dove's pure-hearted commitment to reducing the scrutiny of women's bodies is questionable, I do think the excessive scrutiny of women's bodies is a problem, and so some good is probably being done by way of capitalism. And it must be a workable financial model, since more companies are getting on board with positive-message advertising.
The Pantene hair care company—long famous for promoting vitamin-infused, butt-length tresses—has more recently gotten into the Social Justice Ad game with their "Sorry" commercial, which tackles the (apparently?) widespread social problem of women apologizing a lot in everyday situations that don't necessarily require sincere apologies. (Don't men do this, too?) The ad advises women to stop apologizing and to "shine" instead. As Megan Garber at the Atlantic quips: "shine as in your hair, and also, presumably, as in your spirit." While it's not at all clear how "shining" functions as a replacement for "sorry," the second half of the ad more helpfully recommends that women replace their "sorrys" with "sorry not sorry," which is absolutely the worst and most annoying hashtag-based catchphrase since YOLO.
Based on my previous posts that detail my innate desire to be the politest person in the world, it's probably no surprise that I'm one of the people who says "sorry" all the time. I say "sorry" when I bump into someone on the street, and also when someone bumps into me on the street. I say "sorry" when making my way through a crowd. I say "sorry" if I need to get a stranger's attention. I say "sorry" if I want someone to move out of my way. I occasionally (if accidentally) say "sorry" to dogs and inanimate objects.
Although I admit that I'm a bit conflicted about my larger pattern of excessively polite behavior, I can't get behind the Pantene ad. It's a bridge too far in terms of how ashamed I'm willing to feel about being polite.
I find it insulting that Pantene thinks that my "sorrys" are a problem. The ad implies that the only people who ever blurt out the causal "sorry" are cowering, timid ladyfolk who feel the need to apologize for their very existence. I firmly believe that "sorry" is a utilityword that should be employed, frequently and unapologetically, by all. With two little syllables, "sorry" allows you to say:
"Hey, person(s) within earshot! I'm doing something that may or may not affect you! It's probably not a big deal, but please don't be mad about it! I respect social norms, and you by extension!"In most contexts, it's not even really an apology; it's an announcement that you're going to be imposing just a little bit into someone's life. (If you need to really apologize, you say "I'm sorry," obviously.) Pantene's commercial grates because the company is unnecessarily piling on to that very real conundrum I described in my last post, the Should women be demanding more time/space/attention? problem that all women face. And they're doing so for profit. (And, I guess, for shiny hair.)
So—sorry Pantene, but I think you're the wrong type of Social Justice Ad. Perhaps you owe me an apology.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
In the interest of even numbers I will make myself scarce
Several months ago, in this blog, I wrote about my "will to unobtrusiveness," a term I used to refer to my instinctive (and possibly excessive) politeness in social or public settings. I wrote about how I always do my best to avoid inconveniencing or annoying others, how I try to never take up more than what I perceive to be my allotted share of time or space, and how, in my opinion, only people raised by inbred feral wolves think it's okay to be more than 10 minutes late to an engagement without sending a call or text to let their friends know about their tardiness. I categorized it as a personal quirk and let it go at that.
A personal quirk it may be, but at the same time, if you put on your feminist goggles, the scenery surrounding my self-minimizing confession changes. And I think that's worth considering.
For one thing, if you've taken Sociology 101, you're liable to squint at the idea of pure "personal choice" when it comes to your gut preferences. In lots of ways, our habits and traits are subtly shaped by our society and culture. Even choices that seem totally independent probably aren't. (For example, remember how Cards Against Humanity -- currently Amazon's #1 best seller in the Toys and Games category -- was a game that you loved because it totally got the twisted sense of humor of you and your super unique group of friends?)
Likewise, it's no secret that, from an early age, gender in particular is a major factor that influences a whole lot of things about your life -- including but not limited to how you're likely to position your own body in a room, and where you think your body deserves to be. Gendered norms tend to encourage liberal space, time, and freedom for men while suggesting to women that they make themselves prim, quiet, and compact. Every individual arguably has the freedom to reject these norms (be less like Britney and more like Roseanne), and yet over time, and compounded across millions of people, gender-biased behavior becomes very visible in everyday life. Which is how we get things like the "Men Taking up Too Much Space on the Subway" Tumblr, and the Swedish "Macho in Public" website, along with countless other hubs of Internet snark dedicated to calling out the ways in which men take advantage of their societally sanctioned right to take up space.
So while body posture and movement can seem like small and personal things, it's easy to see how they're also very much cultural behaviors. Dr. Lisa Wade, writing for a popular sociology website, succinctly discusses the network of implications that pop up when you see individual bodies as public phenomena. People tend to take up more space when they're in positions of power, which not-so-incidentally corresponds with historical power disparities between men and women. Wade writes:
All of this is basically common knowledge, particularly if you listen to NPR or read the Huffington Post. I knew of these ideas and data long before I wrote about my "will to unobtrusiveness" in this blog. Yet it was still possible for me to write that post, feeling not only like my desire to go unnoticed is a personal choice, but also that it's overall a positive and admirable part of my personality.
And this is where my public-conscious, humanist self comes into conflict with my public-conscious, feminist self. I genuinely think being as polite and non-irritating as possible is a virtue and makes the world a better place. I also genuinely think being as polite and non-irritating as possible while being a female-gendered person unhappily perpetuates behavioral conditioning that I find troubling and would like to disrupt. Is better, as a human, to continue being polite and hope other people follow my example and collectively make the world a more pleasant place? Is it better, as a female human, to stop being so polite and demand more space and time in hopes that women (and other feminine-identifying people) follow my example, so that we can collectively establish a new normal?
I don't expect an answer. These two selves will, I'm sure, just continue interminably to battle it out somewhere in my subconscious. I'm pretty sure that part of being a feminist (and other kinds of -ist) means being content to have these kinds of battles seething in your mind at all times, and believing that such battles are worthwhile (if occasionally exhausting) ways to spend your mental energy.
A personal quirk it may be, but at the same time, if you put on your feminist goggles, the scenery surrounding my self-minimizing confession changes. And I think that's worth considering.
For one thing, if you've taken Sociology 101, you're liable to squint at the idea of pure "personal choice" when it comes to your gut preferences. In lots of ways, our habits and traits are subtly shaped by our society and culture. Even choices that seem totally independent probably aren't. (For example, remember how Cards Against Humanity -- currently Amazon's #1 best seller in the Toys and Games category -- was a game that you loved because it totally got the twisted sense of humor of you and your super unique group of friends?)
Likewise, it's no secret that, from an early age, gender in particular is a major factor that influences a whole lot of things about your life -- including but not limited to how you're likely to position your own body in a room, and where you think your body deserves to be. Gendered norms tend to encourage liberal space, time, and freedom for men while suggesting to women that they make themselves prim, quiet, and compact. Every individual arguably has the freedom to reject these norms (be less like Britney and more like Roseanne), and yet over time, and compounded across millions of people, gender-biased behavior becomes very visible in everyday life. Which is how we get things like the "Men Taking up Too Much Space on the Subway" Tumblr, and the Swedish "Macho in Public" website, along with countless other hubs of Internet snark dedicated to calling out the ways in which men take advantage of their societally sanctioned right to take up space.
So while body posture and movement can seem like small and personal things, it's easy to see how they're also very much cultural behaviors. Dr. Lisa Wade, writing for a popular sociology website, succinctly discusses the network of implications that pop up when you see individual bodies as public phenomena. People tend to take up more space when they're in positions of power, which not-so-incidentally corresponds with historical power disparities between men and women. Wade writes:
Consider: A feminine person keeps her body small and contained; she makes sure that it doesn’t take up too much space or impose itself. She walks and sits in tightly packaged ways. She doesn’t cover the breadth of the sidewalk or expand herself beyond the chair she occupies. [...] A feminine person doesn’t use her body to forcefully interact with the world, she lets others do for her when possible.Citing philosopher Sandra Lee Bartky, who argued that regardless of gender "those with higher status typically assume looser and more relaxed postures," Wade draws the logical conclusion: "Acting feminine, then, overlaps with performances of submissiveness" and "expansive body postures that take up room instill a psychological sense of power and entitlement." If you buy this argument, you're also going to start drawing connections to other not-so-incidental trends, like the fact that women are less likely to apply for "aggressive"-sounding jobs, in part because assertiveness and aggressiveness aren't perceived as "appropriate" behavior for women (see the recent cultural backlash over the term bossy). Or the fact that there is more social tolerance for fat men than fat women, implicitly sanctioning men's right to have more cubic feet of flesh while suggesting that women should really consider eating more yogurt and salads.
All of this is basically common knowledge, particularly if you listen to NPR or read the Huffington Post. I knew of these ideas and data long before I wrote about my "will to unobtrusiveness" in this blog. Yet it was still possible for me to write that post, feeling not only like my desire to go unnoticed is a personal choice, but also that it's overall a positive and admirable part of my personality.
And this is where my public-conscious, humanist self comes into conflict with my public-conscious, feminist self. I genuinely think being as polite and non-irritating as possible is a virtue and makes the world a better place. I also genuinely think being as polite and non-irritating as possible while being a female-gendered person unhappily perpetuates behavioral conditioning that I find troubling and would like to disrupt. Is better, as a human, to continue being polite and hope other people follow my example and collectively make the world a more pleasant place? Is it better, as a female human, to stop being so polite and demand more space and time in hopes that women (and other feminine-identifying people) follow my example, so that we can collectively establish a new normal?
I don't expect an answer. These two selves will, I'm sure, just continue interminably to battle it out somewhere in my subconscious. I'm pretty sure that part of being a feminist (and other kinds of -ist) means being content to have these kinds of battles seething in your mind at all times, and believing that such battles are worthwhile (if occasionally exhausting) ways to spend your mental energy.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Please excuse me darling, it's not you. It's me.
I've always liked being named "Linda." To be fair, I think most people like their names just fine, or are at least pleasantly indifferent to them. Most names are pretty darn unobjectionable. Even if you're stuck with an unfortunate name for the current fashion (I'm looking at you, Dorkases, Gertys, and Lloyds of the 21st century), it's entirely possible you'll still wind up becoming fond of your name, thanks to a Stockholm syndrome-like situation wherein once you've been stuck with a name for long enough, you just grow to love it.
But for as long as I can remember, I've actively and consciously liked "Linda" -- and not just because of its etymology, which frankly doesn't factor much into it. (Fun fact: When you're put into a situation in which you have to admit that your name means "pretty" in Spanish, people tend to look at you as if you named yourself Linda just so you can fish for a compliment.) No, it's the little things. I like that Linda hasn't been a popular name since the 1940s, which means that to this day I'm the only person in my peer group with my name. I like that when I email clients at work, they tend to assume I'm middle-aged and respond with heightened courteousness. I like that when I write my signature I get to start with that cool, loopy, cursive L. I like that, even though it's a WWII-era name, Linda isn't a name that sounds too old or crotchety, like Edith or Gladys. I like that people never mispronounce my name and very rarely ask me to spell it (because who actually spells Lynda with a y anyway?). I like how it sounds: the syllables are light and roll easily off the tip of the tongue.
I know -- it's weird to be so affectionate about your own name. But in my mind, it's an apporpriate thing to admire and be thankful for, because naming children is such a complete and utter crapshoot. I honestly have no idea how parents deal with the stress of assigning their kid a name, knowing full well that the child will, in all likelihood, carry that name to their grave. Who knows what kind of subtle psychological impacts your offspring will incur, simply because of your stupid name choice?
What are your options as a parent, really? Do you go with a currently trendy name? (Benefit: no one will think your child is weird at school. Risk: a million kids will also have that name, and it's possible that it's a ludicrous name that people only think is cool right now, like Londyn) Do you go with a family/legacy name? (Benefit: you have a legitimate excuse for the name if your child ever challenges you on it. Risk: there's no telling whether that name will be considered freakish down the road. Take "Murphy." It's fine now, but in 2045, who knows?) Do you go with a "never goes out of style" name like John or Mary? (Benefit: no one will ever think the name is weird. Risk: your child may self-identify as boring) Do you go with an old-fashioned name that you want to revive, like Elanor or Hugo? (Benefit: paying homage to history. Risk: a million kids will still have that name, because this is a really trendy thing to do right now) And what if you're a person of color? Then you have to think about whether you should name your child something "white-sounding" or else cripple their job prospects and earning potential for the rest of their life.
No one else in my extended family is named Linda, so it was never obvious to me where my name came from, or how my parents managed to knock it out of the park with a seemingly random pick. On multiple occasions, I've asked both Mom and Dad to tell me the story behind my name, and I don't think I've ever gotten the same answer twice. Their various responses are (paraphrased and subject to my faulty recollection) as follows:
While none of these explanations are particularly helpful in terms of helping Future Parent Me with my own child-naming quandary, I'm struck by the fact that neither of my parents evidently stressed about it too much. Relying on what appears to be mostly gut instinct and optimism, they did all right by me and my sister. So perhaps the answer is -- provided you're a kind, intelligent, and loving parent -- you can just wing it and trust in the result.
(Of course, my parents also had a cat they named George, so maybe their instinctive naming proficiency was gender-specific.)
But for as long as I can remember, I've actively and consciously liked "Linda" -- and not just because of its etymology, which frankly doesn't factor much into it. (Fun fact: When you're put into a situation in which you have to admit that your name means "pretty" in Spanish, people tend to look at you as if you named yourself Linda just so you can fish for a compliment.) No, it's the little things. I like that Linda hasn't been a popular name since the 1940s, which means that to this day I'm the only person in my peer group with my name. I like that when I email clients at work, they tend to assume I'm middle-aged and respond with heightened courteousness. I like that when I write my signature I get to start with that cool, loopy, cursive L. I like that, even though it's a WWII-era name, Linda isn't a name that sounds too old or crotchety, like Edith or Gladys. I like that people never mispronounce my name and very rarely ask me to spell it (because who actually spells Lynda with a y anyway?). I like how it sounds: the syllables are light and roll easily off the tip of the tongue.
I know -- it's weird to be so affectionate about your own name. But in my mind, it's an apporpriate thing to admire and be thankful for, because naming children is such a complete and utter crapshoot. I honestly have no idea how parents deal with the stress of assigning their kid a name, knowing full well that the child will, in all likelihood, carry that name to their grave. Who knows what kind of subtle psychological impacts your offspring will incur, simply because of your stupid name choice?
What are your options as a parent, really? Do you go with a currently trendy name? (Benefit: no one will think your child is weird at school. Risk: a million kids will also have that name, and it's possible that it's a ludicrous name that people only think is cool right now, like Londyn) Do you go with a family/legacy name? (Benefit: you have a legitimate excuse for the name if your child ever challenges you on it. Risk: there's no telling whether that name will be considered freakish down the road. Take "Murphy." It's fine now, but in 2045, who knows?) Do you go with a "never goes out of style" name like John or Mary? (Benefit: no one will ever think the name is weird. Risk: your child may self-identify as boring) Do you go with an old-fashioned name that you want to revive, like Elanor or Hugo? (Benefit: paying homage to history. Risk: a million kids will still have that name, because this is a really trendy thing to do right now) And what if you're a person of color? Then you have to think about whether you should name your child something "white-sounding" or else cripple their job prospects and earning potential for the rest of their life.
No one else in my extended family is named Linda, so it was never obvious to me where my name came from, or how my parents managed to knock it out of the park with a seemingly random pick. On multiple occasions, I've asked both Mom and Dad to tell me the story behind my name, and I don't think I've ever gotten the same answer twice. Their various responses are (paraphrased and subject to my faulty recollection) as follows:
- "We took turns suggesting names, but every time one of us made a suggestion, the other one shot it down. This went on for a really long time, and we were both getting frustrated. Finally, one of us suggested Linda, and neither of us hated it, so we went with that."
- "My college roommate was named Linda. It's a nice name, so we thought, why not?"
- "Your dad wanted a name that couldn't be shortened into a nickname."
- "Your mom was the one who decided on the name Catherine for your sister, so I was the one who got to pick your name."
- "We almost named you Madeline."
While none of these explanations are particularly helpful in terms of helping Future Parent Me with my own child-naming quandary, I'm struck by the fact that neither of my parents evidently stressed about it too much. Relying on what appears to be mostly gut instinct and optimism, they did all right by me and my sister. So perhaps the answer is -- provided you're a kind, intelligent, and loving parent -- you can just wing it and trust in the result.
(Of course, my parents also had a cat they named George, so maybe their instinctive naming proficiency was gender-specific.)
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Start on the inside and work your way out
Roughly a year ago, I was planted at my desk in my studio apartment working on a paper. I'd been hunched over my laptop, squinting at the Word document, for hours. Feeling bored and distracted (and vaguely worried that I was turning into Quasimodo), I decided to go for a walk. It wasn't particularly warm outside, but it was sunny enough to lure me out of my isolation chamber. The midday rays would serve as a welcome reminder that summer wasn't too far away.
It was also Marathon Monday in Boston. I lived near the race route, and so the first thing I saw stepping away from my stoop was a collection of barricades blocking traffic at my building's intersection to keep cars from driving near the course. The sturdy, bright-blue BPD sawhorses were being guarded by a couple impressively dressed but thoroughly bored-looking police officers.
That moment, a Jeep Cherokee full of teenagers pulled up to the stop light near the officers. As I waited at the curb to cross the street, I noticed a kid hanging out of one of the rear windows. He started waving enthusiastically to the policemen, motioning them towards the car. The cops paused skeptically, but one of them gave in and approached. The teen gave the officer two bottles of water and a small bag of chips, then the Jeep sped off. Returning to his post, the officer with the goodies shrugged at his partner and they began munching on the chips.
Watching the whole interaction, I felt a small surge of glee. What a pleasant moment! People can be so nice sometimes. Teenagers! Engaging in random acts of kindness! For cops!
It was about 2:30 p.m. Over the next 20 minutes, my decision to walk to the race course to cheer the runners would get stymied. Instead of joining a celebratory fray, I would find myself heading into a sea of bewildered and concerned Bostonians flooding away from Beacon St, having just been ordered to evacuate by exceedingly serious police officers. Soon after, I would run into some friends from my grad program. We would walk to one of their nearby apartments and stare in confusion at the news and let our families know that we were safe. I can only assume that the two cops I saw didn't have another relaxing moment for quite a while.
---
The anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombing was about two weeks ago. That day, one year ago, was a sad and confusing day to be in Boston; it turned into a sad and confusing week due to the citywide lockdown/manhunt that ensued a few days later. Eventually, active sadness and confusion morphed into what seemed like a persistent, ambient, city-wide ache. As the next year progressed, the bombing never felt like it really left the collective consciousness of the city. Various pieces of news about the Tsarnaev brothers were constantly emerging. Local TV programming followed the recovery progress of injured runners and spectators. Boylston Street west of Copley Plaza remained a memorial site even as it returned to its usual commercial routine. Boston is, overall, a rather small city, and even as Beantown "returned to normal," the bombing retained the kind of lasting, ghostly presence -- occasioning lasting, residual grief -- that one might expect after such a community experiences a shocking, violent loss.
Of course, this loss wasn't experienced in a vacuum. Boston is part of the United States. In his remarks after the bombing, President Obama spoke in the inclusive "we": "We carry on. We race. We strive." He also made the point more explicitly, declaring, "it’s our beloved city too. Boston may be your hometown, but we claim it too." This type of language is sadly familiar after events like 9/11, Columbine, Newtown, etc., and seems to be the preferred way for national figures to respond to unusually traumatic events. The sentiment expresses the idea that local catastrophes have nationwide resonance; if you hurt the part, you injure the whole.
Still, while the "we're all in this together" sentiment reliably exists in the immediate aftermath of a crisis, local vs. national responses tend to diverge across time. Because I'd never been at home in a city that experienced such a trauma, I'd never been in the position of observing this divergence firsthand. Be it consciously or unconsciously, the national responses to tragic events tend to depend on the nature, uniqueness, and "severity" of the incident, and by these clinical metrics, the marathon attack wasn't destined to spend too long in the national spotlight. While the injured numbered well into the 200s, the death total was three -- fewer fatalities than a typical summer weekend in Chicago. While the attack was an act of terrorism, the plot was local and the terrorists seemingly isolated, meaning that the threat of a repeat incident seems minimal. If laying out such data seems cold, it's worth remembering that national attention courts larger stakes than local coverage, and have different considerations: Is it fair to give this incident -- with its one-time nature and low death count -- extended time on the national stage, given the systemic nature and high death count associated with random acts of gun violence in the U.S.? Will intensive and lasting coverage reignite unrealistic worries about domestic terrorism?
Some of these thoughts came to my mind while watching the news at my gym on the anniversary of the bombing. Local news stations WCBV, WHDH, and WBZ were broadcasting full coverage of the multi-hour memorial ceremony from start to finish; meanwhile, CNN and MSNBC dedicated a short segment to the memorial before moving on to other news. It felt startling that the anniversary wasn't getting more national attention.
But then, I needed to admit that my perspective is a local one. Particularly for locals, simple and extended attention feels proper -- attention without expectations of closure, or competition with other traumas, or cynicism about the value or necessity of commemorations -- even if, on a national stage, such attention may feel unnecessary. My contribution is late, but here it is all the same.
It was also Marathon Monday in Boston. I lived near the race route, and so the first thing I saw stepping away from my stoop was a collection of barricades blocking traffic at my building's intersection to keep cars from driving near the course. The sturdy, bright-blue BPD sawhorses were being guarded by a couple impressively dressed but thoroughly bored-looking police officers.
That moment, a Jeep Cherokee full of teenagers pulled up to the stop light near the officers. As I waited at the curb to cross the street, I noticed a kid hanging out of one of the rear windows. He started waving enthusiastically to the policemen, motioning them towards the car. The cops paused skeptically, but one of them gave in and approached. The teen gave the officer two bottles of water and a small bag of chips, then the Jeep sped off. Returning to his post, the officer with the goodies shrugged at his partner and they began munching on the chips.
Watching the whole interaction, I felt a small surge of glee. What a pleasant moment! People can be so nice sometimes. Teenagers! Engaging in random acts of kindness! For cops!
It was about 2:30 p.m. Over the next 20 minutes, my decision to walk to the race course to cheer the runners would get stymied. Instead of joining a celebratory fray, I would find myself heading into a sea of bewildered and concerned Bostonians flooding away from Beacon St, having just been ordered to evacuate by exceedingly serious police officers. Soon after, I would run into some friends from my grad program. We would walk to one of their nearby apartments and stare in confusion at the news and let our families know that we were safe. I can only assume that the two cops I saw didn't have another relaxing moment for quite a while.
---
The anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombing was about two weeks ago. That day, one year ago, was a sad and confusing day to be in Boston; it turned into a sad and confusing week due to the citywide lockdown/manhunt that ensued a few days later. Eventually, active sadness and confusion morphed into what seemed like a persistent, ambient, city-wide ache. As the next year progressed, the bombing never felt like it really left the collective consciousness of the city. Various pieces of news about the Tsarnaev brothers were constantly emerging. Local TV programming followed the recovery progress of injured runners and spectators. Boylston Street west of Copley Plaza remained a memorial site even as it returned to its usual commercial routine. Boston is, overall, a rather small city, and even as Beantown "returned to normal," the bombing retained the kind of lasting, ghostly presence -- occasioning lasting, residual grief -- that one might expect after such a community experiences a shocking, violent loss.
Of course, this loss wasn't experienced in a vacuum. Boston is part of the United States. In his remarks after the bombing, President Obama spoke in the inclusive "we": "We carry on. We race. We strive." He also made the point more explicitly, declaring, "it’s our beloved city too. Boston may be your hometown, but we claim it too." This type of language is sadly familiar after events like 9/11, Columbine, Newtown, etc., and seems to be the preferred way for national figures to respond to unusually traumatic events. The sentiment expresses the idea that local catastrophes have nationwide resonance; if you hurt the part, you injure the whole.
Still, while the "we're all in this together" sentiment reliably exists in the immediate aftermath of a crisis, local vs. national responses tend to diverge across time. Because I'd never been at home in a city that experienced such a trauma, I'd never been in the position of observing this divergence firsthand. Be it consciously or unconsciously, the national responses to tragic events tend to depend on the nature, uniqueness, and "severity" of the incident, and by these clinical metrics, the marathon attack wasn't destined to spend too long in the national spotlight. While the injured numbered well into the 200s, the death total was three -- fewer fatalities than a typical summer weekend in Chicago. While the attack was an act of terrorism, the plot was local and the terrorists seemingly isolated, meaning that the threat of a repeat incident seems minimal. If laying out such data seems cold, it's worth remembering that national attention courts larger stakes than local coverage, and have different considerations: Is it fair to give this incident -- with its one-time nature and low death count -- extended time on the national stage, given the systemic nature and high death count associated with random acts of gun violence in the U.S.? Will intensive and lasting coverage reignite unrealistic worries about domestic terrorism?
Some of these thoughts came to my mind while watching the news at my gym on the anniversary of the bombing. Local news stations WCBV, WHDH, and WBZ were broadcasting full coverage of the multi-hour memorial ceremony from start to finish; meanwhile, CNN and MSNBC dedicated a short segment to the memorial before moving on to other news. It felt startling that the anniversary wasn't getting more national attention.
But then, I needed to admit that my perspective is a local one. Particularly for locals, simple and extended attention feels proper -- attention without expectations of closure, or competition with other traumas, or cynicism about the value or necessity of commemorations -- even if, on a national stage, such attention may feel unnecessary. My contribution is late, but here it is all the same.
Friday, March 14, 2014
All the choices in the world
Over at Slate, there's an education columnist named Rebecca Schuman (by day an English PhD/adjunct professor), who earns her Slate money writing appalling articles about the Ivory Tower that, more often than not, fundamentally misrepresent my profession. She clearly has a lot of pent-up anger at the university system in the U.S. and English departments in particular, and as a result most of her articles (even ones that don't directly attack university practices) are seeped in spite and self-pity. It's an ongoing mystery to me why someone with so much evident loathing for her job and its administrators hasn't jumped ship and become an accountant or something. (Case in point: this wildly misguided article arguing that English professors should stop asking students to write papers, because students aren't good at writing and teaching is, like, hard.)
That said, Schuman does occasionally write interesting, informative columns that resonate with my own experiences. She did so this week in an article about the difficulties of properly addressing a teacher in a college setting.
Schuman lays out the situation rather clearly: Within university departments, figuring out the proper title to apply to a college teacher (Ms/Mr? Dr? Professor? Bob? Teach?) is fraught in a way that seems mildly absurd to most people outside academia's bubble. The basic problem is that the most obvious and readily available moniker -- Professor -- is a specific job title, one reserved for tenured faculty. Calling someone like me "Professor" would grate on some people's ears like calling an Army Private "Captain." Then again, professor can also just mean "teacher," and this is the mentality that the average college student brings to the classroom; most students call the older, blazer-wearing person in the room "professor" not because it's an administration-sanctioned job title but simply because that's what they've been told to call teachers in an university setting.
But if you want to get snippy about reserving the title of "professor" for real Professors (and trust me, there are a lot of people who do), things get messy fast. Schuman describes it this way:
So where does that leave people like me? Schuman's recommendation is to let students know "immediately" what to call you: "Whatever you want to be called, name yourself this thing in person and on the syllabus—and if the students don’t catch on, don’t be afraid to correct them."
I suspect that Schuman draws this conclusion because she has a PhD, and so it feels comfortable or even empowering for her to tell her students, "Call me Dr. Schuman," and I wonder if she'd make the same recommendation if her so-called proper title was "Ms." For myself, I've opted to go the opposite route: I'm remaining mute on the subject. After all, mature and confident faculty don't usually bother with telling students what to call them, and as such I feel like taking pains to emphasize my title (no matter what it is) will only serve to make it seem like I'm the one anxious about my authority and abilities. I haven't told my students how to address me, and I sign emails with my initials.
The result has been that most address me as "Professor." A few use "Ms." No one has yet called me "Dr." or addressed me by my first name. I never correct them, no matter what they do. (Well, I would correct it if anyone ever did call me "Dr." because that's wrong in a pretty unambiguous way.) In a class that is 92% composed of male students, I haven't yet been in a situation where I've felt disrespected or undermined.
As I mentioned in my last post, I live in a community of university-dwelling critics who tend to chronically over-analyze and over-think things, and I usually embrace that impulse. But this is one situation where simply chilling out seems by far the best way to go.
That said, Schuman does occasionally write interesting, informative columns that resonate with my own experiences. She did so this week in an article about the difficulties of properly addressing a teacher in a college setting.
Schuman lays out the situation rather clearly: Within university departments, figuring out the proper title to apply to a college teacher (Ms/Mr? Dr? Professor? Bob? Teach?) is fraught in a way that seems mildly absurd to most people outside academia's bubble. The basic problem is that the most obvious and readily available moniker -- Professor -- is a specific job title, one reserved for tenured faculty. Calling someone like me "Professor" would grate on some people's ears like calling an Army Private "Captain." Then again, professor can also just mean "teacher," and this is the mentality that the average college student brings to the classroom; most students call the older, blazer-wearing person in the room "professor" not because it's an administration-sanctioned job title but simply because that's what they've been told to call teachers in an university setting.
But if you want to get snippy about reserving the title of "professor" for real Professors (and trust me, there are a lot of people who do), things get messy fast. Schuman describes it this way:
First off, at large research universities, a lot of “professors” aren’t professors at all—they’re graduate TAs. Many are a year or two older than their students, and as such most go by their first names. However, they are almost always listed as “Instructor,” which leads to absurd misnomers—I laugh so much about being called “Instructor Schuman” that my husband had it embroidered on a bathrobe for me.
In addition to grad students, a lot of professors are adjuncts, like me (for eight more weeks!), and though you can technically call us “Professor,” on the roster we’re usually just listed as “Staff.” We may even ask that you not call us “Professor” so that you recognize that the school treats us differently. But many of us have doctorates, so we like to be called “Doctor.” But some of us don’t!
It gets worse: Many full-time professors don’t have doctorates (MFAs, for example)—so they can’t be “Doctor” either. But they’re tenured professors, so you’d best call them “Professor.”Okay, fine, you might be thinking. If everyone's going to get so worked up about "Professor," just go by "Ms." Problem solved. Well, kind of, but not really. As Schuman notes, for female teachers anyway, there are some weird political overtones surrounding the use of "Ms.":
Recent studies show that college students tend to view women and minorities with less respect from the start, and that is often reflected in bestowing names, titles, or lack thereof. [...] I myself feel rankled when someone who knows full well I have an earned doctorate refers to my male peers as “Professor” or “Doctor” yet calls me “Ms. Schuman.” It happens all the time, and I often hear a sneer in the “izzzzz.”In other words, if a student is facing a male and a female teacher in a room, and the student isn't aware of their proper titles, the man is more likely to be called "Professor," the woman "Ms." Of course, 99% of the time, no student calling me "Ms." is doing so maliciously in a deliberate attempt to imply, "I don't respect you because of your chromosomes." But when you have those statistics and studies rattling around in your brain, it suddenly feels just a little wrong or insulting to be called "Ms." You want students to call you "Professor," even if it's technically a mistake, because you like how it implies that they acknowledge you as an authority.
So where does that leave people like me? Schuman's recommendation is to let students know "immediately" what to call you: "Whatever you want to be called, name yourself this thing in person and on the syllabus—and if the students don’t catch on, don’t be afraid to correct them."
I suspect that Schuman draws this conclusion because she has a PhD, and so it feels comfortable or even empowering for her to tell her students, "Call me Dr. Schuman," and I wonder if she'd make the same recommendation if her so-called proper title was "Ms." For myself, I've opted to go the opposite route: I'm remaining mute on the subject. After all, mature and confident faculty don't usually bother with telling students what to call them, and as such I feel like taking pains to emphasize my title (no matter what it is) will only serve to make it seem like I'm the one anxious about my authority and abilities. I haven't told my students how to address me, and I sign emails with my initials.
The result has been that most address me as "Professor." A few use "Ms." No one has yet called me "Dr." or addressed me by my first name. I never correct them, no matter what they do. (Well, I would correct it if anyone ever did call me "Dr." because that's wrong in a pretty unambiguous way.) In a class that is 92% composed of male students, I haven't yet been in a situation where I've felt disrespected or undermined.
As I mentioned in my last post, I live in a community of university-dwelling critics who tend to chronically over-analyze and over-think things, and I usually embrace that impulse. But this is one situation where simply chilling out seems by far the best way to go.
Monday, March 10, 2014
A dirty windshield with a shifting view
Now that I've gone to grad school, I live in a world densely populated by critics, by which I mean people who've decided, on purpose, to spend their lives squinting at books. Logically, the individuals who are drawn to this kind of work do it because they're good at it and, more often than not, because they always have been. Critics-by-trade tend to be instinctively critical people, and literary analysis is simply a fun extension of an innate skill.
Unfortunately for me and my squinty brethren, critical (as a personality trait) is a pretty unflattering term. A Google search for the phrase, "No one likes a critic" yields 40,000 results. A search for "Everyone likes a critic" yields, hilariously, zero. Try to imagine a stereotypical critical person. You're likely to envision a harpy housewife, or an overbearing mother-in-law, or a stern and disapproving supervisor who glowers at you over half-moon spectacles. Critical sounds so unappetizing because it almost always secretly means overly-critical, as if anyone who engages in any kind of scrutinizing behavior is immediately a judgmental buzzkill who is too laser-focused on your faults to notice that you're actually a rather nice person.
The opposite of critical, I assume, is something like supportive. A non-critical person is non-judgmental and non-negative. They're the friends who are there to listen without interrupting. They smile approvingly. Then they give you a milkshake. You can talk to supportive people about your career aspirations and you can always count on them to give you a hug and cheer you on. Dream big! You do you! (They'd never be so judgmental as to point out that your B.A. in Economics didn't prepare you to be a "Panda Wrestler" and also that doesn't sound like a real job).
Basically, critical people tear you down, while supportive people build you up. Critics notice what's wrong, while supporters help you see what's right. Critics are haters. Supporters are allies.
As a critic, these stereotypes make me grumpy. Even if being critical gets bad PR, it's a trait that's served me well -- at the very least, it's gotten me my job. I'm inclined to see critic as a positive label, one that doesn't prevent me from being a fully functioning human capable of cellular respiration and sympathetic friendships. Plus, like I said, these days I'm always surrounded by other critical people -- and as it turns out, critics overwhelmingly make great friends! They're engaged conversationalists! They're painstakingly self-aware! They ask lots of follow-up questions! There's no such thing as overthinking! They force you to think about your own biases, motivations, and habits! They may or may not support your decisions, but they will always make sure you know why!
So maybe that's the real truth. No one likes a critic. Except critics. Who befriend each other.
Unfortunately for me and my squinty brethren, critical (as a personality trait) is a pretty unflattering term. A Google search for the phrase, "No one likes a critic" yields 40,000 results. A search for "Everyone likes a critic" yields, hilariously, zero. Try to imagine a stereotypical critical person. You're likely to envision a harpy housewife, or an overbearing mother-in-law, or a stern and disapproving supervisor who glowers at you over half-moon spectacles. Critical sounds so unappetizing because it almost always secretly means overly-critical, as if anyone who engages in any kind of scrutinizing behavior is immediately a judgmental buzzkill who is too laser-focused on your faults to notice that you're actually a rather nice person.
The opposite of critical, I assume, is something like supportive. A non-critical person is non-judgmental and non-negative. They're the friends who are there to listen without interrupting. They smile approvingly. Then they give you a milkshake. You can talk to supportive people about your career aspirations and you can always count on them to give you a hug and cheer you on. Dream big! You do you! (They'd never be so judgmental as to point out that your B.A. in Economics didn't prepare you to be a "Panda Wrestler" and also that doesn't sound like a real job).
Basically, critical people tear you down, while supportive people build you up. Critics notice what's wrong, while supporters help you see what's right. Critics are haters. Supporters are allies.
As a critic, these stereotypes make me grumpy. Even if being critical gets bad PR, it's a trait that's served me well -- at the very least, it's gotten me my job. I'm inclined to see critic as a positive label, one that doesn't prevent me from being a fully functioning human capable of cellular respiration and sympathetic friendships. Plus, like I said, these days I'm always surrounded by other critical people -- and as it turns out, critics overwhelmingly make great friends! They're engaged conversationalists! They're painstakingly self-aware! They ask lots of follow-up questions! There's no such thing as overthinking! They force you to think about your own biases, motivations, and habits! They may or may not support your decisions, but they will always make sure you know why!
So maybe that's the real truth. No one likes a critic. Except critics. Who befriend each other.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Welcome to the new age
A little before Thanksgiving, I was sitting in my cubicle in the English department putting together my last lesson plan before the break. Because open-office layouts are nothing if not a sanctioned excuse to get distracted by colleagues at literally any moment, I quickly found myself in a conversation with Matt, who had come by the cube to say hi and share our Thanksgiving plans.
I told him that I was hosting my sister and her husband. Just hanging around the apartment and cooking some food at home.
"Oh, yeah. That's right," he responded. "For some reason I always forget you have a sister. And you guys are close, right? It's weird. You're just so... independent, I can't picture you with siblings."
I was deeply, sincerely flattered. I love when people describe me as independent. Partially because I like to think that the adjective implicitly likens me to Beyonce and/or Destiny's Child. But also because, if my life had a subtitle, I'd like it to be, "Linda: She cares deeply for other people and cherishes each and every one of her personal relationships but she also gets along just fine on her own, thank you."
---
On a completely unrelated note, I've been cohabitating with GR for about six months now. So how's that going?
For the record: I was never worried that GR and I would be incompatible as human housemates. I already knew that GR is as fastidious as I am when it comes to housekeeping and has never accidentally set a household item on fire. Plus, he follows my lead when it comes to loading the dishwasher, which is pretty much all I've ever wanted in life.
My worry, rather, was that in the crucible of cohabitation, my Beyonce-esque independent streak would prove even stronger than I realized. "Living with your boyfriend" is different than having roommates. I worried that -- particularly after two years of the studio life -- I would secretly (perhaps slowly, and perhaps unconsciously at first) resent having someone always up in my grill, caring about my happiness, wanting to be physically close and share emotional intimacies. What would happen to my relationship if I felt an unexpected, violent need for personal space and wound up elbowing GR in the ribs?
The fact that I read a lot of editorial journalism wasn't helping matters. There has been a ton of stuff written in the last few years about cohabitation, because as a trend it's apparently hotter than Buzzfeed among millennials and thus worthy of endless study and scrutiny. Did you know that cohabitation before marriage actually increases your chances of divorce later on? Maybe? Or maybe not. In any case, was I deciding to cohabitate for the right reasons? Is it an act of feminism to cohabitate? Should I get lawyers involved? Would I be hurting the economy or helping it? (Also, while gathering those links I just learned that cohabitation is technically illegal in Mississippi, Florida, and Michigan. Fun fact!)
Anyway, the point is that no matter how confident I felt about GR leading up to the Big Move, you never really know how anything will turn out until you leap -- until you actually move out of your studio apartment, argue about how to organize closet space, and find yourself engaging in weirdly nonchalant discussions about how many rolls of paper towels you, as a couple, require.
Having taken that leap, it's a relief to have it confirmed: We're doing great. No elbows involved.
(Which may or may not have anything to do with the fact that GR is a lovely human being and an infinitely understanding partner who puts up with me saying things like, "Dude, I need you to go away because I'm reading and you're distracting.")
I told him that I was hosting my sister and her husband. Just hanging around the apartment and cooking some food at home.
"Oh, yeah. That's right," he responded. "For some reason I always forget you have a sister. And you guys are close, right? It's weird. You're just so... independent, I can't picture you with siblings."
I was deeply, sincerely flattered. I love when people describe me as independent. Partially because I like to think that the adjective implicitly likens me to Beyonce and/or Destiny's Child. But also because, if my life had a subtitle, I'd like it to be, "Linda: She cares deeply for other people and cherishes each and every one of her personal relationships but she also gets along just fine on her own, thank you."
---
On a completely unrelated note, I've been cohabitating with GR for about six months now. So how's that going?
For the record: I was never worried that GR and I would be incompatible as human housemates. I already knew that GR is as fastidious as I am when it comes to housekeeping and has never accidentally set a household item on fire. Plus, he follows my lead when it comes to loading the dishwasher, which is pretty much all I've ever wanted in life.
My worry, rather, was that in the crucible of cohabitation, my Beyonce-esque independent streak would prove even stronger than I realized. "Living with your boyfriend" is different than having roommates. I worried that -- particularly after two years of the studio life -- I would secretly (perhaps slowly, and perhaps unconsciously at first) resent having someone always up in my grill, caring about my happiness, wanting to be physically close and share emotional intimacies. What would happen to my relationship if I felt an unexpected, violent need for personal space and wound up elbowing GR in the ribs?
The fact that I read a lot of editorial journalism wasn't helping matters. There has been a ton of stuff written in the last few years about cohabitation, because as a trend it's apparently hotter than Buzzfeed among millennials and thus worthy of endless study and scrutiny. Did you know that cohabitation before marriage actually increases your chances of divorce later on? Maybe? Or maybe not. In any case, was I deciding to cohabitate for the right reasons? Is it an act of feminism to cohabitate? Should I get lawyers involved? Would I be hurting the economy or helping it? (Also, while gathering those links I just learned that cohabitation is technically illegal in Mississippi, Florida, and Michigan. Fun fact!)
Anyway, the point is that no matter how confident I felt about GR leading up to the Big Move, you never really know how anything will turn out until you leap -- until you actually move out of your studio apartment, argue about how to organize closet space, and find yourself engaging in weirdly nonchalant discussions about how many rolls of paper towels you, as a couple, require.
Having taken that leap, it's a relief to have it confirmed: We're doing great. No elbows involved.
(Which may or may not have anything to do with the fact that GR is a lovely human being and an infinitely understanding partner who puts up with me saying things like, "Dude, I need you to go away because I'm reading and you're distracting.")
Thursday, January 2, 2014
To know the outline, not the detail
Over the last few years, I've been stumbling toward the rather obvious realization that Becoming A Grown-up is a gradual and nebulous process. Throughout my childhood and teens I implicitly assumed that, when it was time, some sort of confetti cannon would go off in my head, and I would Be An Adult. The evidence is here in this blog -- skimming through entries from the past several years, I find that I continually ask myself, sometimes literally, Am I an adult now? How about now? This is kind of adult-like, don't you think?, as if looking for signs of the blast. I'm finally getting comfortable with the notion that, (to paraphrase Virginia Woolf), the moment of adulthood perhaps never does come. Instead, there are little daily miracles of maturity, isolated situations and decisions, which eventually push you into feeling like a fully developed human being. The confetti, explosionless, just sort of slowly floats down out of nowhere and accumulates around you.
In 2013, I was treated to a lot of these little miracles of grown-upness: I taught a college class, started cohabiting with GR, independently traveled to Wales and back, and relocated to an apartment that has respectable square-footage and an in-unit washer and dryer. It was a watershed year for delightful adultish moments. But it was also a year of maintaining patterns, of proceeding according to plan. Lots of things -- most things -- didn't change in my day-to-day life. And it made for a wonderful year. I'm really warming up to this reality of Adulthood being mostly keeping on keeping on, with occasional and mostly unexpected blushes of change.
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2013:
- GR and I will move into a two-bedroom apartment somewhere along the D-line, and will find the transition into cohabitation to be relatively smooth, even if the move itself is a little stressful.
- I will attend fewer weddings than I did in 2012 (during which I attended three), and I will not be in any bridal parties.
- I will travel outside of the U.S. more than once. Canada and Mexico totally count toward this tally.
- I will find that I enjoy teaching.
- I will make at least one really large/significant purchase (e.g., a car, furniture, a major appliance)
- GR will teach me how to drive manual transmission cars.
- My current cell phone will finally give out, forcing me to join the 21st century and get a smart phone. Still, I will not buy an iPhone.
How Prescient I Actually Was:
- Our new apartment is along the no-good-very-bad B-line instead of the far superior D-line, but other than that this was spot-on.
- Truth. I attended two weddings (in two new states, to boot!) and avoided being a bridesmaid.
- Truth again. As noted, I traveled to Bangor, Wales and Cancun, Mexico this year.
- Absolutely.
- I suppose this depends on how you define "major." I bought a TV, a laptop, international round-trip airfare, and a bunch of furniture (including a couch) radically discounted courtesy of Craigslist and family friends, but no cars or private jets or anything.
- Nope. GR has the privilege of chauffeuring me around Boston.
- This is a prediction that I sincerely thought I'd manage to defy, but instead became half-true. My phone met its demise in a puddle, and I wound up getting an iPhone to replace it. I feel a little ashamed.
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2014:
- I will pass my major exam and come up with a[n undoubtedly preliminary] dissertation topic.
- GR will teach me how to drive manual transmission cars, for real this time.
- I will hold a baby. (You guys, I've never held a baby before.)
- I will attend at least one baseball game at either Wrigley or Fenway.
- At least three close friends (i.e., Facebook acquaintances don't count) will buy houses.
- I will continue to work my part-time/remote job, even though I will also continue to find it incrementally more frustrating to balance it all with my teaching and grad work.
- I will find teaching a literature class more fun than teaching a writing class.
- I will visit at least one new state.
In 2013, I was treated to a lot of these little miracles of grown-upness: I taught a college class, started cohabiting with GR, independently traveled to Wales and back, and relocated to an apartment that has respectable square-footage and an in-unit washer and dryer. It was a watershed year for delightful adultish moments. But it was also a year of maintaining patterns, of proceeding according to plan. Lots of things -- most things -- didn't change in my day-to-day life. And it made for a wonderful year. I'm really warming up to this reality of Adulthood being mostly keeping on keeping on, with occasional and mostly unexpected blushes of change.
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2013:
- GR and I will move into a two-bedroom apartment somewhere along the D-line, and will find the transition into cohabitation to be relatively smooth, even if the move itself is a little stressful.
- I will attend fewer weddings than I did in 2012 (during which I attended three), and I will not be in any bridal parties.
- I will travel outside of the U.S. more than once. Canada and Mexico totally count toward this tally.
- I will find that I enjoy teaching.
- I will make at least one really large/significant purchase (e.g., a car, furniture, a major appliance)
- GR will teach me how to drive manual transmission cars.
- My current cell phone will finally give out, forcing me to join the 21st century and get a smart phone. Still, I will not buy an iPhone.
How Prescient I Actually Was:
- Our new apartment is along the no-good-very-bad B-line instead of the far superior D-line, but other than that this was spot-on.
- Truth. I attended two weddings (in two new states, to boot!) and avoided being a bridesmaid.
- Truth again. As noted, I traveled to Bangor, Wales and Cancun, Mexico this year.
- Absolutely.
- I suppose this depends on how you define "major." I bought a TV, a laptop, international round-trip airfare, and a bunch of furniture (including a couch) radically discounted courtesy of Craigslist and family friends, but no cars or private jets or anything.
- Nope. GR has the privilege of chauffeuring me around Boston.
- This is a prediction that I sincerely thought I'd manage to defy, but instead became half-true. My phone met its demise in a puddle, and I wound up getting an iPhone to replace it. I feel a little ashamed.
Predictions of Varying Certainty for 2014:
- I will pass my major exam and come up with a[n undoubtedly preliminary] dissertation topic.
- GR will teach me how to drive manual transmission cars, for real this time.
- I will hold a baby. (You guys, I've never held a baby before.)
- I will attend at least one baseball game at either Wrigley or Fenway.
- At least three close friends (i.e., Facebook acquaintances don't count) will buy houses.
- I will continue to work my part-time/remote job, even though I will also continue to find it incrementally more frustrating to balance it all with my teaching and grad work.
- I will find teaching a literature class more fun than teaching a writing class.
- I will visit at least one new state.
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